Reason Number 20: villanelles are less amazing than cupcakes and more amazing than sandwiches

If she didn't look so much like my mom I would totally want to have insouciant yet tender anal with Ina Garten (aka Barefoot Contessa). As it stands, I've made quite a few of her recipes, all of which are so unbelievably delicious I can barely stand it.

Tonight is my second time making Perfect Roast Chicken . I forgot to buy fennel, so I'm using beets* instead.

These days I'm suspiciously happy. So happy it (shhhhhh) almost makes this blog irrelevant. I suppose even the best of us, the most unrelentingly dejected and acrimonious, need respite from that nagging urge to jump into the nearest heavily-trafficked intersection.

Who wants to drag a serrated knife across her throat when a mid-sized fowl carcass is roasting, blazing brown in a golden oven as brilliant yellow leaves fall crisp onto a sidewalk full of children riding bigwheels? (Even though I despise children more than a healthy serving of melted Swiss cheese.)

Who wants to turn the ignition in a carefully-closed garage when kittens the world over are diving into boxes too small to accommodate their soft, plump, adorable bodies?

Life is way too hilarious for these kinds of shenanigans. Life is too short not to use words like shenanigans. Twice!

Fuck you! I have floral doc martins.

*How amazing are these earthy purple wonders? Seriously.