As a child, I was never really like any other child in my social circle of friends and relatives.

I had this odd sense of humor (yes, even then) and my life experiences made me see the world differently than most kids.

And, I looked different.

I was the chubby girl with olive colored skin. Most of my friends were skinny and fair skinned.

And they had shiny straight hair that they used to curl with curling irons or hot rollers.

Me - I had an afro.

Now, it wasn't an afro in the African American sense, but it was an afro in the chubby olive-skinned girl sense. I hate to date myself here but about the only styling product on the market at that time was Dippty Do and that didn't do shit for the chubby olive-skinned girl's very very very very curly hair. So all of my attempts at straightening and curling turned my hair into one big giant 'fro.

I used to longingly watch as The Sister would get the Farrah Fawcet Feathers in her hair, which was so wildly popular at the time. And I hated her for it.

So I looked different and I acted different and in my own mind I longed to be in another place. All I wanted was to be just like everyone else. Which was crazy. But normal for a girl my age.

Somewhere around the age of 14, I finally "got myself" and stopped trying to be like everyone else. I stopped trying to make my curly hair straight and I stopped trying to blend into the crowd. It wasn't a matter of purposely being different, it was simply a release of who I truly was.

Fortunately, hair mousse had made it into mainstream usage and the 'fro turned into a somewhat better looking hair-do. And fortunately, I was wildly popular and had amazing friends.

Since that time, I have lived my life that way. I do what I do, be it right or wrong - good or bad, and I claim it as my own. I have no desire to "be like" the rest of the world. And I am drawn to unique and funky people and things.

And the kicker about my personality is this: I am not trying to be like anyone else so please do not try to be like me. I know that's crazy and I am sure somewhere in the world a therapist is licking their chops, but I am one of those people who doesn't find it flattering when someone copies who I am and what I do- I find it creepy.

The point to all of this is that what you read at this site is as true of a reflection of me as you can get. I don't have a "writing style", I simply write as I think and I write as I speak. I didn't take a writing class or learn a certain technique. It's just - me. All the life experiences with crazy people and all my little quirks and all the times I say bad words - it's all me.

Which is why when I read the e-mails I have received of late telling about other bloggers who are copying me, I found myself in a wierd position. At first I didn't believe it because I thought it was crazy that anyone would do such a strange thing. I was told to report people who steal my stuff, it is copyrighted, after all. So I did. Which made me feel like a tattle tale. But it bothered me to think that someone is so pathetic that they have to take from someone else to make themselves feel better. And it bothered me even more to think that someone would copy my life experiences and make them look like their own.

And that made me sad and then I felt like had to feel compassion for those people and then I thought, oh fuck it.

STOP STEALING MY SHIT!

There are days when it seems only idiots come to my Tricks or to The Restaurant.

But as I discovered last night, idiots go to Starbuck's, too.

So I am in Barnes & Noble. I picked up Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain. And I gathered up a few more books to browse and I met up with The Husband in the Starbuck's Cafe.

The Husband settled in with his science something or other and I got in line to get myself a nice steamy cappucino and biscotti.

There was a large man in front of me who's shirt was covered in some sort of pet hair. My guess was cat.

Which I find totally disgusting.

I am all about loving animals and if I was home more, I would add a nice puppy to the family. But I am not fond of animal hair on anything other than the animal.

5 minutes with a lint brush before you leave the house can do wonders for you, people.

Anyway.

So I am standing behind Cat Hair Man while he orders one of those blended frappucino macchiato something or others. The nice Starbuck's Girl filled his glass and put the lid on and turned to give him the drink when he barked at her.

"Can I have an extra cup for what's left in the blender?"

"I am sorry, what?"

"There's a small amount of drink left in the blender. I paid for it and I want it."

Sweet Starbuck's Girl got red in the face and I think was a bit taken aback. As is understandable.

Cat Hair Man was relentless.

"You are ripping me off! I want what remains in the blender!"

