Hey there! It’s Saturday morning. I’m drinking an iced coffee, sitting in an intricate set-up of an Ikea rocking chair with my feet on another couch directly in front of me, wearing bicycling shorts and forcibly trying to shove the sink landscape of piled-up dishes out of my brain. About to go meet some friends for Cheeseboard/Philz, and I’m going to ride my bike there, maybe. Not fully committing is the key to getting out of self-imposed exercise. Look at you, getting up at 7:30, uploading random food pictures to the internet. Wow, is this cookbook-deal material or what?
- Voodoo Doughnut beer at Beer Revolution (gross, really gross)
- When the Boyfriend Cat’s Away, the Lady Cat Will Start a Fire By Herself (I ate everything on this grill, by myself. Felt not entirely terrible about it.) edited to add: don’t worry, I crisped the skin up. Nothing worse than flabby wings.
- The Cheese Grater Was in the Sink and so I Chopped You, Cheese (I feel okay about omelettes when you throw other shit on top of them)
- Bacon-Chicken Mac and Cheese (“I Didn’t Think You Were Supposed to Put Chicken in Mac and Cheese” was the rave review)
In other news, my gentleman partner and I have found a house to live in for at least a year! Most of a house! At least 60% of a house. Standards, you know, they equilibrate when you move to the ritziest neighborhood in North Oakland. We’re going to have a patio. And a garden. I get teary just thinking about it. We’ll do a little house (well, kitchen) tour once we move in. There’s a dishwasher.