I just ate breakfast soup, after eating breakfast. Today’s breakfast was pecked in serving order—between feeding the beans, I dug into small bites of Challah French toast Pudding, just a lick of syrup, packed lunches, just a handful of Pirate Booty, three rings of pineapple. Then I returned home to devour the best soup I’ve ever made. Breakfast soup is not a milky porridge with bits of crumbled bacon and a swirl of maple spiced egg custard (though that does sound heavenly). No. It is phenomenal soup of the savory variety from which you won’t be able to keep yourself come breakfast. You’ll eat it cold, standing up, straight out of the fridge. I am crazy in love with this soup. I will share the recipe because it’s my own, and you won’t find one for it anywhere else (believe me, I tried to find it).  But first, a random of the past few days:

LUCAS LOST TWO TEETH
They go out in the same order they came in, people say of teeth. We noticed a gap in Lucas’s lower rack, only to discover that a tooth had run away. Lost, didn’t even realize it was gone. Then, another loose tooth, one he was ready to tuck under his pillow as soon as it came loose. Though yesterday, when I picked him up from school, the gap had widened. “Where’s your loose tooth, buddy?”
“Drats,” he said. “Foiled again.”

ABIGAIL LAST NIGHT
After a dinner of New York strip and my Sweet Potato Mojo Fries (Sweet potatoes cut into fries, shoved into a plastic baggie with egg whites, then spread upon a parchment-lined baking sheet, cooked at 450 degrees for 15 minutes, flip fries over, cook another 7 minutes or so, then quickly shower the hot “fries” with: salt, 1 clove minced garlic, chopped cilantro, chopped mint, zest of 1 lime, and a pinch of red pepper flakes—the egg whites act like a browned crackling coating), Abigail turned to me and without stopping for a beat said, “Mama, now we need to eat our ice cream for dessert because we have to get all these sweets out of the house!”

WHAT ARE YOU—NOOOO!
Perhaps I’ll spare you the story of Kind Sir’s transition into a Waterfowl the other day. Nervous stomach, meet the ool—notice there’s no “P” in it? Supposed to keep it that way. Oops. Poor Abigail, too, dragged out, soaking, forced to race with us into an air conditioned bathroom, with Lucas truly waddling, appropriately enough, like a Waterfowl, which is exactly the noun I’d turn into a verb to discuss the situation. It was a water-foul. Nightmare on my street. I will also spare you the scene once we entered the bathroom. There will be no discussion of the sink. Truly tasteless, I will also add, after all this poop business, my mind keeps circling corn kernels. I am so sorry.

MICHAEL’S GENUINE FOOD & WINE
Last Wednesday, Phil and I stole away to Miami for the afternoon. Phil was there for work, and I’d come along to eat. We dined at Michael’s Genuine Food & Wine (They have a cookbook, too). It’s the kind of place where I imagine patrons asking the waitstaff, “Yes, the chicken is organic, but what was it fed, where did it sleep, and what was his name?” My sustainable food associations with zealots aside, Michael’s offered us fresh, bright, inventive food—surprising. I ordered the soup, which, yes, served as inspiration for the breakfast soup I just devoured. Since I was unable to find the recipe anywhere, including a cursory search in their cookbook via Amazon, I recreated my own version at home. In love, despite the free-association.

- ∞ -

THIN COCONUT CORN SOUP (WITH OR WITHOUT COCONUT)
4 cups College Inn Chicken Broth (not stock)
4 ears of shucked fresh corn (Not sure you’ll get the same crunch and perkiness from frozen, but perhaps. Grab a bag, use ¾ of it)
1 baking potato, peeled and cut into ½-inch cubes
13.5 oz can of can of good quality coconut milk (my fav: Chaokok brand for its high coconut cream content)
½ red onion
Pinch or two of red pepper flakes (your call on how much heat)
1/3 cup fresh minced mint
1/3 cup fresh minced cilantro (unless you’re one of those people who HATES it)
2 pats of butter to swirl in at the very end
2 tablespoons of olive oil (again, optional. I added at the end, then whisked because I love to see those teeny tiny dots of flavor in my broths)
Totally optional if you like it creamier: ¼ cup Heavy Whipping Cream (or to use if you’re stuck with a crap brand of coconut milk)
1 Avocado, cubed
Zest of 1 lime (optional – I did not do this)
Salt and (white) pepper to taste

