I am pregnant.
Or so it feels. I have never before been able to talk about recipes and legitimately have my stomach fight with me like a dog barking at the knock on the door. I am in love with my tongue, and my brain, and my stomach and whatever connects them; making them an animal in seek of pure sensational delight.
I am hungry thinking about writing about food.
I could roll around naked with the leftovers I have in the fridge.
I want scallops with crispy sage and peashoots with lentils and rocket. I want chantrelles and creme fraiche and pecorino and tagiatelli with blue cheese and figs, mint and asperegus and rosemary foam with root vegetables with truffle oil and oxtail ravioli.
It was great having people over last night and cooking like a fat woman, with Oprah arms hugging everyone, and laughing too hard as if I had maple glazed pork belly living in my throat. As you keep modifying your carniverous addictions, I’ll start to write some suggested recipes for you to stay happy, satiated, and without suffering the insatiable pains of food-pregant sympathy. Lets break bread, my love, and be fat cats. (Well, fat aint cool…lets just look good and eat like manatees).
For now, look to Epicurious for recipes like momma makes.
And for the marriage of two great things; Art + eating.
xoxo love you.