He was such an ass. And Sweet Starbuck's Girl was so gracious. I felt so bad for her. She turned to get an extra cup when the man behind me said, "My God. You don't pay for the extra. You only pay for what fits in the glass."

Oh, shit.

Here I am standing between Cat Hair Man and Fed-Up Customer and I was afraid it was going to get ugly and I would wind up getting some of that nasty cat hair on me. All over a damn blended machiatto coffee thingy.

Cat Hair Man turned to look at Fed-Up Customer, "Seriously, buddy. Don't be so mean. No one is ripping you off. Your cup is full. You got what you paid for."

I shot a look to Sweet Starbuck's Girl and then over to Cat Hair Man and then over to The Husband who was laughing behind his Nerdy Science magazine. (Yeah, thanks for the help, honey.)

"Oh just fuck it. I am outta here."

Cat Hair Man stormed off and Fed-Up Customer just shook his head. "Can you believe some people? What an ass. And my God, did you see all the cat hair?"

Indeed I did.

I'm a caterer.

Not a mind reader.

As the caterer, it's my job to make your night the most amazing it can possibly be.

Which I do.

But if I were a mind reader, I would have taken my vast knowledge to come up with the answer to the question on everyone's mind Saturday night: What in the Hell did we just see?

I mean, the setting was gorgeous.

The flowers were stunning.

The dresses, the tuxedos - all beautiful.

But looks are deceiving.

It was hard to pick, really, who was more isane; Bridal Betty or The Wacko Groom.

The only thing I can tell you is that I have come to the conclusion that The Wacko groom is either A) In the Federal Witness Protection program. Or B) A lying cheating cad who may, or may not, be divorced from his first wife.

And Bridal Betty is either A) Totally and completely out of her fucking mind. Or B) Suffers from the lowest self-esteem on the planet.

Either way, you could not help but sense this profound sadness coming from Bridal Betty's family.

Of course, that sentiment could have been a reaction to the fact that Bridal Betty's father insisted on hiking his tuxedo pants up to his arm pits like Ed Grimley. This managed to create a fair amount of attention to the fact that he wasn't wearing black socks as he should have been and that he very clearly liked the feeling of all that fabric pulled tightly around his "Man Parts".

So I pulled a shift at The Restaurant last night.

At about 8:00, The Drunk Guy came in.

Now, The Drunk Guy has a reputation in the industry, so you have to treat him with kid gloves. If you ask him to leave or give him any grief, he's been known to pee - everywhere. And nothing says bad steak like a drunk guy peeing next to your table.

We've heard stories, but he's never been in The Restaurant so he was somewhat of a myth.

Until last night.

We all sort of froze, not knowing if we should call the police or just ride it out to see what happened. We opted to ride it out, hoping he wouldn't stay long.

The kicker? He brought a pizza.

So a member of our waitstaff approaches his table and before she can say hello, he demands a menu.

She complies.

He wanted a steak.

And he wanted fries.

"But I do not want French fries as I hate the fucking French!"

No problem. One steak with steak fries coming up.

He ate his steak and fries. Gulped down 3 glasses of water and left.

No peeing. No fussing.

His tip?

A slice of pizza.

And this, people, is why I blog.

Because you just can't make this shit up.

"Hi, Food Whore? This is The December Bride"

"Hi there!"

"I got your proposal today."

"Wonderful. Did you have any questions?"

"Well, I do, actually."

"What can I help you with?"

"Well, the price includes you cooking the food too, right?"

It was one of those rare moments when - for a brief moment - the Earth stopped spinning...

...and I was speechless.

Have you ever been to the grocery store, hearing someone's grocery cart wheels squeeking and grinding to the point of annoyance, and wondering who was stupid enough to pick that cart?

Today, that stupid person was me. (It was the only cart left)

Have you ever been to the grocery store when someone knocked over the Ritz Cracker display and you heard them, very clearly, say "Shit!" And you wondered who the klutzy, foul-mouthed person was?

Today, that klutzy, foul-mouthed person was me. (Why do they put those in the middle of an aisle?!?)

