1. My friend Lese Corrigan, a sage and artiste, pulled me aside at one of my engagement soirees, and told me a story about what marriage is like:

“A little old man and his little old wife had been married for 50 years, and every morning he would go downstairs first thing and make her coffee and the buttered and toasted heel of the bread. And every day, his wife watched him do this and wondered why she always got the short end of the stick, and finally she said, ‘Why do you always give me the heel of the bread? I hate it! You’re so selfish! WHY?’ Her husband looked at her sadly and said, ‘But that’s my favorite part.’”

Because I work from home, I tend to waste a significant portion of my afternoons tidying the house/office, which is convenient for procrastination purposes, but can play holy hell with my patient demeanor. Our apartment is small, so sling a sock on the floor and it looks like pigs held an orgy in the living room. And some of us are messier than others. But every time I get good and lathered up about someone leaving the milk out or tossing a soggy towel across the down comforter all morning, and I’m ready to greet my husband at the door with a Honey Dammit list and a rolling pin…I realize that I did it. I trip over my own shoes and catch myself swearing at Simons and feel small. The last of the toilet paper is gone, and I howl and then remember that I was the last person to use it. I can only think it’s a good thing that whenever he IS in the house, I have already repented and learned to quell the insane urges to shriek about not being the maid around here (because isn’t that just so attractive?).

That being said, Simons is really going to catch it when he gets home, since the last time he took the trash out, the bottom of the crappy eco-bags we bought at the Hippy Store tore out, and SOMEONE just left the muck at the bottom of the bag and put a new one in on top of it, hoping, I suspect, that someone else would deal with it. Deal, I did, with extreeeme ill grace. Touching old food = biggest nightmare (I was the world’s worst waitress one summer in college), and this little unpleasantry came on top of the house trying to kill me all weekend–I’ve been attacked by spice cupboards, gouged by coffee tables, punctured by laundry baskets, bludgeoned by drawers. I’m leaving and moving to Japan where all they have are little floors mats. But first, Simons will pay.

2. The triathlon! It went really well! And by that, I mean, DAMN! That shit is hard! The day before (which I thought was really two days before, because I’m dumb), I rode my bike accidentally up the hill on Noe Street between the Castro and Noe Valley…you know, the freaking Himalayas of San Francisco? Halfway up, I realized my error and intended to walk, but then I couldn’t get my feet out of the $#@^& pedal clips and I had to finish it. You could SEE my heart beating through my shirt. Jebus! And when I got to See Jane Run, they didn’t even have the stupid race packets anymore, so I’d have to wait till race day…so I’d done the Bhutan Death Ride for naught. Anyway, I was sulking at home afterwards, when my team captain called me to see if I wanted a ride in the morning. Um….what? Don’t you mean Sunday?

So I didn’t even have (much) time to be nervous. I flung all my mercifully clean athletic wear in a bag and went to bed. And the next morning, I found myself on the edge of a smelly lake, prepared to take on some fairly improbably tasks. I swam 400 m with 1000 other swimmers, some of whom kicked me and a pox on their neoprene-clad loins.

All my hard earned swim classes (all three of them) were completely pointless, because with that many people thrashing about, you can’t freestyle or breathe sideways or any of that fancy aquatic nonsense. What you can do is perform an ungainly mix of breaststroke and dog paddling, trying not to swallow more than your allotted two gallons of duck poo pond water. You swim around your buoys, you drag yourself up the muddy banks, thanking the sweet swaddled fancy Lord Jesus for not letting you drown under the weight of a 300-lb octogenarian from Wisconsin who was so fast, it was like a speedboat running you down.

Then I biked. And the biking, it was good. I passed at least 200 people during my 11 miles, probably a lot more. I, who two months ago was terrified to even go down a hill, accelerated into turns and screamed, “ON YOUR LEFT” about a jillion times, rolling my eyes at the sissies who decelerated down hills.

