Friday, I'm in love.

Went to Word. Bought a book. Had a latte. Chatted with friendly Mexicans. Talked to school advisor. Played with midget. Made dinner. Bathed and put midgie to bed. Snuggles. What Not To Wear.

Prosecco.

G is djing again. Poor thing works so hard. He needs a vacation.

Really wish I would get called in for an interview.

Networking, networking.

My friends are wonderful. I finally have my perfect friend base in NYC.

If only I got a new job...my life would be perfect.

Babysteps.

Happy Birthday, Baxter

Today is Baxter's birthday. He's 11 years old. Happy Birthday! Even my mom called today to wish her first black grandson a happy day. She even sang to him.

Baxter is my cat. I got him when I lived in Tampa. He's been with me for 3 cities, 7 apartments and countless bad situations. He's always been my buddy. Well, he *was* my buddy until Gerald moved in. Bax is now his cat. And since I got pregnant, he's pretty much hated me. He attacks me, bites my ankles, bites my back fat when I'm sitting in a chair, chair dives onto me, ambushes my feet while walking and assorted other annoyances.

Luckily, Bax loves Auden. He lets Auden grab his tail, and pet him hard and pull his whiskers. He doesn't complain, or try to bite, or anything. In fact, he's quite chivalrous about it...I think he understands that Auden's only a baby and doesn't know any better. Also, Bax is a big gay cat and likes males. If Auden was a girl, the story may have been different.

Over the years, Bax has acquired his fair share of nicknames:
Bastard
DrastiCat (because all of his moves were so drastic)
Snackster
Fatster

To me, he's just Bax. Big, fat, black, and gnarly. Happy Birthday, sweetie, may you have 11 more.

My name is Jessica, and I'm a reality cooking show addict.

It's true. I won't lie. Here's my agenda:

Mondays 10 pm: No Reservations w Anthony Bourdain. *chef crush* and Bizarre Foods.
Tuesdays 9 pm: Hell's Kitchen w Gordon Ramsay. *chef crush*
Wednesday 10 pm: Top Chef. No chef crush, but Richard or Antonia need to win. Go Blaise!


If those aren't on, and I'm not watching Law and Order (preferably CI), CSI, or Murder, She Wrote, I'm watching Food Network.
Iron Chef? Love it.
Ace of Cakes? Hell yes.

Don't get me started on Rachael Ray or Sandra Lee. Let's just NOT go there.

I love watching food being cooked. I love learning about new vegetables. I like getting new inspirations. But mostly, I like to see really effing gross things that I would never eat in a million years being eaten by other people and watch them gross out and wanna puke. Bourdain and Zimmern from Bizarre Foods are the heros of eating weird shit. Is that bad of me? I like seeing people eat awful food and not enjoy it?

Now that I'm not out at a bar every night, I understand this whole television thing. It's addictive!

One more complaint: why did I suffer through TWO days of American Idol because it was the Neil Diamond edition, only to watch Sweet Caroline be slaughtered by a little gay and the Diamond sang some new song that I could give three fucks about? WHY? Cos baby Jesus hates me today. My mom even called me and was like: I'm sorry they killed your song. It was all terrible. Just terrible.

When does Project Runway start?

I have problems.

Mama needs a brand new bag.

Although every other part of my life is great, the job scene sucks. Have been networking. Event planning? Back to retail? Back to school? If school, what do I study? Foody stuff? Business? Retail planning?

Janine let me borrow a book: It's a Long Road to a Tomato. I'm five pages into it, and I already want my own farm. Auden B can frolic around the pastures with Baxter, chasing rabbits and picking bugs off the radishes. (Of course it will be organic. Duh.) I can get my hands dirty, using the soil as a natural exfoliator.

But I want my own store. Where you can buy stuff. And make stuff. And learn stuff. And learn how to make stuff. And eat a cupcake too.

But I want to throw parties. Where you can donate yr time and money. And learn stuff. And dance. And eat well. And help someone who needs it more than you do. And have the perfect dirty martini. And everyone will wear funny hats.

But I want to be a writer. Where I can say stuff. And you can read it. And you can smile, bemused. Or you can roll yr eyes, annoyed. And I can have a feeling of accomplishment and sense of creativity.

Clearly, I'm having a Libra moment.

Oh, btw...Mighty Diamond = THE JAM. We keep going there and it keeps getting better.

I'm experimenting with a Rose Spumanti. It's dry and wonderful.

