overconfident, overly-funded, flighty high school girls shoudln’t be allowed to have ‘blogs

And that’s all I have to say about that.

In other news…Pics of Saddam on the NYTimes website remided me of the photos of Ché that the CIA sent to the papers to prove that he was dead. Weird coincidence, maybe it’s the whole “I’ve-been-hiding-in-a-cave/mountain jungle-for-6months-beard” that does it.

The interesting stuff: so my omelet didn’t stick.

For a very long time, I’ve practiced a general rule that apart from immediate family members I don’t cook for boys. Years ago, I had several unsavory experiences (you like that culinary pun? I know you do.) that involved me cooking for males, most of them ending in either 1. embarrassment, *plus* lots of dirty dishes, 2. utter ruin, crying fits, and humiliation, yadda yadda, melodrama. Thus, by the middle of sophomore year, I was resolute. I said to my steadfast roommate: “If I ever think it’s a good idea to cook for boys again, remind me that it’s not. NO more. Tie me down and make me eat my own apron.”

I may have left out that bit about the apron, but it was some time ago, my memory fails. Several weeks ago, I was reminded again, gently, that it might not be such a great idea to invest myself in a cooking project, as it would be in direct violation to the corrolary to the previously instated “boys suck” policy. Stoically, I maintained the decorum necessary to not get hurt by someone’s mystified disinterest in a prepared meal, but my resolve has recently been somewhat less stoic than it was.

On Sunday, a positively slushy day brought about by three inches of snow, followed by 39 degree rain, someone came down to the apartment for brunch. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that someone was of the male gender [gasps of shock from reading audience of say…three]. There was coffee, there were gruyére and fresh ricotta omelets with shallots, and there was easy conversation. There were hot pans lightly coated with just the right amount of olive oil so that the eggs don’t adhere to the bottom, but don’t get overly greasy. There was cheese, melted and goey, pepperey pepper, and omelets steamy delicious as they slid right out of the pan, their slightly oozy half-moons coming to rest on blue plates.

The first time I didn’t get it right, and tried to rush through too many steps at once, so we had some sticking issues because there were bits of caramelized shallots still left on the pan that I only halfheartedly wiped clean. You’ve got to clean up the old mess or things get even worse if you try to pretend it’s not there. But, learning from my mistakes, and having a little more prudence/patience with the next one, I barely had to touch it with a spatula. Turned over once, lowered the heat to a gentle flame, and let it set. If I were one who was more given to allegorical anectodes, I’d say that had some sort of resonance in my romantic escapades from the past several years. Then again, maybe that’s just the Ella Fitzgerald from the afternoon ringing in my ears.

But hell, that second omelet didn’t stick at all. That hardly *ever* happens.

NB: words randomly glanced at while looking up proper spelling of ‘surreptitious:’ sport utility vehicle (picture included, who knew?), succulent, sunnyside up. i [heart] dictionaries.


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