I got no truck with that astrology nonsense, with cusps and seventh moons in their astral orbit or whatever. But looking back, something fancy must have been its ascendancy in June, what with successful pitches, marathons, recipe contests and not being eaten by a bear while skinny dipping in the wilderness (good times). Now that it’s July, some beautiful beneficent star is being massively eclipsed. Because July…it sucks hair goat ass.

Not only am I officially another year older, um, tomorrow, but the place that I wrote about for my article MAY have burned down, which means I’ll have to rewrite it (lame, even apart from the stupid forest fires burning down homes and endangered redwood forest and ruining the air quality for kittens everywhere, because really it’s all about ME). Also, the recipe contest is now maybe taking back my prize because my family has used the recipe in other places…well, they didn’t say I couldn’t, so harumph. It’s not my freaking fault that it’s good. Maybe they won’t, so keep your fingers crossed.

AND, the really crummy creepy crappy part is that my identity got stolen last week. I went to make a deposit, then trotted across the street to the hardware store where my debit card suddenly didn’t work. I don’t know about you, but I find this deeply mortifying. I had to borrow some cash from my friend to cover it, and then went galloping across the street to raise hell with the teller. Only when I got there, they took the card away saying the account was being accessed fraudulently.

Whaaaa?

Apparently some dickhead got my card number AND pin and had withdrawn ALL of our money. ALL of it. So they had to enter my height (6 feet), weight (110 of course), hair color (well I went blonde for my Victoria Secret campaign), etc, so they could identify the thief. And they said that a lot of times, people will either watch you and record all those numbers while waiting behind you at a gas station or grocery, or they may have removed the slot or slide on an ATM and replaced it with their own. Whatever devious method they chose, I think it may have happened at one of my favorite cafes on Noe Street, which is the last pissant little ATM I’ve used. You better believe the next time I go in there, I’m going to watch everyone like a hawk, and the first moron to look like he’s writing down numbers, I’m beating him to death with my iBook. The good news is that our bank (which rhymes with Hells Blargo) is amazing and covers ATM fraud, not just credit fraud, and have promised to give us back our money…um, sometime. Soon, I hope.

So desperately in need of some comfort food this weekend, I made skillet chicken pot pie with cheddar herb biscuits instead of crust. And then parmesan crusted chicken breasts from America’s Test Kitchen, which was really crunchy and savory and not all gelatinous and gloopy like you get at Pomodoro’s (not that I’ve ever been there). I had intended to use it for my Whip It Up recipe, but my Flickr uploader chose last night to fart out, so the photos would not venture out to their celestial home in cyberspace, so now this is just for my own private edification, or I guess yours now too. This took almost no time to make, had relatively few ingredients, and was totally delicious, so I’m adding it to our rotation (we don’t actually have one….maybe, “recipe box?”).

Parmesan Encrusted Chicken Breasts

2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (freeze 15 minutes and slice in half)
parmesan cheese (block)
all purpose flour
3 eggs
chives (chopped)
salt + pepper
lemon

Using the smallest holes in your cheese grater, shred 1/4 cup parmesan and stir together with equal parts flour in a shallow dish. In second dish, separate the yolks from three eggs, keeping only whites (using yolks too will make it fluffy and souffle-like). Whisk in 2 Tbs chopped chives. In a third dish, use large grater holes and shred 1/2 cup of cheese + 1 Tbs flour per chicken breast.



Put about 2 tsp olive oil in a non-stick pan and set to med-high heat.

Wrap chicken in plastic and pound to 1/4 inch thickness. A mallet would have been better, but considering the week I’ve had, a rock worked just fine.

Salt and pepper the very flat breast, dredge first in the finely grated cheese (shake off excess), then move to the egg whites and chives, and then finally the large grated cheese dish. Make sure you pat some cheese into it, if it looks too naked. Cook the breasts in skillet without touching, for 3 minutes on each side.

If you’re doing a lot, put them in a 200-degree oven to keep warm while you finish the rest. And clean the pan between sets, because the cheese bits that fall off will burn and taste crappy.

Serve with a lemon wedge and some salad if you’re feeling healthy.

Late last month, I found out I won the Morton’s Steakhouse Recipe Contest for my family’s grouper chimichurri, which entitles us to a page in their 2009 cookbook and a free trip to Chicago to have dinner with the owner. Yeah, I KNOW! How awesome is that? Although I’m a little worried about what in the world I’m going to say to this man for a whole two hours, Moose keeps telling me that it’s not like I’m interviewing for a job or anything, so quit worrying about it. I must remember not to drink too much wine and overshare.