I went to church yesterday. On Broadway. It actually made me feel better. After 15 minutes, the girl with the camera was creeping me out, and my boss called, so I dipped.

Everything feels so way up in the air...but finally...it's feeling a little less hopeless, just definitely unguided.

Map, anyone?

Beans, beans the magical food...

So, I was reading this food blog a few weeks ago...one of the many that I subscribe to, since I am a food fag...and got inspired. I had read a Domino article a few months before about Rancho Gordo's heirloom beans, and this bloggy chef had made a warm heirloom bean salad using the Rancho Gordo variety. I had to have them. I ordered the European variety pack, and within days I had RG beans of my very own. Now, ordinarily, beans aren't something that you would call beautiful, or even cute...but these are *gorgeous*. These are seriously some damn sexy beans.

After showing off my beans for a few weeks, and forcing friends to ogle them and swear that they were the most beautiful things they'd ever seen, I decided that perhaps it was time to eat the damn things. Now, I'm all about doing things from scratch, being organic and all that jazzy jazz, but buying a can has always sounded a lot easier and less headachey than DIY beans. Seeing as this was my first foray into this world, I did a little research and went on my merry little way. In between changing midget diapers, and naps, and being run over by a walker, I was soaking and prepping and organizing dinner.

I've always prided myself on my 30 minute meals (NOT the Rachael effing Ray variety which involve CRAP food and actually listening to that voice of hell), but there is no getting out of doing beans in 30 minutes or less. Soak time: 1 hour. Mire poix prep and cooking: 20 minutes. Cooking beans and mire poix: 2 effing hours almost. Chopping salad and making dressing: 20 minutes. This is a salad, people! I could have made a rack of lamb and mint chutney and maybe some grilled baby veggies in the same amount of time it took me to make this beast. (Not that I would, because carcass is gross, but still, you get my drift.)

Auden had had dinner, napped, played, bathed and had his last bottle of the night, and FINALLY my SALAD was complete. We dug in. It was brilliant. Now, I'm my own worst critic. I rip my dishes apart. I sit there and bitch about a lack of salt, or a heavy hand with the sherry vinegar or the truffle oil not being necessary. Although I probably would have added a little more salt, and maybe some grilled garlic cloves to make it super perfect...this salad was the mother effing jam. Gerald declared my beans the best ones he's ever had in his life. He mentioned it several times. He's still talking about it. (Shut up, I have more, I'll make them. Garsh.)

In conclusion, buy these beans. They will make you happy.

I'll give the gas update tomorrow...so far..so good. X gas free X Pics tomorrow too.

xoxo

Tapas y Papas

You know, yesterday, I have to say it was a good day. I didn't have to use my AK. (Sorry, a small part of my normal vernacular is, well, um, gangsta rap lyrics. You'll live.)

First, we had brunch with the Muffinberrys at Dumont. Auden slept for a great portion of it, but since we waited so long to get our food, he woke up right as my food arrived. I ate with one hand and bounced him on my knee. He didn't mind, and neither did I. We all walked around the hood a bit and stopped by Desert Island, a fab comic book shop that just opened. Gerald managed to score some free Garbage Pail Kids cards, including one for me and Jake. Yes, I am Juicy Jessica. I have the card to prove it. Also, we bought Shag from A to Z, because Jake said it was a kid's book, and I love Shag. I didn't read it until we got home from the Tapas party (more on that soon) and it is surely *not* a kid's book. I love it nonetheless. We stopped by Artists and Fleas, talked to the Frenchie and was happy the Mast Brothers didn't have their delicious Wythe and Berry bar, because I would have caved and purchased. Not good for mommy diet. (But, DAMN that shit is good! Highly Recommend.)

Later was the Spontaneous, Brooklynites Only, Tapas Party. During our walk around the hood, G and I bought some vinho verde (Portuguese green wine, perfect for spring) and some cava for the party. We took a car to Cobble Hill, and I complained about perpetual construction on the BQE. Really, is that shit ever going to end? The party was super fun, and I think we have back up babysitters for life, because everyone loves Auden Brown. He was such a trooper. He hung out, gabbed, stared, drooled, and then went to sleep in his portable bed as the party went on. Don't get me wrong, this was not the rager of our youth, or even of our 2 years ago. Just a really great, adult party full of amazing food, amazing people and amazing conversations. I was happy to be a grown up married mommy.

We came home and watched Frasier. Midget pooped.

Another fabulous night in Brooklyn.

Holla.