And then I ran. And it was not so good. People, if you’re ever going to attempt this kind of thing, when you train…bike and THEN run. Learn how hard that is before a race, because the 800-lb leg thing won’t come as so much of a shock as it did to me. And there were hills, lots and lots. But at least the hot, dusty, hilly run was short. Some whipper snapper tried to pass me going over the finish line, and so I rolled her underfed butt up and smoked her. In my finish photo, I’m going, “TAKE THAT, FETUS!”

3. Portland. We went to the loveliest wedding up there two weekends ago, and damn, what a fine town. My roommate, Jennifer, from boarding school put us up the first night, and it didn’t occur to me until we got on the plane that I hadn’t set eyes on her in fifteen years. God, it makes my sciatic hurt. Her little girl, Ruby, is the most darling creature and says everything in both English and Spanish and should come with a little monkey hat because she dances for everything.

Jen is a vegetarian, so we got to visit Farm Cafe for dinner, with the most incredible local produce and wine. The roasted garlic and farmhouse cheese were divine, and I got vegetables layers like lasagna and baked with tomatoes and cheese, and it was awesome. But the best was Jen’s Grilled Corn and Smoky Blue Risotto, which I am writing to Gourmet about, because dammit, I want it every night.

In the morning, Jen’s husband, Corbin, made us fresh tortillas for our breakfast burritos, with tomatoes from their garden, as well as grapes and pears from their own trees. Sigh, I need a yard. Jen also practiced her accordion for us before we went to bed, and I got to try it out…I had no idea accordions had so many buttons.

The wedding was in McMinnville in a vineyard, with mountains so blue on all sides, that the bride’s dress and veil turned purple in the blue light. The salsa band was INSANE, and every single person got out there and shimmied and shook and did the maranga and the cha cha and even some wild flamenco. I got so pie-eyed, I think I yakked on ad nauseum to Simons’ friend Thomas about knitting. Yes, specifically, knitting as a revolutionary act. I’m sure I was close talking too.

I couldn’t figure out why I was so hungover the next morning, since I’d only had two glasses of wine, and then I remembered the mysterious hovering bottles that would refill after every sip. So two glasses…two bottles…math was never my strong suit. It was nothing a little brunch couldn’t cure, and Sweetness in Portland was the best brunch ever. For $8, we got baked scrambled eggs (like pure silk), sweet potato hash, fried green tomatoes, fresh berries and plums, cheese grits, and pineapple upsidedown cake. I HIGHLY recommend it.

4. I have been baking up a storm, thanks to a mostly successful attempt to eat locally. Simons was having a bad week, so I made him Nigella’s cinnamon yeast rolls.

And then my new best friend, Stepping Over the Junk sent me the world’s coolest care package (Sailing Is Good For You T-shirts for Simons and me, notecards she printed herself, and recipes for some of the best bread ever, so I made a kickass loaf of honey wheat bread. And for Simons’ lunches, I’ve been baking sandwich bread (take a stick of butter) from my fancy new boulangerie cookbook.

It goes well with roasted tomato and fennel soup.

5. Canning rules.

6.  My dog looks mad when she has to wear her bucket.

I’m reasonably certain that Simons and I are the only straight people in our neighborhood. There are Smart Cars parked up and down the block, and lots of tiny fluffy dogs everywhere. The Zen Monastery down the street seems to be entirely composed of shorn lesbians in red or black bat outfits. Our super fun next door gaybors, Mario and Tomas, created a whole Virgin Mary shrine in the courtyard…it’s very Mission-olicious; their living room looks like a Turkish harem, with tented ceilings and cushions and brass stuff everywhere.

Our landlords are gay, but they’re complete assholes and fight all the time. However, our front-of-the-house gaybors, Seth and Fernando, are SMOKIN’ HOT and have the coolest apartment you’ve ever seen. I lust after their furniture…oh, and you, know, Fernando. They invited us to their Cops & Robbers party two weekends ago, and I’ve never seen so many moustaches in my entire life–like an entire seething mass of Magnums and Hutches. I was desperate to take pictures, but Simons hissed that it would be very uncool. Although even he sort of regretted it after the handcuffs came out.