Have you ever been to the grocery store, minding your own business, when out of nowhere a cart comes rolling and slams you in the back of your legs and you turn around to see who the idiot was who did it?

Today, that idiot was me. (I let it go for one second...)

Have you ever been to the grocery store and watched a woman try a sample of organic cranberry juice and spill it all down the front of her chin?

Today, that juice spilling woman was me.

Damnit.

As a child, crisp Fall Sunday afternoons and Monday nights were sacred in my home as Football - "the sport of real men" - was on TV.

The Father and The Sister and I would sit in the living room while The Mother would be in the kitchen making NFL appropriate snacks. Snacks that we could actually eat in the living room.

The Father, since he never had any sons, took special care to educate The Sister and I on the inner workings of the game. He wanted us to appreciate the sport he so loved; the sport from which he recieved numerous dislocated appendages. The sport who produced such greats as Mean Joe Green, Roger Stabauch, Terry Bradshaw, Walter Peyton, Steve Largent, Dan Marino, and the list goes on.

We were also trained to shout at the TV with great vigor and wisdom. A trait we hold in our hearts to this very day. (Much to the dismay of our respective spouses)

"He was off sides! Pass Interference! CLIPPING! What are you blind, ref?!?! Take it up the middle!!!"

Such an attractive trait in a Whore.

So last night was the second game of Monday Night Football. And in my excitement of the game, I have decided to open my home to actual guests that I am actually willing to mingle with. All I ask is that they bring a beverage and that they don't spill on my couch. And do not, under any circumstances, question me when I shout at the TV.

Last Monday was labled "Football in China". And last night was "Football- Mexican Style." Because it's not enough for me to throw some chips in a bowl and call it a game. It's all part of my OCFD and my desire to take over the entire anal retentive party planning empire while my dear friend Martha is in jail. (I've got it covered, sister. Cashmere cozies for the hot water bottle are being made as we speak.)

Anyway.

Last night was all about Mexican food. Shredded beef tacos, chicken tacos, refried beans, rice, quacamole, pico de gallo, chips, Mexican beer and - of course - margaritas. Lucious, limey, blended margaritas.

So the food is ready, the game is on, and I am loading up the blender with the first batch of frothy tequilla goodness.

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr crunch crunch whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.....

"Hey, babe. I think the blender is leaking."

"What? Where?"

"Look on the counter, there's liquid puddling up behind the machine."

"No!"

"Yes. Honey - seriously - I will get the paper towels."

"Not my blender! I make sauces with this thing. I make fruity drinks with this thing!"

"Great - but honey, it's leaking bad."

I turned the machine off, sighed, and did what only a good Whore could do.

I totally licked the counter.

"Hi! This is Bridal Betty. I just wanted you to know the wedding is back on for this Saturday."

"Uh, was the wedding called off?"

"Oh, yes. Last week. And the week before that."

"But it's back on now?"

"It sure is. I mean, I figure, we've come this far. We just need to do it and get it over with. I mean, I know his son hates me and up until 3 weeks ago didn't even know his dad and I were getting married, but it will all work out, right? It's just really important that I can have a wedding for my parents."

"A wedding for your parents?"

"Yes, they have been dreaming of this day and they are so excited. So I am doing it for them."

"You're getting married for your parents?"

"Well, yeah, and I mean, we've been together 7 years, so we may as well get married. And now that we have this big house, I figure if it doesn't work out, I will just take in a renter."

Silence on my end.

"So I will see you Saturday and I am so excited for the food. I just know it's going to be fabulous!"

Great.

So I do a lot of reading about food.

One of the subjects I have studied is proper nutrition to help alleviate the symptoms of the dreaded PMS.

They say you should cut back or even avoid things like caffiene, sugars, and simple carbohydrates.

They say you should keep salt intake to a minimum.

They say you should eat dark, leafy greens and lean protiens and rich whole-grains.

Whatever.

So, I baked.

Two 9x13 pans of peanut butter crispy bar thingies (I don't know the right name); 4 dozen chocolate cookies with peanut butter chips; and 3 dozen oatmeal cookies with butterscotch chips later, and The Husband is lying in a sugar-induced coma in The Big Man's Chair, complete with a tiny string of chocolate colored drool on his chin.

