Shortly after The Husband and I were married, I took him on a road trip to visit old family friends on their farm.

The Husband had never visited a farm in his life. The closest he got was The National Zoo, and he didn't gain a lot of wildlife experience. "I went because it was a field trip and I was in love with Sarah Jenkins." He said. So being up close and personal with things like cows, goats and free range chickens was something of a mystery to him.

Some of my greatest childhood memories were the family visits to the farm, and all of the great adventures my friends and I would partake in.

For instance, there were the infamous "soft pie" hunts, which basically means we would run through the cow pastures - in our bare feet - stepping on cow pies until someone found a fresh one. The first person to call "Soft Pie", would win a candy bar for the journey back to the house.

I know what you're all thinking - "Wait - did she just say she stepped in cow manure in her bare feet? That's so disgusting."

The answer is yes, and it was fabulous. So fabulous, in fact, we could often be found relaxing under the shade of the apple orchard, bragging about our pie count. (Would I do it today? I think no. Age, wisdom and expensive pedicures being the major factors.)

Anyway.

So on that first visit with The Husband to The Farm, I was surprised to see him flinch when a few cows wandered over to see what we were up to. This big man - the warrior - afraid of the cows.

I laughed until I snorted. He tried to play it off like it was a joke - like he was kidding. But there was fear in his eyes and I was not about to let him forget it.

He was also very put off by the smells of the farm - manure, it seems, is not as all enticing as it seems. Which, I mean, yeah. I am no masochist, nor will I find a way to bottle the smell of fresh manure. But for me it invokes memories. Not only of the farm, but of my grandfather's garden. Manure is "a blessing from God for those toiling the soil", he would always say.

So last night as we looked over the beautiful produce at The Organic Farm stand I heard The Husband said, "Well there's that smell... that smell of - animal poop."

I laughed. "We won't stay long. But remember that smell is what helped grow these fabulous veggies."

"Why can't you just embrace harsh chemicals and cloned foods like the rest of society."

"Careful behind you. There's a cow."

He jumped and turned so abruptly that he knocked a group of zucchini to the ground.

Unkind, yes.

But really very funny.

Even if only to me.

I was asked to post a little non-food entry concerning a website that was brought to my attention.

To Quote:

... The designer's name is Karin Collins, she's originally from Greenville, South Carolina, and she recently moved to Los Angeles to begin focusing on her new SpoonFed Art jewelry business full time. Karin's necklaces have been selling like hotcakes all over the world since she started her website, and she's just starting to seek placement in boutiques worldwide. Nylon magazine first broke the news in their December/January issue, and the popular shopping site Delight.com just named SpoonFed Art as one of the Top Ten Online Jewelry Boutiques ...

Check out the site - SpoonFed Art, the designs are very creative and very cool.

When meeting with potential clients for weddings, it's pretty common place for The Bride to sit with us alone, or with her family to pick a menu for her special day. Some Grooms, it seems, don't see the need to be involved in such a task. Either they don't care, or they don't feel they have anything to contribute, which is fine. This isn't always the case, of course, as we have met plenty of Grooms in our day, but for the most part The Bride handles this portion of the wedding on her own.

But a couple of months ago The Bride and The Groom came for a meeting, and it was a very fun and happy occasion until things started to break down.

The Bride had a very good handle on what she wanted. She wanted some basics, but also wanted to step outside the box a little, which is always a treat for us. But every time She would bring up an idea, The Groom would shrug and suggest something different.

Her idea was small, intimate, elegant. His idea was a huge group of friends surrounded by galvanized tubs full of beer with potato salad and deli sandwiches. Which, neither is a bad idea if that's the direction you're heading. But they were both heading in such opposite directions that it became a problem.

The Bride, in moments of obvious bewilderment, would say things like, "What? When did you decide this? Is this what you have always wanted? Where is this coming from?" And would nervously bite her lip while sending glances our way. His response was, "Did you just meet me? This is who I am." And these exchanges became agitated to the point of everyone in the room - us included - shifting uncomfortably in our seats.

We tried to play arbitrator by suggesting we create a few different menus with both of their ideas, and giving them time to take them home and think about it all.

Which they agreed to. But by the time our meeting was over, the mood had shifted from excitement to awkward silence.

