The madness just never ceases. The week has been crazy, please forgive the lack of posts. Every time I sat down something else came across my desk.

The latest form of madness I faced was Crying Bride. Honestly, if they are crying before the wedding, what will the bliss of matrimony bring?

The tears came in the form of sobs, actually, over the cost of feeding her guests. She just wants a "Simple church wedding with a simple church reception, and no one will help her! Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

It's times like these that I wish I had the magical Cry-Baby Powers of my childhood hero, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle.

When we finally god Bride Cries A Lot to settle down and tell us the problem, she announced that she had a very limited budget and no one would help her. "I mean, the church ladies told me it would cost at least $10 per person for them to make food. $10 per person! What is this world coming to. Why won't anyone help me?" With that statement I asked her, "What exactly were you expecting to spend?"

"$5 per person. It's only afternoon lunch!!!"

Dear God.

It takes great people skills, and a heavy amount of restraint on my part not to repeatedly beat my head on the desk. First of all, stop crying. It's helping no one. Second of all, this is 2006. Get a magazine, ask a friend - you cannot have a catered meal for $5 a head unless you plan on wiping out the entire value menu at McDonald's.

We find ourselves in that horrible place of trying to explain the dynamics of food costs to these kinds of people without being condecending or bursting into knee-slapping rounds of belly laughs. And there really is no nice way of saying, "You are out of your mind, sweetie".

And I get it, I get that some people just don't understand it all and live in a world where $5 seems like a very reasonable amount to feed a person. But feeding a person and having people fed by a caterer are two entirely different beasts.

The little shreds of sanity I have left are slowly unravelling, and it's a sheer blessing that we have booked ourselves out for the next three days. Like the rest of Americans we will be celebrating Memorial day by eating copious amounts of grilled foods and cold beer while dipping our toes into the blow-up pool from Target. I might even go to Hell with myself and get wild enough to take a nap.

And just for the fun of it, I might even buy myself a frilly apron and proper hat to see if I can drum up a little magic for the next time I am certain to face the troubled reality of yet another bride.

Found in this month's round up of The Unclaimed Restaurant Lost & Found items:

1 Charm Bracelet

2 Umbrellas

1 Digital Camera

1 Bottle of Aveda Styling Foam

1 Set of Keys

1 Journal

1 Men's black shoe.

And the thing is, this isn't the first shoe we've found in The Lost & Found. We actually found one a couple months ago. And not the match to this one.

How do you lose a shoe and not know it? Do you get all the way to your car and realize that when you took off the one shoe to seductively rub your foot up the leg of your dining partner you left said shoe under the table, but you're just too damn embarassed to go back in and get it?

How does this happen?

A few nights ago - over lemon drops - a great discussion about cooking magazines became the topic of choice during girls' night out. All sorts of thoughts and opinions were bounced around when someone posed the question to me:

"So what do you think of Cooks Illustrated?"

"It's a good magazine. It's very informative and to the point. The research is excellent. I like America's Test Kitchen on PBS."

"That's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you don't have more of an opinion?"

"Um, well, no. Did I forget something?"

"No. It's just that - you normally have more to say. You seem a little ambivalent."

"It's just a magazine."

"Yes. But it's a magazine about all things food - the subject about which you have been known to ramble on for hours. Gourmet Magazine got at least 5 minutes of your time."

"I don't ramble."

"Yes. You do. But that's why we love you."

"So you want me to ramble about Cook's Illustrated?"

"I want your honest opinion."

"I gave you my honest opinion."

"It was a generic opinion. I know you. You're leaving something out."

"It's petty. And childish. And it will make me sound pathetic and unprofessional."

"Spill it."

"Colored pictures."

"What?"

"It doesn't have colored pictures. And I know that sounds pathetic because I am an adult and I shouldn't need colored pictures to be interested. I meant what I said about it being a good magazine. But I like colored pictures on glossy paper. I want to see the work of a good food stylist."