I say thin because this isn’t some chunky glue chowder. The broth is thin. Also, you can modify the recipe using low-fat or fat-free alternatives like fat-free half-and-half. I go for the fat kind of thin, personally.

1. Holding them upright in a bowl so kernels don’t fly everywhere, strip the cobs of their kernels as close as possible to the cobs. Place cubed potato and the kernels and their cobs in a large, heavy pot with the broth, making sure the broth covers all. If not, add more broth or water. Season with ½ teaspoon of salt. Bring to a boil, then cover, stirring occasionally, until the corn and potatoes are tender and the broth is flavored, about 17 minutes. Remove and discard the cobs.

2. Whisk in coconut milk (and cream). Add red onion, ½ of chopped herbs, red pepper flakes Reduce heat to moderately low and simmer, uncovered, until the flavors have a chance to meld, about 5 minutes. Add the remaining herbs, season with kosher salt and white pepper to taste. Optionally whisk in butter and/or oil. If you want more brightening power than the mint, add zest of 1 lime.

3. Add avocado cubes to the bottom of each serving bowl, and more red onion if desired, add the soup, and serve immediately, or eat for breakfast reheated in the microwave.

It’s important to daydream. To have some sense of a vision, no matter how shallow. I had one once upon a long time ago, and remarkably enough, it all came true. So, why not put it out there? Everyone should put her wish list out there. Now. Not when you get to it, but now. Give yourself the luxury of time (it takes all of ten minutes really) and dream up a wish storm. You need to put it out there, so you can see it. So you know it’s there. So you know what’s really in there. And, so you know one day when you start to get there. Go.

I wish I could go to the Museum of Art, alone wearing myPod again.

I wish I could bicycle through Paris. Though I wouldn’t want to be near motorists, so perhaps I’d prefer to bicycle through Venice. Though I’m sure there are motorists there too.

I wish I had a sculpted body, efficient and lean, strong, fit and healthy, no abnormal test results. Just good news.

I wish I had a huge floor to ceiling wall of books in my own library with a cozy chaise, a table nearby for tea and fresh flowers. A library with a ladder. Pieces of art that stir emotion.

I wish I could photograph Burma/Myanmar and Sapa, Vietnam.

I wish I could take a food photography class and learn how/ have someone help me/ set up a permanent food photography setup—I’ve been wishing for this for years.

I wish I could plan menus for a living.

I wish I could write selective food reviews again? I’m actually on the fence about this… closest to the side that says, “meh.” Yeah, I don’t wish this at all anymore.

I wish I had a line editor.

I wish I had a Montessori classroom as the playroom in my house that would automatically clear itself of toys they’d outgrown, keeping up to challenge and stimulate them at any age.

I wish I lived in a home that was cold in the summer and toasty in the winters.

I wish I could eat farina in restaurants like Balthazar every day. Nearly. Because if it was every day, I’d wish for somewhere new.

I wish I could become a regular at a bistro like Balthazar, a folded paper, listening to conversations, dipping buttered soldiers in soft-boiled eggs.

I wish I could go on safari, for a kill, and take photography classes and workshops while I’m there.

I wish I could cook and bake without becoming exhausted.

I especially wish I could create, design, choose and afford my dream kitchen, a place where I could entertain and invite people over to tell their stories and drink wine and listen to music.

I wish I had a personal stylist who found me the perfect clothes to suit my body and coloring.

I wish my book were on the New York Times Best Seller list as #1 for 19 weeks straight.