Ever since, Simons has been even more enthusiastic about my messing about in the kitchen, suggesting dinner parties and cookouts, and even going on a mission to purge the courtyard of the ten million air plants and empty terra cotta pots (if you live in SF and want some pots, I’m your girl [NOT “pot,” I mean pots]). I say that without even rolling my eyes. So when I told him about the Whip It Up recipe challenge, he actually offered to cut short his Saturday afternoon post-surf nap and roll out the pasta dough. I think one of the nicest things about being married is having someone to cook with.

Here is the recipe we chose: Artichoke Ravioli With Tomatoes.

Simons is ace with the pasta machine, so he took my beautiful ball of dough and rolled it out, where I filled it with the artichoke and Parmesan puree. Then we boiled them up, layered them in a dish and baked them with cream and cheese and lots of tomatoes. And, oh sweet Jesus…don’t you wish you had one?

We thought this recipe was delicious and cozy, but maybe not as interesting as it could be. I think if I had it to do over, I would add toasted pine nuts to the filling, with a few sprinkled over each plate as a crunchy garnish–this really needed some texture. And definitely add a few shakes of red pepper flakes to the artichoke and tomato mixture. A hint of spice would be perfection! Definitely a keeper.

artichoke ravioli with tomatoes
Adapted from Gourmet | January 2007 (my changes in itallics)
Makes 4 servings

For pasta
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons water
1 Tbs olive oil

For filling
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 small onion, chopped (1/2 cup)
1 (12-oz) can frozen artichoke hearts, well drained and squeezed
1 oz finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (1/2 cup)
1/3 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 large egg yolk
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
3/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 large egg white, lightly beaten with 2 teaspoons water (for egg wash)

For assembly
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, cut into pieces
3 medium plum tomatoes, trimmed and cut into 1/4-inch dice (3/4 cup)
1/4 cup water
1/3 cup half-and-half
1 oz finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (1/2 cup)
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Special equipment: food processor; pasta machine; ravioli press; rolling pin; glass baking dish (12 by 8 1/2 inches)

To make pasta dough in a food processor:
Blend flour, eggs, salt, olive oil and water in processor until mixture just begins to form a ball, adding more water, drop by drop, if dough is too dry (dough should be firm and not sticky). Process dough for 15 seconds more to knead it. Transfer to a oiled bowl, covered with a towel, for 1 hour to let the gluten relax and make rolling easier.

Make filling:
Heat butter in a 12-inch heavy skillet over moderately high heat until foam subsides, then sauté onion, stirring occasionally, until golden, about 6 minutes. Add artichoke hearts and sauté, stirring occasionally, until tender, 8 to 10 minutes. Remove from heat and cool slightly.

Transfer all but 3/4 cup artichoke mixture to cleaned bowl of processor (reserve remaining artichoke mixture in skillet), then add cheese, parsley, yolk, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and nutmeg and pulse until mixture is coarsely chopped.

Roll pasta and make ravioli:
Cut pasta dough into 4 pieces, keeping them in the oiled bowl until you’re ready to use each one. Set rollers of pasta machine on widest setting. Lightly dust 1 rectangle with flour and feed through rollers. Dust with flour if necessary to prevent sticking. Turn dial to next (narrower) setting and feed dough through rollers without folding. Continue to feed dough through rollers once at each setting, until you reach narrowest setting. Dough will be a smooth sheet (about 24 inches long and 4 inches wide). Cut in half with scissors and fit one half over pasta mold.

Press “piece that looks like an egg holder” into pasta to make a round center to hold the filling.

Drop 6 (1 1/2-teaspoon) mounds of filling in center.
Brush egg wash around each mound, then stretch other half of sheet over filling.

Press down firmly around each mound, forcing out air. (Air pockets increase the chance that ravioli will break during cooking.)

With rolling pin, roll pasta closed, and the metal mold will automatically cut the raviolis. Line a large shallow baking pan with wax paper, liberally sprinkled with flour, then arrange ravioli in 1 layer in it.

Make more ravioli with remaining pasta dough, 1 sheet at a time, and remaining filling, transferring ravioli to lined pan.

Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350°F. Lightly butter baking dish.

Bring a 6- to 8-quart pot of salted water to a boil. Add ravioli, carefully stirring to separate, and, adjusting heat to keep water at a gentle boil, cook until pasta is just tender, about 6 minutes. Transfer with a slotted spoon to a colander.

Assemble and bake dish:
While ravioli boils, reheat reserved artichoke mixture in skillet with butter over moderately high heat, then add tomatoes and water and cook, stirring, until tomatoes are softened, about 5 minutes.

Transfer half of ravioli to baking dish and top with half of artichoke mixture, half of half-and-half, and half of cheese. Repeat with remaining ravioli, artichoke mixture, half-and-half, and cheese. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Bake, uncovered, until ravioli is heated through and half-and-half is bubbling, about 15 minutes.

Cooks’ notes:
• Dough can be made (but not rolled out) 4 hours ahead and chilled, tightly wrapped in plastic wrap.
• Ravioli can be made (but not cooked) 4 hours ahead and chilled in lined baking pan, covered.

I woke up this morning with this insanely guilty feeling, and I can’t figure out what it is. It’s driving me berserk, and I’m tired with all the pacing back and forth back and forth with the crazy. Did I forget someone’s birthday? Did I stand someone up by accident? Usually I just feel like this when I’ve been overserved at a party and was probably close talking and oversharing with virtual strangers. You know…that small sense of shame and embarrassment after you’ve been a complete moron trying to impress people who just end up thinking you’re a crazy lush?

Only we went to an architecture lecture last night, not some hootenanny in the Tenderloin.

Maybe I had a dream that I did something embarrassing, and I’m so tired, I haven’t quite snapped back from it. That’s possible. I have indeed gotten up at 5:30 every morning this week to run, PLUS I got my ass handed to me this morning by an extremely competitive acquaintance who kept up about a 6-minute mile pace for 6.6 miles. I did not like it, not one little bit. We got to the final hill, I had an asthma attack and died and she kicked my broken carcass. The end. Perhaps I’m just mortified at being such a wimp.

I’ve been extra nice to Simons and even put away his laundry yesterday, so I’m not guilty of spousal neglect. The dog is alive and not starving or flat in a road (in fact, very fat and lying on the couch). I’ve talked to my parents. I’m going to both my nieces’ birthday parties. Did I forget a deadline? Could it be my stagnating career kicking me in the head? But I have no pending assignments due and my invoices are all in the mail.

WHY DO I FEEL SO DAMNED FRANTIC?

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! [tears out hair]

I got quite a few emails from people who have gone to see graphic movies with uncomfortable partners. Amanda was on a first date with a little skinny nervous guy when The Accused came out. “During the first scene, I thought he was going to crawl under the seat and die.” For that matter, I went on a first date to see Pulp Fiction, which wasn’t bad in total, but that gimp moment was damned uncomfy. Pink Herring took in a bracing two hours of Unfaithful with her mom.

[Amanda also informs me that our friend Bear took a date to Deliverance. (shudder)]

My poor college mate, Kevin, once went to see the new Thomas Crowne Affair with his mom for her birthday, since she loves Pierce Brosnan. Every time he thought it was safe to breathe again, out would come more boobies and giggling and staircases and transparent dresses. I thought that was so hilarious, whenever we’d watch movies together and anything remotely sexy happened, I’d go “Maaammeeeeeeey” and cackle while Kevin writhed about in horror and threw pillows at me. He finally got up and stomped out after I’d totally ruined the movie (and probably women) for him forever. I wonder what ever happened to old Kevin…

Daddy used to freak out whenever a love scene would come on the family VCR, fervently mashing Fast Forward, which….well…as you can imagine, fast forward usually just makes it worse. Instead of slow awkward silence, you get frenetic onscreen bouncing and wild ricocheting. It can make a little kissing look like a trapeze act. Mom and my sister and I would be hissing with laughter, morphing into hysteria, as Daddy panicked and lost his temper with the remote control and stormed out of the library. (Our family is all in favor of repression.)

Call me Sister, but I think you have to be an extra special form of squicky to actually enjoy watching naked stuff with your parents.

My parents have been out for their First! Ever! visit to the big city San Francisco.