A few weeks ago, Simons took Beulah to DuBoce Park to hang with his deeply ironic, kickass college friend, Steve, and some of Steve’s gay friends. Two dudes were going through magazines planning their wedding outfits. A few others were practicing their synchronized flag twirling. Simons was throwing the tennis ball for Beuls, when another dog dropped his tennis ball right next to hers. While she was inspecting the two, one of the guys piped up, “Oh honey, I know how confusing that is. It’s the end of the night, you’ve got someone’s balls in your mouth and no idea whose they are.”

I am so not even kidding about the flag twirling.

So after a good long floundering at the local YMCA, where I was kicked by this old man’s gouty toe and saw a lot more naked people than I really needed to, I decided I’d head down to Sports Basement to pick up some triathlon clothes. The race is, after all, in three days, and although I have flattering ensembles for all events, I don’t have one of those absolutely precious little onesie outfits you can wear to swim, bike and run.

I tried one of those bad boys on, and wow…unflattering is a NICE way to put it. So I tried on the two-piece numbers that look like regular jog tops and slightly less padded bike shorts.

So is it just a general rule that triathletes are shaped like dental floss, because I had to take them both off, and rock myself gently facing away from the mirrors. And then go home and eat jelly beans in honor of my thighs.

Most people who know me are aware that I love running. Yeah, yeah, I guess it’s weird, but give me a pair of magic shoes and I’ll go all day. I like it with people, I like it alone, I like it with music, I like it with roaring oceans, chirping crickets and little fat brown dogs. I like to eat green eggs and ham.

You know what other kinds of exercise I like?

None.

Bikram yoga pisses me off, and isn’t it kind of beside the point of fruity yoginess to spend 90 minutes hexing your crunchy-stupid-embrace-your-happy-bandas yoga teacher?  And I don’t do gyms. Here in SF, where we have miles of trails, roads with views of bridges and cliffs and trees, it just makes no sense to pay a ton of money to go INSIDE in order to exercise.

But one thing I’ve always wanted to try is a tri. A triathlon that is. Where you run, swim AND bike. Even the word gives me the tummy wriggles of fear and failure. The very reason I want to try one is that I don’t want to try one. If something terrifies me this much, I have to do it.

Wednesday was my first bike clinic. I don’t actually have a bicycle. I don’t even have the storage space for one. Or the spare $2000 to spend on a frame, wheels, tires, pedals, rack, helmet and shoes. Oh wait, I did buy shoes–the scary kind that clip in to the pedals–but everything else I rented at Mike’s Bikes. The pro met me outside Sausalito, along with this Australian triathlon/investment banker champ, and in the nicest way possible, the two of them showed me how far I was from the days of the pink Huffy with the banana seat. We went to the top of the Marin Headlands, and I was totally wrecked halfway up, panting and burning and wanting to die, but I would be DAMNED if I quit. And it was so much fun, and I was terrified before, during and after, but it felt awesome. And I also didn’t bust my ass with the shoe clips, although I did nearly flip over one time, trying to brake and wrench a foot free at the same time. Reverse wheely, HELLO! There were deer and eagles, and we even came back through the tunnel from Rodeo Beach.

But then I had such a weird experience going home. Driving by Golden Gate Park, I was listening to the radio, which was playing hits from the archives (yes, my high school songs are archived now), when this old Indigo Girls song came on that I used to luuurve, and I was singing along at the top of my lungs, remembering the dreams of yesteryear and thinking about Rasputin, when without preamble or so much as a lip quiver, I just BURST INTO TEARS. I wasn’t unhappy. Or sad. Or even particularly tired. But I freaking sobbed, making those sounds that send other people backing away from you, only of course, there was no one else there, and I could just cry to my heart’s content. And it felt really good. Cleansing. Cathartic. Heart’s content, indeed.