I will download pictures of my treasures and post the recipes later, after I am done cleaning The Great Closet Throwdown of '04.

Anyway.

As I was baking yesterday, I was looking over the tools of my trade and was trying to pick my most favorite item. Love the Kitchen-Aid, of course. But what I love the most are my Silpat baking liners.

These are invaulable little gems and as far as I am concerned, everyone should have at least 2 in their kitchen. Their non-stick abilities are amazing. The clean up like a dream. And no amount of turture will ever ruin them.

How do I know this?

Cut to about, oh, 4 or so years ago when I was prepping for a big trick. I had set to the task of making approximately 350 small choux pastry shells. And in my then arrogance and stupidity, I assumed starting this task at 10:00 p.m. would be absolutely no problem.

The last pan went into the oven at approximately 2:00 a.m. and I was so relieved to be in the home stretch that I stupidly sat down on my couch - the place where all creatures are drawn into near comatose sleep patterns - to get a small respite from my evening's workings.

Approximately 1 hour and 20 minutes later, the smoke alarm woke me up and I startled awake to find myself surrounded by billowing, lung paralyzing smoke.

"Damn. The pastry shells."

"DAMN. MY NEW SILPAT!"

Windows open, doors open, fans oscilating - it took a good 1/2 hour for the smoke to clear and the pan to cool down enough for me to get a good look at the results.

The pastry shells, as expected, had the look and texture of a lump of coal like bad children get at Christmas. But the Silpat was perfect. Not a mar, not a bubble, not a discoloration anywhere. And, to this day, still very much non-stick and fabulous.

So the moral of the story here is: Arrogance and stupidity will get you slapped upside the head like one of the 3 Stooges. And Silpat rocks.

I did have one minor "incident" yesterday. I was adding flour to the mixing bowl - slowly like a good baker should - when the phone rang. So I turned the mixer off, chatted to The Mother for a bit, and when I went back to turn the mixer on, I forgot that I had recently added the flour and turned it up about 2 speeds to high. So I had my own little version of a white Christmas, complete with flour up my nose.

Which, all klutziness considered, isn't too bad.

So I had to run to the grocery store.

I did not have as much peanut butter as I needed so off I went with flour up my nose. (I will explain later)

Anyway.

And you know how I hate it when people look in my cart or comment on my food items, right?

Well, it didn't happen.

But I did it to someone else. Well I mean I didn't comment. But I did sort of stare at the items.

I was standing there, ready to pay for the peanut butter, when the items from the cart behind me came rolling up on the belt.

There were 5 boxes of Lean Hot Pockets 5 boxes of Lean Cuisine entrees.

And a very large box of Trojan condoms.

I think I could have made the connection between the condoms and say, a bottle of wine. Even some beer perhaps.

Or cigarettes.

But diet foods from the freezer aisle?

What do you suppose that was all about?

The dog days - and freaking hot days - of summer are gone. For me, anyway. But I bet My Friend In Austrailia is getting ready to don his swim trunks and hit the beach.

I woke up this morning to a dark and lovely sky and rain drops falling on my roof.

I pulled out the Kitchen Aid and The Husband said, "What... what is that? Are you going to bake?"

"Yes. It's time I made some cookies."

"Coookkkiieeesssssss!!!!!!!"

Let the baking commence.

So here it is.

The new look.

And I love it!

It's like having a freak free shopping spree at Costco, a big bottle of Absolut Citron and a new set of knives all in one day!

And let's just throw in a new pair of fabulous boots for good measure!

And I have to give credit where credit is due.

If you will look at the bottom of the sidebar on the left, you will see an icon for Creative Echos.

I have been following Echo's site for quite some time so when I saw that she was going to use her artistic talents by starting a business, I jumped at the chance to get her help.

And she has been wonderful. This whole web design thing is not my skill but she was able to take my rough thoughts and turn them exactly into what I wanted, and then some.