It’s taken some time, but I am glad to say that I am now fully recovered from the bout of hara-kiri brought on by a tumultuous theatre performance at the Magic. Imagine that you had purchased tickets to an exciting new stage production, at the behest of your father, who was eager for some real ‘avant-garde’ theater, something he couldn’t get in Charleston (where two week arts festival aside, it’s pretty much Neil Diamond or The Bard set to country western). Imagine that your seats are centerstage! Not bad for a show that’s been held over by popular demand. The Chronicle said it was “fiercely imaginative,” although within five minutes, imagine yourself wondering if perhaps you shouldn’t have read the entire review, not just the first paragraph.

Because, now imagine that you are suddenly, and unpleasantly, watching live gay porn…with your parents. Or maybe just “live porn,” because after a certain point, it’s just porn + parents and who cares whose rod or tackle it is.

Holly asked me later what exactly they were doing on stage, and I don’t honestly remember. “After the group disrobing, rubbing and er…tongue, I sort of went to my happy place and prayed that Simons wouldn’t divorce me.”

Simons was seated next to my mother. I saw him leaning as far away from her as possible, wishing for death/an axe with which to render my head separate from my body/instantaneous blindness with selective amnesia.

I didn’t even try peeking over at Daddy.

Afterwards, Mom said, “Bless their hearts, they must have been awfully chilly up there on stage with no clothes on.”

Jesus.

After that, the visit had no place to go but up, and in the spirit of the orgy, we turned it into a 10-day wine-binge and butter free-for-all. We hit the Farmers Market in the Ferry Building, where Daddy became best friends with the Hog Island Oyster Company man (Santa with Shellfish) and we all got to sample oysters for free.

They got to see the Doublemint Twins, who sat right next to us at Nob Hill Café.

Then they tasted the famous carbonara, which is so delish, but still not as good as Momma’s.

We drank gallons of bubbly at Iron Horse Vineyards, my favorite place in all of Sonoma. And best of all, because Simons and I had missed our last shipment, we got to haul away a case of wine, rubbing out hands and gnashing our terrible teeth at all the lamb and cheese we’re going to need to go with it all. The purring…

We marveled at the redwoods in Muir Woods,

and got windblown all over hell and back in Golden Gate Park. Somehow, the museums were always closed, but we were about the only people in the Japanese Tea Garden…probably because we were the only fools stupid enough to go outside in the rain and fog and cold.

Mom and Daddy are well traveled, educated people, but I swear it was like Country Come To Town, dragging them out of gardens and flowerbeds all over San Francisco, like they’d never seen plants before. Every five seconds, I’d be hissing, “I don’t care what kind of tree that is. Get out of there! That’s someone’s HOME! Come here! Out! Out! Out!” After spending the better portion of their trip, herding them out of the city’s landscaping, it was a great idea to hand them over to someone who knew about plants.

The Botanical Gardens were a great success. Although even the docent eventually told them to stop asking so many questions. This is a Monkey’s Hand ‘blossom.’ Isn’t it just…sinister? Like something from Conan Doyle?

We ate at Suppenkuche and saw the opera.

Some hideous woman who was supposed to have been in standing room only, pretended like she had my parents’ seats, so they missed the opening of Lucia de Lammermoor until the usher came and pistol whipped the seat stealer and her old granny and made them move. HAHA! Take THAT, seat nabber!

Daddy put his book in the window of City Lights, next to Ferlinghetti and Kerouac and Ginsberg. He turned all pink with happiness.

We ate at Slanted Door and Chez Panisse and Zazie and Chinatown hole-in-the-walls and Beard Papa’s. Simons and I did a lot of sitting around, groaning and admiring our food babies, and we decided to go on a total detox. It’s pretty much air and water for us, which is okay, since the idea of chewing and swallowing gives me the gags.

In fact, I was so over food and drink, I offered to drive when we went on a tour of the Sacramento wine country with my sister’s aunt- and uncle-in-law, Margaret and Rich. Apparently, this was no great loss, as Daddy said it tasted like “bottled bad breath,” and Mom said it ponged of cat toes and moldy socks. Interesting. It must be an acquired taste.

Zipping home after the weekend away, we had just enough time to hurl the parental duo out of the car and onto their plane, so it wasn’t until I was driving home that I realized they were really gone. Back to their own little brown dog, shrimp and grits, sultry heat and my old home that smells of cigar smoke and Old Bay seasoning. It gave me a little pang of happiness to know that a little bit of my new life went home with them — before I drove away, I slipped a little bag of Blue Bottle espresso beans into Mom’s luggage.