Was I relieved, since I’ve been so scared of this whole biking thing? I don’t think I felt all that proud of myself or exhilarated or fist pumping, but maybe I’d faced a fear and was releasing tension? (If so, I was prepared for a total nervous breakdown after the swimming clinic.). Maybe it was endorphins.

Simons just thought it was weird.

Yesterday, I met a bunch of members of the San Francisco Triathlon Club for an open water swim at Aquatic Park. For those of you who don’t know SF, it’s this big open water amphitheatre next to Fisherman’s Wharf and Ghiardelli Square and such. It has buoys and sea lions and boats in it, but lots of people swim there. Four laps make a mile. A MILE! OF WATER!

I squeaked into my wetsuit and swam 3/4 of a lap, swallowed about two gallons of dirty sea water, and almost figured out how to freestyle. Mostly I bobbed around like a cork with my mouth open, squinting through my foggy goggles. Apparently there are crazy-off-their-meds people everywhere in San Francisco, even in the Bay, because some sketchy man swore at me (I wasn’t anywhere near enough to cut him off or anything) and then got all threatening and started following me. I was all, “I ain’t studying you, Mister!” (really, I was just gasping for breath and contemplating how to punch somebody in the sack in a wetsuit). My new tough swimming posse were all for drowning him and hiding the body, and said I did great and even if you kick somebody in the head out there, you just say sorry and move on, so for him to be such a dick was just the crazy talking. But it kind of put paid to my idea of going out there without a group, at least without my trusty harpoon gun.

Whacko aside, swimming in the cold, cold water on a sunny day was kind of freeing. It’s something I’ve watched people do since I moved here, thinking admiringly that these were super-awesome athletes, braving the chill and angry sea-mammals. And now I’m joining them. I’m making a place for myself in this city, being a part of the community, meeting people, figuring it all out.

So I’m trying to tri. I don’t know if I’m any less scared, but at least I’m on my way.

Leah over at A Girl and A Boy is gorgeously pregnant, and has been writing some highly entertaining posts about her sprogged-upedness. A recent one included some photos of her potential baby, courtesy of MakeMeBabies.com, where you plug in some photos of you and your beloved (or you and someone else’s beloved if you could only make that stupid ho disappear…) or you and Madonna, etc.

Naturally curious, I plugged in a few pictures of Simons and me, and clicked Make Me A Baby!

Imagine my astonishment when I discovered that I am apparently carrying on an illicit affair with Tomas, our next door gaybor.

His partner, Mario, is going to be so pissed.

Saturday was one of those summer days that makes you glad not to live in a sleepy little beach community or in a mountain village in Spain or even in Paris. San Francisco was perfect. Everywhere, people were lolling in the grass making eyes at each other, and picnicking with their adorable toddlers or airing their tiny dogs, who blinked owlishly in the blinding sunlight. Even the chihuahuas took their sweaters off.

My team went for a run just as the sun came up, and I got to see the city silhouetted from a little bay at Tiburon, the pyramid a jutting finger over the retreating fog. On the way back, I found a gigantic patch of wild blackberries, prickling menacingly in a steamy green wall by the College of Marin. I was terrified I’d get pulled over on the drive home, looking like I’d just massacred a family with fingers stained with berry juice and arms covered in scratches.

Simons was standing at the stove making fresh pesto when I walked in, still frozen from his morning surf. We gathered up the (Beulah) Pants and dashed over to the ballpark for Dog Days, sadly missing the costume contest, which we totally would have won (swimcap, Doggles and medals = Michael Phelps). We would have been there on time, but as we were walking to the train, all three of us suddenly pressed our noses to the glass of the neighborhood Out Of The Closet (like Goodwill but somehow gayer) and saw the perfect dresser — modern, crazy copper handles, a ridiculous number of drawers…for $25. Elated with our furniture purchase, we traipsed into the stadium, and hot dogs and regular dogs and cold beer mean instantaneous happiness. The Giants won; Beulah got her photo taken AND she got to hold hands with her boyfriend, Stanley. Drowsy with sunburn, we took a three hour nap, waking just in time for the 8:00 showing of Dark Knight, rated deliciously violent.