I wish I could write movies the way Nancy Myers can, like my perhaps all-time favorite: Diane Keaton and Amanda Peet are sitting at the bottom of steps on the beach and Diane Keaton’s character is absolutely heartbroken, undone, a brilliant mess, and her daughter comes to her to say, See, you need to close yourself off to this. And Diane’s character says, Do you seriously think you can outsmart getting hurt? You’re more like me than you know. And I’m telling you, I’ve had the time of my life. And her daughter says, almost in tears for herself, I’ve never had the time of my life. Diane’s character says, I know sweetie. And I say this from the deepest part of my heart: What. Are. You. Waiting. For? I love it because at her all-time low, she’s advising her own daughter to do exactly as she’s done. It’s wonderful. And that, right there, that’s what I do well in my writing. I get that part down. It’s when people want me to “be funny” that it stops being fun for me. As much as people categorize me as a “funny writer,” I don’t think that’s what connects people to my work. Not at all. There certainly doesn’t need to be a winner in the debate; plenty of creators straddle both equally. I’d just rather always feel than laugh. I’d take a new wisdom over hilarity every time. I don’t know why I feel the need to defend a side instead of aiming for both. I wish I didn’t do *this* to myself.

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I wish I had my act together enough that I could archive sand from the beaches I’ve visited, displaying them in labeled apothecary jars on a narrow shelf running beneath framed photos from each trip. I love a wall of that kind of history, a wall of memories, not a display of who. Who this is, who that is–no. Memories linked to the most random moments, to the image of a wire beater, wobbly batter, or flour rising in the air, Cheerios and milk spilled all over the floor.

Breakfast bread puddings. At least, that’s what Phil’s taken to calling them because he’s wholeheartedly against my calling it “French Toast Casserole.” Casserole, quite simply, is an ugly middle-America word that conjures up images of upturned gelatinous soups, chicken legs, and overcooked egg noodles. Basically cellulite but with more structure. “Besides, French toast is crunchy on the outside.” Yes, it’s pan-fried in oil, and you need a plateful of paper towels at the ready. My “Breakfast Pudding Bake” deserves no towels, no plates at the ready. I can bake a tray of it on the weekend, serve some, then divvy up portions for the rest of the week-freezing two servings at a time. Also, it’s not all about the kids. It’s perfect to have at the ready for when guests pop in. Not that I ever have unexpected guests, but I like to think that I live in a kitchen that can accommodate extraordinary circumstances, from hurricanes to hangovers. Wrapped in foil, from freezer to toaster oven, in five miles minutes, they have a puffy, eggy, soft breakfast pudding worthy of childhood comfort and memories. Sometimes you make a meal and you just know ”This is what they’ll remember when they’re older.” Hell, it’s what I’ll remember when I’m older.

MAKEUP
Makeup brushes, what each one is used for, makeup tutorials, creative Mac shadow combinations, new fall nail polish colors: Nars Galion, Chanel Paradoxal, and Deborah Lippman Fashion (near dupe: Essie Brooch The Subject). I am wholly engaged with reading up on makeup dupes. There are sites out there that will actually tell you the duplicate Wet an Wild color for a Mac color. That kind of thing. Now, I’m obsessed with having every single non neon color Mac makes. Just to have it, if I should need it, after watching some makeup tutorial on YouTube that will give me the perfect Kardashian eye.

PERFUME
I’ve been complimented on my latest perfume purchase exactly five times in the past two days. Sharing the name of this perfume is like revealing that I watch The Bachelor. But, I do. So, here it is. The perfume I love to love and hate and love: Boyfriend by Kate Walsh. Go ahead, hate me. I’m used to it.

DINNERS
Do ahead Dinners. “Dream Dinners” and freeze ahead meals, wanting to have dinner party meals in moments. I’m obsessed with Dore Greenspan’s At My French Table, and I can’t understand how she doesn’t weigh more than the Arc D’ Triumph. Two dishes I’m making this week, “Pumpkin stuffed with everything Good” and ‘Chicken, apples, and cream a la Normande.”