I have been married exactly one year and one day. In celebration, yesterday was a day from heaven. For exactly the same reasons, today is a day from hell.

Simons and I finally dined at Quince last night. We got the tasting menu, which involved so much butter, I think if someone popped me in the oven right now, I’d be self basting. That is, if my wine-soaked liver didn’t burst into flames first and burn the house down.

I was considering trotting over to the farmers market, but I might have to mainline Advil and duct tape my head firmly to my neck before venturing out into direct sunlight. It could get ugly. Children might shriek at the sight of me, and someone might call the fire department to suggest they spray my withered, leathery, grape-parched carcass with a super powered fire hose. And then I might die anyway.

Still, it was worth it. This was the menu:

Lobster Salad
Spring vegetable salad perfumed with purple basil

John Dory
white asparagus in three variations with chervil

Tagliolini
morel mushrooms and fava beans

Agnolotti dal Pin
traditional Piedmontese filled pasta

Marin Sun Farms New York strip loin
German butterball potatoes, porcini mushrooms
and extra vecchio balsamico

a palate cleanser of fresh strawberries,
basil sorbet and strawberry sorbet

Lavender Semifreddo
blackberry sorbetto and red cloud apricots

We also toasted two blissful years with an initial congratulatory glass of champagne, followed by an exceptional Russian River red, the 2006 Scallop Shelf Estate Pinot Noir from Peay Vineyards on the Sonoma Coast (near where we went on our honeymoon when we still lived in Charleston). We drank the whole thing, which probably explains my 50-lb head today–I’ve been mostly off the sauce since March.

Our kind waiter gave us copies of the menu, where we wrote down comments about all the food, plus notes about where we are now, what is happening in the world, what we want from the next year of our marriage. I feel like that might be a nice tradition. We can look back through the (imaginary) scrapbook of our lives together and remember where we were. If we ever decide to have kids, I’m sure we’ll need these memories of when we were relatively cool and interesting and not soaked in formula or stressed about paying bail for our little darlings.

Oh my Lord in heaven. WHY does TNT make us leave the hotels at 4 for a race that doesn’t start until 6:30? WHY, GOD, WHY?I was already freaking out-of-my-mind tired from getting up at 4 a.m. the day before, in order to make my flight. And all of my lovely mentees had panic attacks all Saturday afternoon, so a comfy hotel nap the afternoon just wasn’t in the cards. Every time my eyes would close, there would be another call or text: “OMG, I forgot my body glide!” “Sarah, what time are you catching the shuttle?” “AHH! What do we wear to the pasta party?” “Should I try to start in your corral or go in my own?”

On race morning, struggling out of bed at 3 a.m. to do my usual placid pre-run morning ritual (coffee, dress, email, potty, leave) was almost like dreaming it. Unfortunately, I was the only mentor with a microwave in my room, and so only the first two items on my agenda got accomplished thanks to various people discommodiously parading in and out of my room. Shall I just say I was…displeased?

Getting to the start, all the newbies started jogging in circles, stretching, counting Gu-packs, eyeballing people’s fake boobs, and then starting the usual lineup at the portapotties (Seriously, the lines at these races are so long, first time runners/nervous tinklers finish their business and need to get right back at the end of the line.). Meanwhile, I went and found a “quiet” shrub and lay down under it and closed my eyes (I sleep best in chaos). Unfortunately, the leg-stretchers and panickers were all quivering to go line up in their corrals.

“REST YOUR LEGS, BABIES!” I shrieked. “You have an hour and a half. Stay off the pavement! Sit! Here, have a rice cake! Snooze! Drink your water! But for God’s sake, be STILL!”

But does anyone listen to me? No.

Sigh.

At about 6:00, the Marine Corps Marching Band and Color Guard did a march through, and I don’t know if I’ve told you this or not, but I have a THING about marching bands. I looooove them. Maybe it’s because my all girls school didn’t have band, or maybe I’m just a dork, or maybe it gets my aggro-college-football-hackles up, but marching bands are like ice cream and Christmas all rolled up.

We all lined up in our corrals, with my mentees and running buddies sneaking into mine. You’ve never seen so many people…fat people, thin people, old folks, young folks, people dressed as Elvis with gold microphones and sideburns, soldiers in desert camo, girls in sequin tanks that read “She said there’d be boys” and “She said there’d be beer,” T-shirts that said “If you can read this, PUSH!”