Now, this isn't an uncommon thing. So many Grooms want a big beautiful meal. But for a good majority of them, they don't care if that comes in the form of stuffed pork loin, or sloppy joes. They just want everyone to come, eat, drink and have a great time. And more often than not, the differences are overcome with a little sarcasm from The Bride, a little ribbing volleyed back from The Groom, and laughter around the table. And they meet somewhere in the middle - leaning toward The Bride's tastes, of course - and a fabulous night is had by all.

But this situation was different - there was tension and confusion.

After they left, The Partner and I both agreed that a battle would surely ensue, which is unfortunate. If you can't agree on basic things now, marriage isn't going to be the magic tonic to fix that. Just the opposite, actually.

Turns out we were right. We received notification that The Wedding had, in fact, been called off.

Which is sad, but better now than later.

While dining out a while ago I indulged in the most decadent dish of sweet potato gnocchi with prosciutto, hazelnuts, basil and roasted garlic all floating in an over the top cream sauce. It was rich and heavy and obnoxious, and I loved every bite of it. One of my dining companions said across the table, "I bet that kind of a meal is a daily occurrence at your house." That's always the misconception with me. Truth is, I just don't have that kind of time. With my insane schedule I have to be very mindful of planning menus that are simple and cooked up fast on the nights I am actually home to do so.

Ok that part about planning menus, it makes me laugh out loud. I can plan a menu for 400 of your closest friends, but when it comes to dining at home I am so non-committal that I can't plan a menu 5 minutes before I cook it. My meals at home are very off the cuff and random. I may have a good idea of where I am going, but so often the meal changes course mid-saute'.

So I guess what I should say is that in my effort to not plan my planned meals, I keep my pantry stocked with simple ingredients that are interchangeable, and can create a quick and simple meal.

Simple being the operative word, here. I am not a fan of dishes that are overdone to the point of confusion. That's not to say I don't like the occasional complicated dish, but my preference is for fresh ingredients of the best quality melded together into a dish that's simple and fantastic.

There are the exception to the rules, however, that that involves a special blue box from Kraft on very special days of the month.

But I digress.

In keeping with my own desire for simplicity, one of my favorite food personalities/food writers is Donna Hay from Australia. Her recipes and ideas are fabulous for everyone of all cooking levels. Back when her book Off The Shelf came out, I bought it for myself before taking a long road trip. It made for wonderful reading, and I promptly gave the book to my a dear friend who had recently become engaged and was a complete novice in the kitchen. The book became a favorite of hers, and remains one of mine. I highly recommend all of her books for their simplicity - and I have to be honest, the pictures are fabulous. I am a big fan of pictures in cookbooks. And her magazine is great if you can find it at your local newsstand here in the states.

And you know, after finishing My Life In France, I was a little melancholy as began to long for a time when I could spend every day in my own kitchen perfecting recipes, creating new ones, and maybe getting a few on paper to create a cookbook of my own.

Maybe one day.

I just finished reading My Life In France by Julia Child.

What a wonderful book.

I've adored Julia Child for as long as I can remember. When I was young she was the squeaky voiced funny lady on PBS who made all that food making seem silly and fun. And as I grew older I grew not only to appreciate her food, but to also appreciate the part of her persona that didn't take herself too seriously - something I've tried to mimic in my lifetime. Which, let's be honest, it's tough to take yourself too seriously when dropping/spilling/cutting/burning is a daily occurrence.

Not but an hour ago I dropped a jar of bread & butter pickles on my way to the refrigerator. Damnedest thing - it's like it jumped right out of my hand and careened to it's death. There was glass and pickle juice everywhere. And The Husband didn't even bother to look up from his reading. Crashes followed by mumbled curse words are a fairly common occurrence here, so he simply responds to such things by saying, "Is there blood?"

So anyway, it's no secret to anyone that Julia was one of those classics - a real dame. My most favorite of her cooking series was with Jacques Pepin (Whom I also adore). The banter was priceless, and she remained fabulous and feisty into her last days.

Buy the book, enjoy the stories.

And be careful of those damned jars of bread & butter pickles. They are slippery little suckers.