STICKY RICE
Another obsession of mine: my coconut sticky rice. It is insane. My mother made us rice pudding with “the wooden spoon.” I make this instead. You need the right rice and methods, timing, and planning, soaking rice in a bowl overnight

Another obsession: PHO. Where in South Florida does a girl get her hands on some authentic Pho?

Today I’m making a “Zero points” Watchers Points Plus soup with Chinese cabbage, bok choy, bean sprouts, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots, cilantro and lime. Add a protein on top, from egg to nuts to chicken or beef, long slippery noodles for the kids.

This week, I also baked a Derby Pie. Because I want to be Southern like that.

I want to look up Nora Ephron plays. There’s a play she said she wrote but that wasn’t published.
I want to read it. Speaking of my imaginary best friend—this morning we spoke about Teflon and anti-egg white omelets. I love her more and more each time we talk. Thankfully she feels the same way, so there’s no awkward friendship chase. What can I say? Nora Ephron and I are total besties, especially considering how much we both despise that word.

I am obsessed with crustless pumpkin pie. I just devoured the center, the entire filling, using only my finger. Right now I’m staring at the remaining pie shell wondering if I should bake something new into it, call it “Double Unsanitary Pie.” I bet I could make a fast filling with my vita-mix.

I have to get over these cedar fever allergies I picked up when I was back in Austin. It’s strange, although I’m here in Florida now, this week, today, I still feel like I’m in Austin, still think when I get in my car, I can jet over to Central Market, that I can still call friends at the very last minute with a text inviting them to meet me for drinks and a movie in fifteen minutes at Alamo Drafthouse.

What I miss most about Austin are the people. They’re all so different, unique, easy. If however, I grew up in Texas, I’d probably prefer different, wouldn’t much mind living in Boca Raton, where people dress to be seen. I dress to keep my food down. The homogeneousness is killing me… almost in a good way though, because now I’m motivated to get back to work.

This list is an extension of an earlier post, where I promised to post such a list. So, here it is, my TOTALLY WORTH IT LIST (aka a list of things I’m glad I bought before marriage and babies, when in some cases spending this much would be out of the question… or at the very least a guilt-ridden hide-the-bags fest).

Crate & Barrel Steamer Bar

KitchenAid Mixer
My Steamer Bar
Schweitzer Linens
Every last Hermes Scarf
My cropped white Hudson Jeans
My AG Jeans in “The Fringe” style
My elliptical machine
West Elm Bookshelf
Nikon Lenses
Wusthof Knives
All-Clad Stainless
Really good blowdryer
Fleur de the Rose Bulgare perfume by Creed
Burberry Poncho
An assortment of Purple Label cableknit cashmeres
Celine Black Bag
Intermix black trench coat
Anya Hindmarch Pony Bag
Takashamaya Robe
Black Catherine Malandrino dress
My really good laptop bag that doubles as a… really good bag, period.
RLX Polo sport jacket that makes me feel all mission possible
TJMaxx Special: Ralph Lauren heavy crystal plaid tumblers & barware

Look around your life. What do you STILL get a thrill from having? Orgasms, for the most part, are free, so they don’t count.

Recent purchases I can’t imagine won’t make the list years from now:

Hands down, my holy-shite this is awesome VITAMIX (love love love for velvet soup textures, phenomenal cocktails with that same texture as frozen margarita machines, and smoothies, ice cream, chopped onions!)
Diamond Earrings
The softest lambskin black bag ever
A Gorban painting
My Breville Oven (3 people have slept at my house, left, and ran out to buy one)
And a shitpile of cookbooks
Really good baking pans (Chicago Metallic)
Olio Santo (my favorite olive oil)
Silouette Machine
Much of my MJ Trimming Ribbon collection

NOT WORTH IT
Creams. Any of them. I’d like to be convinced otherwise
La Perla
Leather pants from Scoop
Burberry Coat
The Blahniks, any of them
Any knockoff ever
Wow, not a single pair of shoes, not even my favs

I think it’s surprising what we think will bring us happiness and what actually does. People say that objects don’t give us happiness that lasts, and I’d agree, for the most part. But I will say that some things, actual things, do make us smile daily, leave us feeling confident, pretty, taken care of. And if you can find those things, if they still make you feel, years later, they’re worth keeping. It’s how I feel, most, about my cookbooks and cooking equipment. They are my favorite things.