They dropped the corral flags, and the gun went off, and my heart started pounding, because unlike my mentees, I knew what we were about to do.

You would think that you’d be too busy to think or talk much during a long race, but really, if you’re not out to win, you’ve got between around 4 and 6 hours to look around, and they’re a lot of funny people out there. I chest bumped a lot of tranny cheerleaders; saw an older Black man who runs the whole way with the Marine Corps flag, chanting to himself “Give up? No way! Feet forward! Keep going!”; met the original running Elvis; I asked a man about his T-shirt that read “Isaiah 40:31″ and he told me it was, “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary…” and I laughed and said, “Dammit, I HOPE SO!”

For the first 13 miles my pace was really good, and there was a lot of excellent distraction. The bands were amazing, with a stage set up about every mile or so: hippies, blues, heavy metal, rock, country… And the sheer number of supporters and volunteers was incredible—people just lining the streets for miles! Right at the halfway mark, the morning haze cleared and it was hot. So, so hot. Little kids came out of their houses in some of the suburbs with chilled bowls of oranges and watermelon. Dads sprayed their garden hoses over desperate, ruddy-faced runners. Grade school cheerleaders gave us pyramids and cheers. But soon we left the shaded city streets for straight up freeway running with the sun beating down on us (um, Course Designers, WTF?) and people started dropping like flies.

One of the race sponsors was Accelerade, which is a nasty, hellish energy drink made with whey protein. I’d tried to acclimatize myself to it a few weeks ago, but because it tastes like melted sherbert-flavored vomit, I could never stomach drinking very much of it. Anyway, at about Mile 17, I was covered in salt and had quit sweating, which is never a good sign, so I sucked it up and quaffed some of the vile swill. And then I died.

Between Miles 18 and 24, every step was a trial not to hurl. I didn’t think I would have to quit, but I definitely wasn’t having much fun. Hell, the main reason I was there was because there were people out there who would give their eye teeth to be able to run half as far, and people whose suffering was going to last a lot longer than a mere 5 hours. I knew I was running (walking, swearing, running) because they couldn’t.

At mile 24, an old fat lady passed me, and the waves of nausea got wiped out by the waves of irritation…in other words, I reached the “screw it” point. That’s where you want it to be over so badly, you run fast no matter how bad it hurts. My coach found me at Mile 25, and she said, “What’s left is just like 6 laps around Kezar Stadium. You can do that.” And I ran like hell and passed the finish line and collected my medal and for everyone who asked, “How was it” I have said, “It was five hours of sweating, grinding agony, and it was awesome.”

I’ll get to the cobbler momentarily…first things first.

Now don’t get me wrong. If Barack Obama gets elected, I will be overjoyed. I voted for Clinton in the Ca. primary, but I swear, as long as a smart Democrat is in the White House, I will be out front waving my Happy Flag. Plus, he had me at this.

But today I was monitoring the health news, and one of the less important news items, which was, as usual, splashed on every single freaking front page was “Obama in ‘Excellent Health.’” Um, big whoop. But then I saw a blurb about how he’s been trying to give up smoking.

I’m not going to question whether he’s a good example for Americans (trying to quit), especially for the country’s Black youth. And I’m not going to rah-rah about him being a runner. Well, maybe a little (suck it, Republican mountain bikers!).

There have been plenty of other presidents who have smoked. President Grant smoked 20 cigars a day and died of throat cancer. President Adams started smoking a pipe at age 8. Bill Clinton smoked pot (but so did not enjoy it). But that was all before smoking laws and bans came into effect.

If When Obama is elected, will he be allowed to smoke in the White House like so many of his predecessors? Technically, it would be his home, so he ought to be allowed to do whatever he wants. But it’s also a federal building, so maybe he will have to take his (hot) presidential butt outside to smoke in the rose garden.

The president is constantly surrounded by staff who would be forced to huff his second hand smoke. If the creed of the Secret Service is to be willing to sacrifice their lives to protect their president, then technically, does breathing his smoke fall under there somewhere?

All that seemed a lot more interesting pre-coffee.

In other news, I fly off tomorrow for the San Diego Rock’n'Roll Marathon, where course officials are going for the world record for the largest number of running Elvi. I knew you’d be impressed.

