You just work and work and work.

I am so dag-gone busy.

Seriously. I mean, when I was 16, and I had to stay after school to work on the yearbook and then go to school again the very next morning, I thought I was swamped. And I guess I was. But, I certainly didn’t wash my own clothes, make my own lunch, pay my bills, deal with credit card fraud (yes, john’s identity got stolen this week), wash my car so the bird poop doesn’t eat the paint, read the instructions for the file cabinet that needs put together, water the tomato plants and figure out why the tomato plants are producing tomatoes that taste like water: all while still getting up the next day to go to “school.” And I don’t even have kids. God bless all the parents in the world.

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Resting insecurities.

I tried something new today. Not avocado toast. It’s a faithful friend, which we’ll get to later. Something completely new. I put myself out there in order to put a nagging cooking insecurity to rest.

A few weeks ago:
After stopping in for a solo steak at a delicious farm-to-table restaurant in Santa Monica called Rustic Canyon, I asked to speak to the Executive Chef, Evan Funke. During the dinner rush of course, which is a restaurant no-no I remembered a few seconds after I asked. But towards my last few bites of steak, he agreed and asked me back into the kitchen.

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Dancing with Seattle.

I’ve gotta narrow my Seattle trip down for you. Just the highlights. In honor of all the kids who have to head back to school this week, awash in structure and syllabuses, I am going to tell you about my Seattle trip with no timeline at all… for the kids.

As a matter of fact, why don’t we just skip right to the good stuff. Chew the lollipop.

I got to go to Delancey. For those of you who may not be obsessively interested in a girl named Molly Wizenberg, there’s a food blog called Orangette that you must not have visited yet. And a book called “A Homemade Life,” that is begging you to read it. And once you do, you will be hoping a plane to Seattle, sitting at the counter of an adorable and sophisticated restaurant that doesn’t even have signage yet, eating one of the most delicious pizzas you have ever eaten and eavesdropping as Molly’s husband, Brandon, bakes your pie in a beautiful brick oven – right before your eyes. He’s nice, too. You could probably even talk to him, but if you are anything like me, you will just mumble something about how good the pizza is while you sit in giddy silence and chew. Here’s me geeked out. My hair is pulled back in a pony-tail. Unfortunately, it needed that preface. Brandon must have ducked, and Molly W. is tucked away behind the brick oven cranking out delicate and satisfying salads made with locally sourced greens. I am sporting a post-salad grin.

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It lasted until I was 27.

I am completing a liver cleanse while I write this. I haven’t eaten since 2pm yesterday, and I drank grapefruit juice and olive oil before bed. Why the torture? Because my friends, this crazy liver cleanse produces “results” that would knock your Rudolph socks off. But, you’re gonna have to learn about the “results” first hand. It’s not something that can be discussed in detail, except among fellow liver-cleansers. I’ve tried.

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