In celebration of a perfect summer weekend, I made a tart with lime curd and the fresh Marin blackberries. We’ve made the mini tartlets properly before, but I didn’t have as much time today, what with dinner guests coming at seven and our apartment looking like the Huns had sacked it. So it was just one big tart, with Julia Child’s patee brise instead of mini rounds caramelized with a blow torch.

I think if I were to do it again, I would probably use the crust from this recipe instead, and still spoon all of the lime curd over the top. But I wouldn’t glaze the berries; they were sweet enough on their own. And having foraged for them myself made them all the sweeter.

Mini Lime Pies with Glazed Berries
Gourmet | August 2006
Makes 6 servings.

Ingredients
For lime curd
3 large eggs
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup fresh lime juice
3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 teaspoon finely grated fresh lime zest

For crust:
I used Julia Child’s pate brisee

For glazed berries
1/4 cup confectioners sugar
1/4 cup water
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
3 cups mixed raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries

Preparation
Make lime curd: Whisk together eggs, sugar, and lime juice in a 2-quart heavy saucepan until combined. Add butter and cook over moderately low heat, whisking constantly, until curd is thick enough to hold marks of the whisk and first bubbles appear on surface, 8 to 10 minutes. Immediately pour through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl, discarding solids. Cool to room temperature, stirring occasionally. Stir in zest, then chill, covered, at least 1 hour.
Make glazed fruit and assemble: Boil confectioners sugar, water, and lime juice in a 12-inch heavy skillet over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until slightly thickened, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat, let cool for 5 minutes and add berries, gently tossing to coat. (There will be just enough to glaze berries; they will give off a small amount of juice as they cool.) Cool berries 5 minutes. Put curd in cooked pie crust. Layer with glazed berries, then drizzle plates with some syrup.
Cooks’ note: Lime curd can be chilled up to 3 days ahead.

Did anyone else do a little dance of joy when July finally turned up its toes and died? I did, right after I had the homeless crackhead who spit on me arrested and hauled off to prison. To be fair, he did brandish a broom handle at me after he spit on me, although I maintain that crackhead spit more than warrants the po-po all by itself. Then I went home and took a flamethrower to my dermis.

July can go suck it.

Not only did Simons and I dust off the tattered remnants of the dashed hope and broken dreams of July (involving identity theft, potential contest Indian-giving, and something else wretched that I have mercifully forgotten…oh wait, it was my birthday, no wonder I forgot, because I’m OLD), we also left the smog and smoke-drenched city for greener climes. That’s right, we went on vacation. And when you’re poor, vacation is called “going home.”

Simons and I went out in the boat, dove through waves at the beach, had fried shrimp and okra, steamed crab, fresh tomatoes and boiled peanuts. Hell, the first day we were back, I sat my butt in an inner tube all day in the Toogoodoo River and applied cold beer to my gullet in the hot, hot sun. I could have swooned with happiness.

It was heavenly. I gained five pounds! I snuggled my nieces, feasted on their little toes, and read Beanie bedtime stories about snakes to our hearts’ content. Both girlies romped joyously around Moïse Island, catching fiddler crabs and inspecting the sponges under the dock for creatures. And we celebrated their birthdays, and there was cake! And chicken salad sandwiches!

My sister, when she wasn’t being angelic, was just plain mean. She made us all dress the same for photographs at Margaret’s birthday party.

I think the children really loved the idea.

I had planned to stay an extra day in St Matthews to take the babies to the water park on Monday. However, when Melissa rousted me from bed at the crack of dawn the next morning, she said ominously, “Hurry, the caravan is waiting.”

Um, what caravan?

That would be the caravan of 25 church children we were taking to Whirlin’ Waters.

Not awesome. Not awesome AT ALL.