Swingers Without Music
So, is it just me, or have you heard that Woodfield CC is full of crazy. I’m thrilled to be there, don’t get me wrong. I love me crazy-long-time. Despite the fact that half of Plainview and almost all of Long Island reside there, I hear it’s full of swingers. Yes, we’re talking (golf cart) key parties. This gonna be crazy, son.

It’s all about respect
You know that once you get going it’s easy. Very easy. But to really start is a fcuking nightmare. So, you say, “I am going to suffer for three days. Period.” And you commit to write down every single thing you eat—no excuse, even if it’s just a SINGLE BITE of something. Because after you’ve respected yourself (that is, kept your word to yourself), you will feel 100% committed. That’s the key. Because then you want to be good. You want to be lean and strong.

Two other things I tell myself:
1. This bite that you love soooo much is going to taste exactly the same the whole way through. So, you can savor this single bite or eat the entire thing, but it will continue to taste the same—what’s the point in that?

2. Do I want to eat you? Gee, do I love the word balls? Thought so. Fact is, I fcuking love you and want to push your babies out of my ladybits. But, sadly, my body thinks you’re a hairy-nut-finding asshole. So, I choose not to go there. This time.

And, yes. I have long potty-mouth discussions with myself.

Liquid Lunch & Liquid In General
I’m going to NORTH in the domain for lunch with Jen (from Savannah). 
Also, kids go into the pool today with clothes and shoes on!

School Is Cool, BabyFishMouth
Got all your photos and video. I cannot tell anything about these schools, in spite of the footage, unless I go myself. I also think we should do a tour of a Montessori school (or two–since they are all different). And, no, seeing Montessori schools isn’t a waste, so long as ours aren’t the oldest kids in each of their classes—that is, we’d want our 4-year-old pre-K kiddos mixed in with 5 / 6-year-old kindergarteners.  

As for a response to your, “Weren’t you the one who said Montessori for only age 4 was a waste? Not sure what our goal is here or if there really is. Bad choice. JCC may be too far but should check out”…

Our goal is to find a school that feels “right” to us. And yes, that we can afford. I think differently than you do and process things differently. I appreciate your logical thinking, also. Together with my instinctual “knowing/feeling” and your own crisp process, I’m sure we’ll find the perfect school for our string beans. B’nai Israel is one option, despite the super-Jew factor and the prison / parent drop-off only (parents cannot go into the school to pickup their taters? You’re right, we’re so spoiled in Austin!).  Also, must take kids fishing! 

Code Brown
Swim lessons cancelled today due to CODE BROWN. Yes, it’s what you think it is.

Operation Movie-Hop, Fail
Phil’s gone an entire week, down in Florida, and what do I have to show for it? Did I go boozing it up? No. Make the most of this live music destination? Negativo. Spend the day hopping through movies, in particular BRIDESMAIDS, which I’m desperate to see? No. I am a horrendous failure. A failure with a clean closet and a few TJ MAX receipts. What, like you don’t need huggable hangers? Pahleeze. 

In My 20s In My 30s
That’s right, down 27 lbs. So, shut it about my tub of Rocky Road ice cream. That delectable confection is everyone’s friend. That’s right, so back off, and stop giving me shit every time I make you stop (read: stalk) Baskin’ Robbins.

