It's not just me

The other night my brother and I were treated to a fancy, schmancy dinner at Jean Georges by his extremely generous and pretty much spectacular girlfriend. The meal was all sorts of buttery and delicious. I should be not surprised that all of my clothing suddenly appears to be a wee bit tight. This morning I felt all Chris Farley as I wrestled with the buttons on my now uber fitted winter coat. The dinner, which was in celebration of my brother's birth, consisted of eating, drinking and desserting for hours. Let your eyes linger on this vision of beauty that was my chocolate dessert platter.



We consumed this, and two others like it of the caramel and orchard persuasion, along with numerous chocolates, candies, marshmallows...and my mouth just started watering.

After gorging ourselves with wine and fois gras (actually not my thing, but when at JG...), we rolled ourselves back to the apartment where we are staying for the week. The building's front door was open and we all struggled to find a working set of keys when the apartment lock flat out refused entry to all the ones we had. We went through each of the sets that we were given, laughing loudly at our dilemma. How rude! Did the locks change? Are we that drunk? Finally, as we were just starting to get the tiniest bit frustrated, I questioned whether we were even in the right building. Um, no. Turns out we were in the building right next door that conveniently looks exactly the same. It's amazing that no one came out of the apartment after we spent at least a good 5-10 minutes fiddling with the lock and cursing at 11:30 pm. Needless to say, we hauled ass up and out immediately and found our proper home. Apparently, this is a family thing.

Frittatas for everyone!

So this weekend I hosted some friends over for brunch and decided about 15 minutes before they arrived to make a frittata. Every time I even attempt an omelet it devolves into a scramble, so I decided to be a little creative. Good thing it only took about 18 minutes to prep and execute (speaking of prepping and executing, Top Chef started again last week. Holla!). How have I never discovered the beauty, the joy, the sheer laziness of frittatas before? Say it again with me, frit-ta-ta. Doesn't it just sound fun?

I kid you not, these are all the steps I followed to make it:

• Preheat oven to 375 degrees

• Heat olive oil in cast iron pan

• Saute chopped clove of garlic in olive oiled pan for a minute or two

• Add spinach, halved cherry tomatoes (or whatever other vegetables you need to eat before they rot) to garlic and saute until tender

• Add in eggs (I used 6 for 3-4 people) whipped with a shot of milk, salt and pepper

• Spread a fairly sizable amount of crumbled feta cheese and chopped basil on top

• Cook for about 3-5 minutes until sides of frittata set

• Bake pan in oven for 10-14 minutes until it looks fluffy and pretty

• Let frittata set and cool

• *Do not touch pan handle as it will be exceptionally hot after baking in the oven, even though pan handles are normally not hot when used on the stove. This is a confusing point, I know. I learned the hard way.*

• Slide off onto a fancy platter for serving (the pan should be well coated from the olive oil)

• Smile graciously as all your guests swoon over the frittata

I was too busy caring for my seared flesh to get a picture of my final product, but here are a few from across the webs.

via The Stone Soup

via Simply Breakfast

via Gratinee

A Reprieve

So tomorrow we have a wedding to go to up in Marin. It should be sunny, warm and FUN. I know it will be fun because it'll be the single longest stretch I've ever been apart from Mr. Monk. A whole 10 hours! I can't even imagine what I'll do with the freedom. Somehow I think cocktails and dancing in large quantities will enter the picture.

I'm trying to figure out how to camouflage the fact that I have to bring my pump to this wedding. I've pumped on a plane, in a car, in a public restroom, but I think this might just top that. I have no idea where I'm going to pump since this is an outdoor wedding. Maybe they'll have the extra fancy porta potties for this sorta thing. Should I even bother bringing a cute clutch to match my strappy sandals when I have to lug my big black breast bag? It should set off my coral dress nicely. Speaking of the dress, I wonder if it's a bad idea to wear silk when I know I have to be dealing with potentially precarious milking sitch. Living on the edge, my friends.

Being out most of tomorrow should be good preparation for next week's bachelorette party when I will be away overnight (maybe even for two nights)! As excited as I am, I know I'll miss the way he grunts like he's carrying on a conversation, the way he twirls his hands like he's conducting a symphony and the way he smiles at me like I'm the most important person ever, which I am to him...for now. But, luckily for me, I get to spend the rest of my life enjoying this boy so a few days off will be good for both of us. My husband, shockingly, is less excited for my upcoming break. He doesn't seem totally scared, yet. What man doesn't want a weekend alone with an eight month old for Father's Day?

Damn you, Isaac Newton

I saw "Bridesmaids" this week. And I laughed hard. But, mostly, I couldn't wait to get out of the theater to look up Kristen Wiig's age because she was rocking some serious wrinkles and do I look that old?! Her character was definitely supposed to be a bit haggard and she was more than a tad on the skinny side, but I just kept thinking that I hope she's older than I am. She is. Phew. Skin aside, she was pretty damn awesome in the movie and more power to her for writing a funny movie for the femmes. But, ever since the matinee, I can't stop thinking about my face and how it's falling. Is it time to freeze time with Botox?

Some of my friends back in New York regularly indulge and have been for years. Out here, I imagine people would frown on Botox, unless it was organic. Most of the women I know in SF seem to embrace their wrinkles and hardly even wear makeup to cover them up. Today, however, I ventured into Neiman Marcus and saw a whole other world of ladies. On a Thursday afternoon at about 3 pm, the high society gals come out to play! I saw many a tightened neck, tucked eye and implanted cheek. I wandered over to the La Mer counter to check out the ridiculously priced creams. I pretended to be interested in spending $135 on 1 oz of cream and scored myself a sample. Based on my calculations, the .11 oz sample is worth about $15. Nice!

I am still at the stage where I think I just need to find that magic cream--the Today show was all about the Oil of Olay Regenerist Cream this morning. Botox, Restalyn or any other fillers kind of creep me out. Are they just gateway drugs and, once you go down that road, you're soon wanting a face/butt/breast lift? The idea of having my face cut off and lifted, even 30 years down the line, sounds rather extreme. Maybe I should just buy a bigger sun hat.

Oh, and the La Mer cream seems almost identical to that thick Nivea spackle that you can buy for $5 at any drugstore. Perhaps someone should tell the lunching ladies at Neiman.