"Colored pictures."

"Yes. Colored pictures."

Everyone laughed, including me. I think they were expecting something really in depth and wordy, which I'm know to be on occasion. (And "by occasion" I mean every single day about every single thing.)

It's OK to mock me. The Partner laughed for a good long while when I told her how I felt. But I know that secretly she likes colored pictures, too.

Don't we all?

Waitperson: "Are you ready to order?"

Customer: "Yes. But first I would like to make a request."

Waitperson: "Certainly, what can I do for you."

Customer: "Please keep the water coming. I am trying to clear up an infection."

I really don't have any comments on this. I keep trying to come up with something witty, but I am speechless. Rarely happens, as you know. But I've not been able to come up with so much as an, "Are you kidding me?" since this little tidbit was shared in the kitchen some two hours ago.

I was recently in a small kitchenware store where one of the employees was giving a small cooking demonstration using All Clad pans. A woman in the back of the crowd raised her hand to ask a question, "Is it OK if I don't have All Clad? To be honest, they are a little cost prohibitive, but I feel like perhaps I would be a better cook with them."

A couple ladies in the front of the crowd snickered. The Fake Blonde one leaned to her friend and said, "Duh. Everyone knows All Clad is the only way to go."

The man giving the demonstration was very kind and gracious. "Of course not. All Clad is wonderful, but an expensive pan does not a good cook make." I was so proud of him for being honest, and kind enough to make the woman asking the question feel better about herself. I found myself looking in the direction of the Two Snits in the front row and doing my own snickering.

I am nothing if I am not immature.

But the thing is - gracious or not - he's right.

With the surge of Food Network, and the rise of cook books and cooking magazines in every store out there I have often felt we have done a great disservice to the home cook. Not because the information isn't valuable, because it is. But every show out there displays someone whipping up a fabulous sauce in an All Clad sauce pan while braising up some short ribs in a Le Creuset French Oven, all while chopping vegetables with a Wusthof knife. And it's not that these products aren't fabulous - because they are. But are they necessary?

Absolutely not.

I have an array of cookware in my stash. Yes, I have a few pieces of All Clad. I've got an old Calphalon saute' pan. And I've got quite a few pieces from my Restaurant Supply Store. In fact, my most favorite saucepan came from that store. My knives? Another mish-mosh including Henkels (which I've had for 11 years), and an array of restaurant knives I have absconded over the years. And in fact, my favorite paring knife was procured while on a camping trip at an out of the way state park. We ran to the local Ace Hardware store and they had a little container if paring knives by the cash register. It's thin, it's light and it feels good in my hand. Best of all it was $1.99

If you can afford a set of expensive cookware, by all means - go for it. And be proud. But if all you can afford is the box set from Target, don't be defeated enough to think you can't be a good cook, because it's not about the expensive equipment. Expensive equipment does not a fabulous cook make. A fabulous cook should be able to create something sublime with a camp stove and an old cast iron skillet. A fabulous cook comes from a place of adventure, curiosity and good old trial and error.

Most of all, a fabulous cook is born of loving what they do and loving those around them enough to create something wonderful to share.

Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.

I can Trick a function for 150 people and have nary an issue.

Well, this time.

The Trick was smooth. Perfect, even. No picky guests, no screaming children, no weird people sticking their finger where it doesn't belong.

Just - smooth.

And then the very next morning while picking up a few last minute items for a Picnic Trick things all went awry. I was loading a 24-pack of Coke into The Van when the box crumpled and 24 cans went rolling out the end. They rolled all under the van and the surrounding cars.

They just - scattered. Like bowling pins on league night.

Fortunately the momentum kept them rolling and only one can was unreachable. My breaking point, however, was totally reachable.

And then much later that night on a trip to Lowe's for a new light fixture, I made the mistake of picking up a box where upon said light fixture slipped out of the end and on to my toe. Which then started to bleed. Which then brought on an intense pain so deep that instead of saying bad words, I just kept sucking in air.