From Miss to Bliss
I’m sad we’re missing Heather’s wedding. I miss her laugh. And how much she loves babies. She’ll be knocked up soon enough, and now I can’t tell her guppies I witnessed the union of Sir Dork Lord and Miss Wit. I am so happy for her. Or, rather, I’m happy for him, for snagging such a fine fem. Still wish we could’ve made it. Must head to Dallas and offer them copious amounts of hooch before annihilating them in Upwords (Heather gets confused when her Scrabble gets all scrabbled on her).

The Smoke Monster
There is some kind of animal outside our bedroom that sounds like a rattle. It obviously isn’t a rattlesnake because it’s loud, like annoying mockingbird, need a gun, loud. It sounds exactly like the Smoke Monster from LOST. It’s actually kinda comforting now that I think on it. Goodnight, Jacob. Also, I haven’t smoked anything.

To Go Or Not To Go… To Israel
We really need to talk about August and whether or not I’m going to Israel on this StandWithUs “Once in a Lifetime 2.0″ project. I’d 100% say yes if we weren’t moving to another state. Still, maybe I should just go. It’s only 10 days, and they’ll take me from the Golan Heights in the north through Haifa, Tel Aviv, and Jerusalem to the Dead Sea. Should I be as worried as I am about safety?

Sent Mail Explosion Ends *Here.*

Random thoughts today:

I loved, no adored, meeting 3 Teens’ Mom. It felt as if we’d picked up where we’d left off, only we’d never met before. You know, aside from in the “comment room” of this Greek Tragedy blog. She was so much younger than I’d imagined. Soulful and comforting, mama wise, I already knew. What I didn’t: that she has a sugary girlish voice and is as pretty as a picture. It’s just so lovely when you connect with someone, someone you know will leave the light on for you, who’s in your corner, no matter what. MEET. Yes, upon meeting you just know that you’d be there for each other. That’s how it felt. That, and I really want to be her dating guru.

I hate J.Crew, but am willing to be woo’d. That summer catalog better hurry up and put on some lipstick.

I am very excited that my weight is back in the 130′s again.

Tonight I’m eating dinner at Chef David Bull’s Second Bar + Kitchen. Really looking forward to it after hearing a few friends rave (also love my friend Jodi’s write-up). Fried pickles really are your friend. Before moving to TexAss, I’d have winced at the thought. Really? Yes’m. You break through the batter, a crisp golden-fried wall, then you run into a toothsome pickle, as happy as a cucumber. Spears of fried pickles, served with a trough of ranch dressing, are, quite simply, hog-heaven in the making.

Last week, I had Bill Norris Fever (the bartender who used to Bee Sting it at Fino), and headed to Haddington’s, a new favorite. Though, not the gastropub go-to when you’re trying to stretch your Weight Watchers points. Hello stack of onion rings the size of an ostrich egg. Though it’s the happening place to hit for a perfectly genteel drink dressed in salacious clothing. Everyone should learn how to make drinks the way they do at Haddington’s. Plus, I hear from my friend Kristi that the brunch is remarkable.

After dinner tonight, we’re bringing Phil’s parents to The Broken Spoke. It’s what it sounds like. Men in cowboy hats ask for your hand, give you a turn around the wooden dance floor, then return you proper to your seat and thank you kindly for the dance. It’s how it’s done. No ulterior motives, just an old school two-steppin’ joint with a wooden wagon-wheel out front. Seeing that wagon-wheel makes me think of Jess (Bruno Kirby) and Marie (Carrie Fisher) and their argument about good taste. This much I know for sure: bad taste is good anytime you’re in an establishment that can fall into the Honkey-tonk category. Raise your long-neck beer to that. We’re arriving early for dance lessons, ’cause this New Yorker dances like she’s broken. Really, the Girl Scouts should make a patch for this kind of thing—and it should come with a blister shield. View photos from the last time I tried to dance.

Last on my mind is work. Really it’s top of mind, but I’ve just pulled into Procrastination Station. I’m working on a reality TV show pitch in the relationship space, combing through my dating + mating archives, swimming in the world of insecurity and frustration that was my dating life.