Bacon Cupcake is me on a diet. It’s our Dachshund and Lab sharing the couch. It’s writing a book in haiku. It’s “one of these things is not like the others,” BUT everything belongs.
I used to envision that my eventual life, that finally settled-on life, would have an aspect of Brady-esque sense to it. House perfectly cleaned, me perfectly coiffed, pantry perfectly stocked, music perfectly keyed up for dinner parties.
I used to envision that my eventual life, that finally settled-on life, would have an aspect of Brady-esque sense to it. House perfectly cleaned, me perfectly coiffed, pantry perfectly stocked, music perfectly keyed up for dinner parties.
In my dust- and dog hair-free scenario, any impromptu guests who appear at the door are treated to my effortlessly created culinary delights, while I regale them with humorous anecdotes in a relaxed (expertly lighted) atmosphere.
Perhaps I will serve Ribolita or salmon tartines or some fancy lamb thing. And I'll offer prosecco with dollops of fresh peach juice – a blessing day or night.
Sadly, the truth is that my pantry is full of a medley of flours I never use, old crackers that have been stationed in ripped cellophane for decades, and jars of spaghetti sauce with dusty lids.
Don’t even get me started on the coiffure, or lack thereof.
But my beloved cookbooks are dog-eared, some pages are even food-smeared. I have finally conquered my fear of yeast bread and pie crust. And I'm ready to try to make cream anglaise - again.
I’ve come to realize that my own real "esque-ness" is manifested in my love of cooking and baking (and drinking all kinds of prosecco with or without peach juice), and truly accepting that if the food doesn’t turn out, “we can always order pizza.”