So go check out her site!

Thank you again, Echo. It's fabulous!

So, how cool is this?

I will tell you all about it later.

Right now I am off to see a man about a barron of beef!

"This is The Food Whore, Can I help you?"

"Yeah. Um. I need to book a wedding."

"You need to book a wedding?"

"Yeah. Um. So. Can you do it?"

"Well, first things first. Let's get the date."

"Friday."

"Excuse me?"

"Wait...'HONEY? HEY?? What is that date? What? Ok!' Ok. The 24th."

"The 24th of..."

"Of September."

"So that's like next Friday."

"Yeah."

"Next week."

"Um. Yeah."

"Why. Am I calling you too soon?"

That sound you hear is the sound of me banging my head on my desk.

--------

I can sum Saturday night's dinner up with this short conversation.

"Sorry we're late. But you now how it is when you're a newlywed."

Well thanks for that mental image. "No problem. The menu I chose holds well."

"And you know, I am just so tired. I work 30 hours a week and it's so hard to work that many hours and keep and be newly married."

Blank stare. I work - at minimum - 60 hours a week.

"I mean, my boss just doesn't understand I don't think. It's really hard. I think I am going to look for something more part time."

Shoot look at The Husband who's standing behind 'Zilla with his mouth wide open.

"Anyway, here. We brought wine. It's the cheap stuff, I hope that's ok. That's the kind of wine I love!"

"Oh. Sure. Shall I open it?"

"Oh whatever, that is fine!"

"Let me get a cork screw ... oh... these are screw tops."

"Yes! That's part of what I love about them. No fumbling with a cork screw. And I love that they taste like a wine cooler!"

I hate my life. "A wine cooler - well - ok."

"And they were so cheap at the grocery store. 2 bottles for $6.00!"

I am so glad I rolled vanilla bean ice cream in toasted coconut for this. "Well you certainly got a deal. Would you like a glass?"

"Well what is that you are drinking?"

"Oh it's just a basic Kendall Jackson Chardonnay."

"Hm! Would I like it?"

Sarcastic smile. "I doubt it. It has a cork and it doesn't have a pretty picture of fruits on the lable like your wine does."

"Is it expensive?"

"Not really. It averages about $15 a bottle."

"Whoa! You could have got like... 5 bottles of my brand!"

I will keep that in mind while I am lying in the gutter begging for loose change. "Yes, I suppose I could."

"Anyway, no thanks."

"So would you like a glass of what you brought?"

"No. Actually, I am craving a screwdriver."

I would like one, too, to shove in my eyes.

"Do you have vodka?" Do I have vodka? Hello...

"If you don't, that's ok. I am just craving a strong drink."

"Yeah. Me, too."
--------

So I get outside this morning and I am face to face with a seagull who's standing on the roof of my car.

"Uh, hi."

Squawk.

"Mine...Mine...Mine...Mine...! Ahahaha! See, if you were human and could watch movies you would know that's from the movie Finding Nemo and you would be laughing hysterically.

Blank stare.

"Ok, I really don't want you to move around so much. I am afraid you're going to scratch my paint. And my car needs all the help it can get."

Squawk.

"So I am going to get in my car now. It would be great if you would just fly away and we could part as friends."

Squawk.

"Right. Ok. Here I go opening the door..."

Squawk! Splat.

"Ok, so I guess that poop on the roof of my car means you don't want to be friends?"

--------

Despite my incessant whinings, Whoring is my first love. I cook for you, I serve you, then I get to mock you in the kitchen. I can be social with you strictly on my terms and then I get to go back in the kitchen and gossip while pans get scrubbed.

Because of this, I have pretty much deducted that I am more of a "group activity person".

Meaning, I love having dinner parties with multiple guests. I can stay in the kitchen if I want, sip my lemon drop, bring out fabulous plates of food and never get stuck staring across the table from someone I don't have a conversational base with. And having a group gives me the chance to mingle and excuse myself from a converstation I am not enjoying.