If you ever find yourself visiting Portland, Oregon, I recommend you stay at the Embassy Suites downtown on Pine. The hotel resides in the refurbished (and historical) Multnomah Hotel, and it's just as beautiful as can be.

We're normally more inclined to stay at funkier hotels, but opted instead for a place with a few more amenities like a weight room for The Husband, and I am just all about the free breakfast thing.

Which, the whole free meal thing is an entire book's worth of stories in an of itself. People watching being one of my favorite past times as it is, the whole free breakfast thing created more opportunities to watch in awe as people made complete asses out of themselves over food.

And not just any food - free food. The ultimate situation for people to completely leave their inhibitions and manners up in their suitcase while they elbow their way over to the oatmeal.

And while I don't normally like the buffet situation, I simply could not resist the ability to throw a sweatshirt over the pajama bottoms, grab a newspaper, and sport my slippers down to breakfast. Which I did. (I have no shame in the mornings) And the bacon was crispy like I like it, the coffee was fine, the man made me an omelet just the way I like it and I was able to enjoy it all while watching people make complete asses of themselves. It was like dinner theater, only with fried potatoes and slippers.

We found a great table in the corner with a great vantage point of the entire room. It allowed me to sip coffee while peeking around my newspaper and retreat behind it to make the snide comments The Husband has become so accustomed to.

First let's start off by discussing the usage of basic words like "Please and Thank You". The idea that something is free does not negate those words in any way. You still have to use them. Thank the person who stacks the plates. Thank the person wiping the trays. Thank the person stocking the biscuits. Thank people. I am not saying no one said the words, but I am saying that a 6 out of 10 people merely grunted.

And if you don't want to stand in line, then get to the meal early. Don't come 10 minutes before it's over and sigh loudly, and bitch to the person in front of you that you can't stand to stand in line. I saw more people get off the elevator with a look of disgruntlement over the 10 people in front of them. Here's a thought - get your bones out of bed a little earlier. Or, hey. There's room service. Or an even more profound thought would be to hit the streets to find a place just dying to serve you. Just relax, chat up the people around you and enjoy the fact that when it's all over you don't have to wash the dishes.

Then there were the people I've grown so accustomed to - the Kitchen Chargers. While Kind Mr. Chef was making my custom omelet, a man grew impatient waiting for a stack of glasses to be replenished by the juice. And he actually went toward the kitchen and pushed on the door. But he got met by a small Chinese man hauling the basket of glasses - and I don't speak Mandarin, but I am pretty certain the words, "get back you dumb ass fool" were used. At least I would like to think they were.

I laughed and said to Kind Mr. Chef, "Don't you just love serving the public?" He leaned in close and said, "You can't even imagine the stories I could tell." I smiled and said, "Oh, but I can. And I could probably lobby back a few good tales of my own."

When I told him I was a caterer we struck up a conversation about the dynamics of serving the masses. And in the middle of giving one another comfort a lady in a really ugly sweater came over to inspect the omelet ingredients. "Is this the best you people can do?", she asked. Mr. Kind Chef cheerfully explained his way through the selections while she rolled her eyes.

I winked at him and headed over to my table.

I admired him for his cheerful demeanor. All I wanted to do was hit her over the head with a pan.

Instead I went back to my table and wrote about her.

Ok so the cosmos aligned and The Husband and I were able to mesh our schedules to take a much needed long weekend out of town.

I will be back with tales of food, wine, shopping, and more food.

I pretty much plan to eat my way through the weekend.

Oh, and drink. But I assumed you knew that.

I am turning comments off in an effort to trick the spammers to peddle their wares elsewhere.

Have a fabulous weekend!

Tony S. posted a comment in my previous post asking, "... do you ever feel like you're jinxed?"

Tony my friend, this post is just for you.

And to answer your question - yes.

While walking back to the prep station tonight I stepped down only to feel something sharp embed itself in my heel. I pulled up my foot quick to see what it was, and there stuck in the sole of my croc was a toothpick. When I looked down at the ergo-mat, there was a couple toothpicks lying there kind of half in/half out of the hole.

And I, in all of my magnetism, found the one tooth pick that had actually landed in a way that drove it straight through the sole of my Crock (which is unsettling) and into my heel.

So yes, Tony. Not only do I think I am jinxed, I know I am jinxed.

