I spent Saturday afternoon at something called Pig Island. There was all you can drink Six Point beer. There was all you can eat pig of every shape, size and flavor. There was gluttony. It’s probably not surprising then, that Sunday, I ate this.
I just ate this for lunch, you guys, and it’s taking ALL the will power for me to not eat the entire pan. I’m pretty sure I can hear the tomatoes whispering to me from the kitchen. And the goat cheese. It’s mostly the goat cheese.
Well, I made it. I am officially 29. I’m not one of those people that’s afraid of getting older. Despite the fact that 30 is, actually, now looming, I’m nonplussed. I love the word nonplussed by the way; it’s just so underutilized. But no, I don’t mind that I’m almost 30; I’ve never really understood what all the fuss is about. I think birthdays are important…not because you’re kissing goodbye to another year, but just because it’s a milestone. It’s a time to tell the birthday guy or girl that you’re glad they’re here and you’re looking forward to the next year with them. I love planning birthdays; I want all my friends to feel loved on theirs. I looooove planning birthdays. Except mine. God please don’t make me plan my own.
Is there anything better than brunch, really? Even on a gray, rainy, pea soup–like New York day in mid-August, nothing beats a good brunch. This Sunday, Jeanne and I hit up Cookshop in Chelsea.