It's the one-on-one dinners I am not so fond of. It's not that I can't carry a decent conversation - we all know I can talk. It's just that I have no escape.

So Bridezilla asked us not to get her a wedding present. Instead she and her new groom would like to come to our house for dinner. She even picked the date. My one free Saturday of the month.

Tonight.

She's called me no less than 3 times this week wondering what time to be here, what I am making, and what she should wear. "Is it business casual? Home casual? Shall we dress up?"

"Just be casual - it will be a nice relaxing evening."

"So what is the menu? Or do you want it to be a surprise?"

"Right now it's a surprise to me. I haven't given it much thought, yet."

"What? That doesn't sound like you! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I can't wait. Weeeeeeeeee!!!!" (She actually said the word, "Weeeeeeeeeeee!")

Good God. I knew we should have bought them the toaster oven.

So anyway tonight's the night.

I have decided to start with a coconut prawn appetizer with a sweet and spicy apricot dipping sauce.

Salad will be a simple mixed green with light balsamic dressing and crusty Artisan bread.

Dinner will be oven broiled salmon (thanks Dad), grilled asparagus with lemon butter, and rice pilaf.

Dessert is vanilla bean ice cream rolled in roasted coconut and served with a light caramel drizzle.

Oh, and liquor.

Lots and lots of liquor.
--------

So I was in Costco today.

Typical day there. 25,000 people fighting for samples of Glucosamine Joint Juice and Tortilla soup from a box.

I was walking past The Bakery of Doom when I overheard a customer being somewhat berated by one of the bakery workers.

Imagine that.

The customer was a very kind and patient woman. She was inquiring about ordering a birthday cake and Hair Net Hester Prine was talking to her like she was a Kindergarten student who had just wet her pants.

I stopped by the bagel display so I could eaves drop.

When it was all said and done, the kind woman turned to me and said, "Did you hear that, she was so rude. I am going to complain to management."

"Yeah. Good luck with that. You will get an apology and a free cheesecake."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. But the great thing is Hair Net Hester Prine will be so mad at you that she won't give you the time of day. And I happen to think that's a blessing."

"I see your point."

"And, you know, I am never one to turn down a free cheesecake."

So I get my goods and head to the checkout.

A darling young boy was boxing my items and I noticed that his nametag said "Jeremiah". He was being very cheeky and teasing me about buying 36 rolls of paper towels and we were bantering back and fourth when I said, "Hey - have you ever been a bullfrog?" (Not one of my better lines)

"A what?"

The checker laughed. "You know, you would think he would get asked that more but that's a first."

"A what?"

"A bull frog. Come on Jeremiah, you know...the song?"

"Does Snoop Dog sing that?"

I am so old.

--------

Due to my complete and total fascination with the New York City, my favorite daily read is New York Social Diary by David Patrick Columbia. It's an insightful journal of the social scene in New York, coupled with wonderful pictures of the people and places of the city.

My favorite entries are those of the parties he attends and I sit and wonder what it must be like to cater those events.

That's how my mind works.

It's not about wearing a fabulous dress and sitting at the best table - it's about wondering what they ate and who did all the work.

Today's entry shows a picture taken by Jeff Hirsch from last night's Opening Night Festivities for the New York City Opera.

That is a staging area for food service. On the other side of that curtain is the entrance where guests are greeted and given their seating assignments.

Nothing but a mere curtain separates two entirely different worlds.

Every event has a staging area. Sometimes it's a fabulous kitchen and sometimes it's a row of tables behind a screen or a curtain like the one above. So it's nice to see that even the big shots at Lincoln Center have that in common with the rest of us Whores.

I bet those ladies mock their clients and say bad words, too.

--------

I have a cold.

I am pretty sure it's the worst cold ever to be had in the history of mankind.

I know this because I walked by the bakery down the street and my mouth didn't even water.

And they were just putting a fresh batch of cheese Danish into the display case. I looked in the window, sniffed, shrugged, and kept on walking.

I love cheese Danish. Damnit.