The place was crawling with little whippersnappers disobeying direct orders, hurling themselves off steep precipices and trying to drown themselves at every turn. And there were THOUSANDS of them! As soon as one was at the top of the highest tower, the other one would get scared or be too short or have to potty, so I’d have to take them back down. And then the other one would be shrieking “AGAIN! AGAIN” and I would have to drag my horrifically bikinified butt all the way back up. They really need to serve qualudes at these functions. It’s only fair. Here’s Margaret after she’d finally brained herself on the water slide.

Our parents fed us like it was going out of style, and all of our friends banded together to help us not make plans. And by that, I mean that we did not wake up each morning with an exhausting itinerary of so much fun stuff, we wanted to die. Instead, they all waited until we’d had coffee, called up and told us there were cupcakes and babies and pimiento cheese at the beach (not in that order), so come on.

I am OD’d on sunshine and salt water.

There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.

….rats.

The swimmers are very distracting. My favorite moment so far is when Michael Phelps is stretching out on the block and taking his sweats off, and the line judge behind him is TOTALLY checking out his ass. And when he bends over, she goes all cross eyed and smirks. Can’t say I blame her…Jesus! Simons is having to be very patient with all of my eye bulging and gasping. They’re ALL hot. Even the ones who aren’t hot…they’re hot. I may have to encourage my husband to start swimming again. (does someone hear purring?)

Nastia Liukin was robbed on the parallel bars. Did you see her face? All nostril and hair scrunchy. I was just dying for her to rip the gold medal off the the Chinese toddler on the podium and cat fight for it. I would pay good money to see that. She’s about a foot taller, so I bet she could take her.

Every single woman on the American track and field team is awesome. They all have these huge smiles and coherent, witty responses to Bob Neumeier’s ridiculous questions. Our male runners are incredibly talented, but they come over after their heats and just sort of grunt and scowl and stalk offscreen.

Also, the women track and fielders have hilarious names, like Muna, Marshevet, Shalane, Lolo, Damu Cherry, Hyleas Fountain, and Pickler. Let that be a lesson. If you want fast children, name them something silly. Also, the way Sanya Richards keeps Aaron Ross in line slays me.

Was anyone rooting for Roqaya Al-Gassra of Bahrain? She came powering through her semi-final, covered except for her face? You know thousands of proud Muslim women are cheering her on.

The American woman pole vaulting coach is a massive douche. Jenn Stuczynski had just made an American pole vaulting record and won silver behind the 27x world record holder, Yelena Isinbayeva, and instead of congratulating his athlete, he just poos all over her. I hope she fires him, wins in London, and he ends up old and alone with a beer gut, watching the 2012 Olympics in a seedy bar with a hairy man named Earl.

Olympic trampolining is hysterical. I keep thinking one of them will stop during a routine, grab his stomach and go retch off the side. “Whoooaaa….too much bouncing. Sorry!”


I can’t believe how sad Alicia Sacramone’s performance was. The announcer who interviewed her was such a knife twister too…like, “How does it feel knowing you are a failure who has ruined your team’s chances for gold? Here, borrow my razor…” One of my guy friends said he cried over it, because she looked so completely destroyed.

How did Kobe Bryant go from being a rapist to this tri-lingual spokesman for American sport? I just can’t decide how to get behind him. But the US vs Spain basketball game was awwwwesome. I actually watched it twice, despite all the shoe squeaking (I know, I know, it’s dumb, but I can’t STAND all that squeaking!).

Why do none of these people know the words to their own national anthems? You’d think Phelps would have bothered if he was going to make them play it so often. No one’s asking them to make the high notes, but couldn’t they at least mouth along?

Does anyone else think that the Chinese women’s gymnastic team needs a collective sandwich. You know that every time they miss a landing, their coach is all, “No dinner! Tomorrow we sell your baby sister!”

Oksana Chusovitina, the German’s silver medalist in gymnastics: her Uzbekistan coaches must have given her some scary steroids, because her man-head is ten times bigger than the rest of her body. Stupid Soviet coaches.

Does anyone else just love the Sparkle commercial? It makes me want to buy roller skates.