I often joke that I have a target on my head. And I joke about it because it's easier than facing the reality that I really truly do.

Overheard at The Restaurant last night.

Waitperson: "Can you please bring this butter over to table 5? Remember that Table 5 is over..."

New Runner: "Table 5... oh, yeah. The one with the guy picking his nose?"

Waitperson: "Is he still doing it?"

New Runner: "Yep."

Waitperson: "Good God."

"I cannot believe someone in your position would condone the flagrant use of oil like that."

It's that very statement that made me regret having guests for dinner.

Because of my schedule, which has me working on Friday - Cinco de Mayo -, we decided to have friends over on a Monday night for an early fiesta of tequila lime chicken fajitas and all the trimmings.

Everyone was gathered around the island snacking on chips and the assortment of salsas and tomato-less guacamole, when I began to prepare the shells for the fajitas. I got lucky and was able to procure both flour and corn - freshly made. I'm a fan of the corn shell, and I am not afraid to admit I prefer them fried in oil.

That's right. Fried in oil.

I wrote that twice in case anyone missed it, and missed the opportunity to give me a verbal beat down at my very own stove. (See opening quote)

I had tortilla warmers full of softened shells for anyone who preferred, and I had my pan ready with a glaze of hot oil for those who preferred them fried until slightly crisp/chewy. And as I was about to put the first shell in the pan the thought never occurred to me that I was committing a mortal sin.

Why I assume anything in my life is a total mystery to me. I don't know how many times I have to be whacked over the head by reality to get that.

But I digress.

Picky Guest, a person I very much enjoy, nearly had a fit of hysterics when she saw me lay the first tortilla in the pan. My intelligence, my credibility as a caterer, and apparently my spot in Heaven all came into question over a pan of hot oil. Words like "Clogged arteries!", "High Cholesterol!", "Diabetes!" and "Heart Disease!" were thrown around like dice on a crap's table at Caesar's Palace.

At first I thought she was joking, but then I could tell that she was, in fact, dead serious.

"So you'll be having a steamed tortilla, then?" I asked while laughing.

Unamused she replied, "I am dead serious. I am so surprised you would be frying those in oil!"

"Well I am not deep frying them. Although that would be quicker than standing over this pan...but there's hardly a teaspoon of oil in there."

"I really am surprised. Normally you are so sensible in the kitchen."

"Oh I am never sensible in the kitchen. You can't do what I do for a living and have any kind of sense whatsoever."

"Well, to each his own. But I bet I am not the only one who feels that way."

Two dozen fried shells - all eaten. All enjoyed. All washed down with tequila and Dos Equis.

Picky Guest enjoyed her steamed shells, and ate her weight's worth in the fresh tortilla chips I got at the same place as the tortillas. I opted to not be sarcastic and tell her they were freshly fried in oil, too. I have to be nice once and a while...

What is it about some people who can - without shame or regard for others - meander their way through an array of beautiful foods while burping the alphabet? And laughing at themselves, of course, as they never lose the stamina - or the gaseous particles - needed for a fast bridge of "l-m-n-o-p...."

I remember being 12 years old and my friend Shelly and I got to help her mom put on a ladies luncheon at the Sigma Alpha Epsilon Fraternity at the University of Washington. This memory is so vivid because, well, I was 12 years old in a house full of college boys. And Shelly and I thought that we were quite possibly the luckiest puberty-hormone driven girls on the planet.

But anyway - I remember having do go down to the kitchen to get the chicken salad out of the refrigerator when tall and very handsome boy named Jake came in and burped the alphabet. Shelly and I, of course, giggled and then ran up the back stairs to the main room. We were young enough and giddy enough to believe that Jake's burping the alphabet was just about the most coolest thing to ever happen to us - like, ever.

But standing over the carving station on Saturday night while Mr. Burp's-A-Lot amused himself, I only had the urge to impale him with my fork.