I’m so tempted to bedazzle my singlet and wear an Elvis wig. But one of my running buddies is already down there and warns that the GALE FORCE WINDS might rip my Elvis wig right off my head. I swear, if I have to run 26.2 miles in a blinding headwind, I am going to have the world’s biggest hissy fit.

Here are some numbers:

• 21,000 is the number of runners and walkers on Sunday.
• Nationally, Team in Training runners for this race have raised over $122.1 million for leukemia research and services. Not too shabby. And that’s just one race this year.
• When I cross the finish line on Sunday morning, I will have run 300.1 miles with the team since kickoff.
• Between 8 and about 12:30 (to be safe), is the time everyone should please send some freaking killer strength and stamina vibes. Or prayers. Or prayer flags. Whatever. Just send it.
• One-half is the number of cherry-peach cobblers I ate yesterday. Hello, nervous eater.
• #9806 is my bib number if you feel like following along on the race homepage. If you need my name, it’s Sarah Moise-Young.

I’m planning to bring my laptop with me, and will post photos after the race! Thanks for your encouragement, everyone!

And in case you want it, here’s the cobbler recipe.

I haven’t been blogging, because I am very busy and important.

HaHa, right. Actually, I’ve become Martha Stewart now that my stupid oven isn’t broken anymore.

I have made these.

And these:

And also this:

and these too. But they were hideous, so no photos. Hint: when they tell you to use melted butter, don’t ignore their well meant advice and use merely soft butter.

Obviously, I am overcompensating for my marathon training by a lot. A whole, whole lot.

By the way, the 20-mile run was a piece of cake (see above). My bashed knee didn’t hurt at all…well, much. My only injury was a golf ball-sized blood blister on the ball of each foot. The coach was very impressed! My race is one week away, people, and although I’m having definite moments of ohmyfreakinggodwhathaveidone, I feel pretty confident. And my team has raised over $500,000 for LLS, which kinds of astounds me.

Moose and I have been taking advantage of the nearby Civic Center farmers market, or the Ghetto Market, as I like to call it. Some hippie man (in between talking about the stellar Ziggy Marley concert he went to) sold me some equally stellar brocollini yesterday, which became stir fry. I bought about 10 eggplants for a buck, which also made it into the wok with some heavenly Thai basil. Simons said he was going to decline to eat anything that wasn’t exotic, after buying a pomelo and some kind of dragon-esque fruit last weekend. That was when we went to the fancy farmers market at the Embarcadero for the express purpose of having our knives sharpened, but the stupid man had a sign up that said, “No more customers today. No whining or bellyaching.” I reserve the right to whine and bellyache if I want to, Asshole! It’s a free, litigious country, so go suck it! Clearly he knows his San Francisco clientele.

And right at this moment, I have five pounds of Bing and Ranier cherries in my fridge, hankering to be turned into pie. I thought I might even try a lattice, having never done one before. Simons dislikes cherries though, so I’ll have to take it somewhere like my running or knitting group.

I’m not exactly patting myself on the back, but after having a total crisis of conscience over the Omnivore’s Dilemma, it made me feel a little better to make gazpacho from local vegetables.

This is my dad’s recipe, and everyone seems to really like it. We usually chop the vegetables super fine, which makes for a pleasing texture.

1 can V8 juice
1 can tomato juice (1 cup) or red wine
1 can beef consomme or bouillon
1 Tbs red wine vinegar
1 Tbs olive oil
3 cloves garlic
1 cucumber
2 ribs celery
2 carrots
2 bell peppers
1 sweet onion
2 Roma tomatoes
1 or 2 Habanero peppers
salt + pepper

Mince all vegetables, combine with liquid. Allow to sit for 1-2 hours, so flavors meld. Serve well chilled.

I have poison oak everywhere. Hands, neck, stomach, chest, knees, thighs, arms, shoulders, hands…I’ve also given it to Simons, which suggests that our sheets and pillows are probably infected. It’s like cholera only with more desperate thrashing and bitching. Must burn sheets.

I’m on antibiotics, so all the places where I crash landed in the forest should be much improved soon. One hopes. I have a 21-mile run scheduled tomorrow, and it would be nice to run the whole thing peg-legged like Igor.

I have been eating cookies, Kettle chips and my grandmother’s geriatric favorite, Fiddle-Faddle, in preparation. Call me Organica. What? They’re carbs!