Gil has gotten pretty handy with the martini shaker over the past year, what with his natural smartypantsitude and all the practice he gets. I like my vodka martinis dirty as that skeleton in your closet and won’t accept just any old olive; no, I’m a big fan of the chipotle-stuffed version, though I’ll take ‘em stuffed with sundried tomatoes in a pinch.

For our latest Nick & Nora episode, Gil ran out to the local grocery last night to pick up a fresh bottle of olives but returned with something straight out of a Stephen King story. His cry of, “Wow! These are some bubbly olives!” sent me running to the kitchen and, sure enough, they were fizzing like a hot cup of Alka Seltzer.

Now, I’ve forgotten many of the lessons learned in my high school AP biology class, but I do still recall the warning Mrs. Caire gave us to avoid all canned foods that are dented and seem excessively vacuum-packed or bubble when opened. So, fearing botulism poisoning or an alien invasion, we threw them away and made do with the inferior brand I purchased last week. Sigh.

(And now we receive word—from the paper of record, no less—that an occasional indulgence during pregnancy won’t harm your precious bundle of joy. Not that we’re itching to start a family, but hey.)

Last weekend, the New York Times ran a story on the changing face of Saturday night in the city. Seems New Yorkers wouldn’t be caught dead at a club anymore (although I think the paper of record is several years too late on THAT story), but are staying home and relaxing instead. Why? Bridge & Tunnel disease might be catching.

I’m not sure if a New Jersey mailing address is both necessary and sufficient for a label of B&T or if you need the attitude as well, but if it’s the former, I’m officially one of them now: Last weekend we celebrated my one-year anniversary living in the Ringwood digs by visiting five malls in four hours and waxing Gil’s back. Not that I mind the name-calling, necessarily; if New Jersey is the armpit of the nation, Louisiana is the crotch, so I’ve grown a thick skin over the years.

But maybe I should trade in my Mini for something a bit more status-y?

When Gil & I flew into New Orleans for our first post-Katrina visit in October 2005, I didn’t quite know what to expect. Sure, news reports were dour and my family was honest about how stripped-down daily life had become, but I couldn’t comprehend the devastation without seeing it for myself. Honestly? I still nurtured a tiny flame of hope that reports had been exaggerated, at least until we approached the airport and saw an ocean of blue tarps where rooftops should’ve been.

Strange to think that something so simple as a better nail could change that bird’s eye view the next time a hurricane hits.

via The Cranky Professor

If this doesn’t make you want to shake it, your disco bone may be broken. Please seek immediate assistance.

Thanks for the recommendation, Tina!

I’ve admired Katinka Matson’s work for a few years and decided to try something similar with our lower-end scanner this afternoon. It turned out about as expected, but did yield a couple of cool, ghostly images.

I had duck on the brain all week after spying a few organic ducklings at our local grocery, but waited too long to make my purchase and was SOL. So I picked up the next best dark meat—leg of lamb!

After spending an eternity cutting away fat and tearing the muscles apart at the seams for more marinade love and quicker roasting, I slathered the pieces in a garlic paste mixed with sea salt, crushed rosemary and thyme, lemon, olive oil, dijon mustard, and some extra garlic, just to be safe from our neighborhood vamps. Our refrigerator still smells of the rub, but it was well worth it…we feasted on juicy, pungent, justthissideofbloody slices of lamb that were the perfect counterpoint to our homemade mac & cheese (featuring a bechamel sauce blended with aged gouda, cheddar, and some leftover goat cheese from Thanksgiving).

*When I give my work friends the weekend recap on Mondays, I always feel like the 40-Year Old Virgin describing how he satisfied his egg salad craving. So I’ve decided to own it and spare them the conversation by posting weekly updates of my cooking exploits for all to see, share, and nod at sadly.

This year’s Thanksgiving invitation came with a request: Could I bring the same appetizer as last year? Those incredible bacon-wrapped dates? Well, how could I refuse, especially when I had the opportunity to spread the good word about a site called iheartbacon.com? And, as official VM (and now MI) friend Tom says, “The best thing about this recipe is that when you describe it to someone they say ‘Oh My God!’ once after you say ‘bacon-wrapped dates’ and a second time after you say ’stuffed with goat cheese and almonds.’”

So I woke up at my usual 5:30am and began the preparations. This was the result of my hard work.

I also brought shrimp tartlets with avocado cream and spiced tomato glaze, but didn’t get any pictures of them, since I was too busy scarfing down Paula’s pepperoni-stuffed mushroom caps by the time we put them out.

For as long as I can remember, my mom has delivered what I (now) affectionately refer to as The State of Your Hair Address. It was bewildering…how could she so heartlessly pick on ME, her firstborn daughter? But after going through some boxes of old stuff my folks sent me recently, I know exactly how, and why. And, not to be outdone by my husband’s Napoleon Dynamite soul-baring, I now present 12 Years of Bad Hair:

First grade You may find it hard to tell because I was quite the little actress at this age, but I was miserable here — John Lennon glasses, fiberglass-weave blouse handmade by my grandmother, sweater vest (in south Louisiana), awkward pose. But my lank locks were really the star of the show.

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