So I climbed the steps to my place, walked in, threw my keys on the counter and pulled the apple cider vinegar out of the cabinet. Then the honey. Then got a fresh lemon from the fruit bowl.

The Husband fled his comfortable spot in his Man Chair and locked himself in the bathroom.

"It's not for you, it's for me", I hollered. "You don't have a code." (That's "cold" in sick speak.)

From the bathroom "ARE YOU SURE? I DO NOT WANT THAT CRAP."

The Aunt is The Great Maker of Elixirs. This particular gem is made with equal parts apple cider vinegar, honey, fresh lemon juice. You place a couple of tablespoons of that in a cup and fill it the rest of the way with hot water and drink it like a tea.

The Friend in Boston's husband calls it "Lung Douche".

Nice.

The Husband calls it The Worst Punishment Known To Man.

Wuss.

The Grandmother was a major proponent of drinking warm whiskey when sick.

Being the revolutionary that I am, I have decided to combine the two treatments for what I am certain is the best cold remedy known to man.

Drink the Icky Tea and follow with a whiskey chaser.

I will be honest to say that I am not fond of the tea, but I believe it works.

And I really like the whiskey.
--------

Aside from the oppressively long drive in which I completely annoyed my family, visiting The Relatives was a fabulous time.

Mostly because our time together revolved around food.

It always does. Our visits are non-stop laughing and eating 'fests.

I mean like 24-hours of constant food. When The Mother and The Aunt get into the kitchen, a beautiful symphony occurs and the rest of us sit and salivate as platefulls of food are put before us.

This weekend was no exception.

We're talking Koosa Mashshi. Hummuos. Flat bread. Greek salad. Gyros. Souvlaki with rice. Tzaziki. Avga Lemono. Falafel. Dolmades.

And that was just on Saturday.

Sunday was this whirlwind of salmon (not from a can...) and salads and freshly picked peaches.

Sunday night was this smorgasboard of "finger foods" that we all put together for our round of charades. (Charades aren't the same without a little snack in the hand...) Fresh mozarella and proscuitto bruschetta. Fresh sausage and cheese with sesame crackers. Turkey breast with herbed cream cheese and pita bread. A little fresh asparagus pasta thrown in for good measure.

And let's not forget the ever-flowing lemon poundcake and baklava and almond cookies for dessert.

It's amazing, really, that we all don't tap out at 350lbs.

It really doesn't get better than to be surrounded by such amazing food and such amazing people.

I love my family.

I just wish to God they would move closer.

--------

"Woman - you don't travel well!" ~The Husband.

So we went on a road trip.

Mile 20 - I finished reading my People magazine.

"When are we going to stop? I want coffee."

Mile 80 - I had finshed my latest Bon Apetit.

"Can we stop, I need to pee."

Mile 140 - I put the seat back and attempted to nap.

"I am hungry. Are you hungry? I think I want a snack."

"You packed snacks. Grab an apple."

"Well by 'snack' I kind of was thinking of something like grilled salmon."

Mile 150 - Seat back up. Salmon wasn't going to happen.

"Are we there yet? Let's stop for coffee."

Mile 200 - Seat down, again. Flipped through latest issue of Gourmet.

"I have to pee."

Mile 250 - Started my own round of "Row Row Row Your Boat..."

"So... are we there, yet?"

Mile 300 - Pressed nose against window, sighed loudly.

"We should get a hotel."

"We have a hotel waiting for us."

"Yeah but I mean right now. Let's break up the trip. I have to pee again."

"For the love of God, woman. We only have about 50 more miles to go."

"So, what. You're saying you don't want to get a hotel?"

I am good for a couple of hours in a car. I can do 3 if we have stopped for a stretch at the 1 hour mark.

But on Friday as we crested the 6th hour, The Husband looked over and I had my head down in the seat and my butt in the air. And then I flipped over and put my feet on the dash. Then I flipped over on my left side. Then my right side.

Then I let out a large sigh.

This all happened just after we finished discussing the possibly of driving to Los Angeles for a "fun adventure" with friends. (I think the Husband was smoking crack when he brought that little gem of an idea up.)