I believe it says that right on my birth certificate. "Identifying birth marks - the word "jinxed" on the right buttock."

So I had a long day and decided that the freshly made cabbage rolls at my favorite deli looked too good to pass up for dinner. Add a little sauteed zucchini and carrot with a little (or a lot) of wine and that sounded like the perfect meal.

Deli Girl was in fine form with her newly-died hair in the interesting color of what I can only describe as mauve with a hint of sage green. I am not sure if she's going for the Easter Basket look or what she's got going on, but I admittedly felt compelled to shove a few plastic eggs in her ears.

Speaking of plastic eggs - big bummer about being a grown up. I don't get Easter Baskets any more. The Grandfather was The King of Easter Baskets. So much so that it became legend in our neighborhood to see what each year's take would be. We weren't technically supposed to know it was The Grandfather as he made the delivery very early on Easter Morning, but the unmistakable sound of his car driving up, and the fact that our neighbor Mr. Arnold always shouted, "Good Morning, Andy!" as the goodies were being placed was a dead giveaway.

But oh man did we score. He was very specific in his own love of chocolate, so we never got the hollow chocolate bunnies - it was solid chocolate or nothing else. And we got Marshmallow Peeps, jelly beans, candy necklaces, bubble gum and a list of other items too numerous to remember. But there was always, of course, a big fluffy stuffed bunny - and my favorite - Malted Milk Eggs. The kind with a pastel coating and colored speckles. In fact, that pastel coating makes a nice faux lipstick when licked. The Sister and I always found creative ways to be girls. Whether it was malted milk egg coating lipstick, or a strategically draped towell on our heads to pretend we were Cher, we were nothing if not creative.

Anyway, where was I...

Oh... the deli.

So I pointed my selection of cabbage rolls to Deli Girl. And then something horrible happened - she dug in her right ear. And then took that same hand - albeit gloved - and began to reach in the deli case for my rolls. And it was like slow motion horror watching her take that finger toward what was going to be my dinner. I know the look of horror on my face was the catalyst for her stopping mid-reach and getting the same look of horror on her own face.

We locked eyes for what seemed like an eternity, but it was only just long enough for her to pull back her hand, change the glove, and grab a tong.

No words were exchanged until she handed me my order. "I... I am sorry for the... it was subconscious... and..." I held up my hand and said, "It's fine. Let's never speak of this again." She nodded, and I was on my merry way.

Crisis averted people.

Crisis averted.

The Client is a fabulous human being. We love working with her and the organization she represents.

They have a love of good food, and are completely open to whatever it is we want to do.

So last night was more of the same.

There were three casual buffet stations brimming with delicious food (ifIdosaysomyself), and the guests were top notch. All very kind. All very gracious.

The facility had a fabulous set up including the best off-site kitchen we've ever had the pleasure to use. Anyone who's ever catered an affair will appreciate when I say we dealt with a fully stocked kitchen with everything at our disposal. Everything. From convection ovens to linens to china to the tiniest detail of serving tongs. So instead of arriving with vans full of incidentals, we only had to show up with our food and make it all happen.

At one point we were casually meandering around the kitchen The Partner commented on how wonderful the night was. It felt like the event was catering itself.

We all agreed.

And then I tempted fate by stepping out to walk the stations, and just before I turned to head back in the kitchen two men came over and proceeded to - without shame - dip their fingers into the spicy orange sauce. They just - dipped. And licked their fingers. And when they realized I was watching them The First Dipper said, "Everyone is raving about this sauce so we thought we would give it a try...", and wiped his hands on a napkin as they walked on by.

I stood there, speechless. No witty comebacks. No desire to be sarcastic.

Just silent.

Silent... in hopes that would make it less real. That I could somehow keep it a secret, even from myself.

But then, as often is the case, my attempts to be silent were ill-fated as I put some sauce on a plate and brought it to their table. And in a low whisper I said, "I brought this to you out of a desire to help ease what must be your complete mortification and unending embarrassment over what I am certain was an accidental act by sticking your hands into a bowl shared by all here tonight. Lick away, fellas." And with that I smiled a mock sympathetic smile and patted them on their backs.

I really should have gone with my original major of psychology. Then - maybe - I would understand people.

Because right now, I got nothin.