While my friend Prescott is out of town, Simons continued his bro-mance with her husband, Jason, inviting him over for dinner and a little Olympic trampolining. Every time a trampoliner would come out, Jason would say that her little brother should come sneaking up and double jump her. Heh.

For the Whip It Up Recipe Challenge, I made the required appetizer, a great favorite: Sweet Potato Fries with a rosemary-yogurt dip. It’s very easy and tasty, and would keep us from self cannibalizing while we waited for the pizza dough to rise. I just made it up, but it’s probably the same one everyone in the world uses.

Ingredients
1 sweet potato for every two people
2 tsp chopped rosemary
2 Tbs olive oil
1 tsp sea salt

Slice your sweet potatoes into pleasing rectangles. Toss other three ingredients to coat. Spread out in pan. Bake on 400 for 45 minutes, checking after 35 to make sure they aren’t getting too black. They should be crispy, but not hard.

For dip:
1 small container of goat’s milk yogurt (plain)
1 tsp chopped rosemary
1/2 tsp sea salt

Stir up and serve cold as a dipping sauce for sweet potato fries. Everyone will love them, I swear.

Then you can drink beer and wait to make the Best! Pizza! Ever! Seriously, I don’t know how putting peaches on pizza has escaped my notice until now, but it’s amazing. The chevre and prosciutto mix perfectly with the sweetness, and they caramelize a little…oh god, hold me.

We’re going to make this every day for a month, and not just because Simons bought the world’s biggest bag of active yeast I’ve ever seen.

We could call this the frugal cheese scone recipe, or to delve deeper into my socioeconomic condition, you could say this is the my-client-went-on-vacation-for-two-weeks-and-forgot-to-pay-me-first recipe. Or we could root into my psyche and say it’s a Jemima’s-too-lazy-to-grocery-shop recipe, but at least the house is clean (Hello, Procrastination! If they redid an ad for a 50s housewife greeting her husband at the door—kitchen and woodwork gleaming as he hangs his hat—it would have Simons looking around saying, “Wow, big deadline?”).

Maybe we should call this the half assed-I-don’t-follow-directions cheese scone recipe. I was out of cream, didn’t have chives, fed the rest of the cheddar to Simons for breakfast, but no matter! We will have parmesan-rosemary-sour cream scones instead of cheddar-chive-cream scones. And a pox on wedge shaped scones, because I’m certain that’s half the trouble with those hideous brick-hard Starbucks glass case monstrosities. They are ruining Jane Eyre and clotted cream for generations everywhere. These scones will be round. And soft.

More accurately but perhaps less appetizingly, you could dub it the use-up-the-gross-stuff-already-in-my-fridge-and-marginally-past-the-expiration-date-
but-I’m-sure-it’s-still-fine recipe. I’m not sure when I turned into my grandfather, but somehow when I looked in the fridge today at my unopened tub of sour cream that said clearly August 4 on it, I didn’t hesitate. In it went. It’s already sour, right?

As they went into the oven, I was privately hoping they wouldn’t just be the Gross Scones. But about 10 minutes in, I had my nose mashed against the oven glass. I pulled them out, one after another, to test cooking time, and slathering them in butter, burned off the roof of my mouth at least three times, shoving them in as fast as I could.

Mmmm…NOM…NOM…I don’t care.

Cheddar and Parmesan Scones with Rosemary and Sour Cream
Makes 12 scones.

Ingredients
1.5 cups all-purpose flour
1.5 tsp baking powder
1.5 tsp sugar
1 teaspoons salt
1 Tbs finely chopped rosemary
1/2 cup grated Cheddar
1/4 cup grated Parmesan
1 cup sour cream

Preparation
Preheat oven to 400°F.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt. Add rosemary and cheese, tossing to combine. Stir in sour cream with a fork until a sticky dough forms.

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead about 8-10 times with floured hands. Press dough out to about 1 inch thick and cut with cookie cutter.

Arrange circles 1/2 inch apart on an ungreased large baking sheet and bake in middle of oven until golden brown, about 18-20 minutes. Cool on a rack.