I am too restless. In everything I do, really. But mostly when I have to sit still for long periods of time. When I was a child I used to cause my mother major fits of angst while trying to keep me still in church.

On road trips, I can only enjoy the scenery for so long and then my eyes start to roll back into my head.

And last time we flew to the East Coast I made the 6-year old whiny child in 14D look like a princess.

Anyway, I'm back.
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From my answering machine last night:

"Hey there! It's Dad. I have a slab of freshly smoked salmon for you and in a couple of days we will have a batch of fresh canned for your pantry. Also, I have a lovely fillet here if you would like it for dinner. If not, I will throw it in the smoker. Give me a call back!"

The father is an avid sports fisherman. He has been since he was old enough to hold a fishing pole and stand up in a boat without dropping his catch. (For me this skill was honed much, much later in life... like about a year ago)

Every spare moment from his job was spent charting tides, checking the down-riggers on the boat and planning for the next day out on the open water. And every spare moment I had growing up was spent on his heels watching and learning and anxiously awaiting our next day on the water.

I loved it out there.

I still do.

I have fond memories of seing my first Orca so close I could touch it. And of seeing porpoise and seals.

I remember catching my first ling cod and screaming bloody murder for assuming I had caught a monster of the deep. (That's one ugly ass fish) And seeing my first halibut, wondering who poked out the other eye. (So much to learn out there)

It was a common site for me to come home from school to find multiple King Salmon laying on the front lawn, being sprayed with cold water and having their pink-fleshed bellies packed with ice.

We would always eat a fresh filet that night. And it would always be simple. Fresh minced garlic, paper-thin slices of onion, fresh dill, salt, pepper, a few other herbs and spices I am not at liberty to share, fresh lemon, and lots and lots of butter.

The rest of the fish would be divided between the freezer, the smoker and the canner.

Have you ever had home-canned salmon? Oh, my. It's like eating candy from a bell jar.

And see, the thing is, I just assumed these kinds of luxuries were the norm for everyone.

And I became a real snob about it, too. (Imagine that) We didn't eat things like fish sticks at my house, unless they were freshly cut strips dipped in a tempura style batter. We never did something so silly as to buy fish from the store. I mean, how gauche!

Anyway.

So, cut to a few months ago when The Friend in El Paso was discussing the last time she made salmon cakes for dinner and was talking about being grossed out by the skin and bones that came out of the can.

"The What?"

I wondered who was giving her that salmon and why they didn't know that you skin it and de-bone it, first.

Sheesh.

As the discussion went on, it finally dawned on me this was not a gift from a friend. This was something she purchased from the grocery store.

"Wait, they sell salmon in a can?"

I mean, I know tuna comes in a can. Sardines come in a can. Smoked baby oysters. Pickled herring. Anchovies. But I really had not given a thought to the concept that salmon was sold the same way.

I didn't need to.

I had a pantry full.

I just sort of assumed everyone else did, too.

You know, I have far too many moments in my life where the elevator doesn't quite reach the top floor.

It's a good thing I'm cute.
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Last Thursday before all the craziness of the weekend set in, we went out for a nice lunch at the Greek place down the street. I gorged myself on spanikopita with a Greek salad starter and a Greek salad side in place of the rice. I had an entire portion of Greek salad left along with half the spanikopita so they but it in a nice little box for me.

When we left the restaurant, I put my little leftover box in the back seat and proceeded to run errands, never to think about that little box again.

I haven't driven my car since last Thursday.

Between riding with family members to run errands and using The Husband's Ride, I just haven't needed it.

So I open the door this morning and got hit with this wave of such a completely foul odor that it made me stumble back a bit. It had that distinct aroma of day-old vomit. (Don't ask)

That Greek salad - all that Feta cheese - had been smoldering in my back seat for 5 whole days...

I mean, let's be honest here, while I rank Feta in the top 3 of My Favorite Cheeses List, even fresh out of the carton it has that the smell equivalent to that of a pubescent boy's gym socks.

It may be time to sell the car.
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