How sad is it that after a day of researching and writing restaurant entries for the most annoying book ever that will actually be pretty good, I burned olive oil-soaked pita bread lovingly speckled with a cumin-lemon pepper concoction. Totally scorched–had to throw it outside. Luckily had more of everything.

At some point today I was almost whimpering into the phone when chefs or managers would tell me their favorite items on their menus.  It’s all a blur to me now, but then, knowing what little edible anything was in my fridge, I had to restrain myself from saying, “You’ll get a really good write up if you send somebody over with a couple of those something encrusted something elses.” I behaved, but just barely.

I was jumping around from cuisine to cuisine, talking to whoever I could get on the phone, so I spoke with foodie wine bar and then the barbecue guy and then the pan-Asian place and then the  ice cream place and then the upscale neighborhood place. It will be a miracle if there isn’t an entry in the restaurant chapter that says something like: “Foodies won’t want to miss the goat cheese encrusted root beer float layered with carmelized farm-to-table milk shake reduction of comfort food drizzled with mutated vanilla bean over cheese grits.  

I am so tired of writing about food that I’m almost happy to switch over to the shopping chapter. All I really know is I like the sound of this, don’t like the looks of that, do like the taste of that, and I’m done. There’s so much pretension involved with food.  Since my daughter and a friend were coming home for spring break today, I took a break from my peanut M & M regimen and actually used my oven a bit–made chicken pot pie and chocolate peanut butter chip brownies. Not a whiff of pretension there–except to say that of course those brownies were made from scratch, as all brownies should be.

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