I am religious about my Departures magazine.  It’s an American Express magazine that I’ve always admired on the coffee tables of friend’s parents.  I still don’t get one delivered in my name.  Ah, but The Suitor, he’s in good with Amex.  I covet that magazine, I tell you.  Today, by the pool, I ripped into the summer issue, hoping perhaps I’d be inspired and find a honeymoon destination.  I read an article about traveling to Italy with children.  "Don’t consider taking children unless they’re over five and won’t complain about too much walking," the article said.  Okay, I’m paraphrasing.  And I thought, who isn’t going to complain at some point?  I walk to the car and I bitch about the heat.  And then I vomit.  Certainly kids have it worse, being dragged about, steered by the bowls of their heads, then being forced to stand in lines, behind adults with body odor, to see… a painting in a museum.  This sounds way worse than the circus. 

Here’s what sounds better: "bites of quail dressed up with grapes, raisins, frizzled leeks, and micro shallots; a cream-of-cod soup with ham, poured table side; a Staub casserole of pork cheeks braised with lardon-spiked lentils." Also from Departures magazine.  Why does this absolutely excite me?  I’ll tell you. 

It’s not about the actual items.  It’s those hard to find ingredients and delicious descriptions.  Frizzled, micro, poured table side, lardon-spiked.  Crackling, rendered, mulled about.  I think I’m starting to feel better.  Extravagant magazines seem to help.