Sometimes I find it utterly baffling that I could be considered a grownup. I didn't understand it, with all its mysterious bill paying and work going and house owning, when I was a kid. And I don't fully grasp it now. Sometimes, when I'm at the grocery store, I'm seized with this sense of confusion—unrelated to the man who, apparently rhetorically, approaches you in the line and inquires if you'd like to buy some sugar for a penny—that I should be allowed to drive my own car, fill my own cart, and pay with my own money.

Maybe it's a singlehood problem. It's just me! I don't answer to anybody; nobody is invested in my choices. This explains why I generally engage in grownup activities (filling my larder, washing my clothes, corralling the dust bunnies) on a seldom-to-never basis. J probably has an opinion, but neglect is making him squirrelier by the day so I'm not sure I trust it. ALL of which is to say that my life has been exceedingly adult lately—working late hours, handling car/plumbing repairs—so when I pulled this off last night after a 10-hour day at the mine, I was ... kinda floored.

I am 29; hear me roar.

Lately I've been craving sushi in the worst way, but economic factors conspire to make beautiful sushi-grade fish out of my financial reach. Ergo I cry salty, salty tears. But I'd seen Heidi Swanson's Sushi Bowl at 101 Cookbooks, and she says it tastes like a "de-constructed sushi roll."

SOLD.

Firstly: 2 cups of brown rice into 3.5 cups of water on to boil.

Then green onions—scallions if you're nasty—chopped.



I was a little nervous about the amount of orange called for (juice and zest of 1 whole), because I'm not a big orange fan, as flavors go. Navel oranges make me happy, though, because they have silly little bellybuttons and NO SEEDS. If you flirt with my laziness, you shall be richly rewarded. Technically there was supposed to be the zest of 1 lemon but only the juice of half, but I threw the juice from the whole lemon in there. Because I do not, as we know, pay attention.



The best part about this recipe is that the rice is cooking away, with no need for attention, for 45 minutes. So you have that time to prep the rest of the ingredients AND clean up after yourself along the way.

Into a preheated 300-degree oven went the nori sheets. (Available at Publix! Wonders never cease. Now I just have to find something to do with the remainder of the package ... .)



It's more muted when it goes in, but it comes out toasted and obsidian, with an iridescent sheen. So you take those pretty scrolls and break them to pieces.



Heidi says you can either coarsely chop or tear them. After failed chopping attempts, I discovered the easiest thing was just to crumple the sheets into a ball like loose-leaf paper. They break into lovely shards without looking too perfect. Which I studiously try to avoid, of course.

Into a dry pan goes 3 tablespoons of sesame seeds over low heat, where they release their oils and get golden and warm and toasty. Running your fingers through a bowl of warm sesame seeds should be a form of tactile aromatherapy.



After the seeds toast, the tofu goes into the same dry pan to firm up and brown.



Note to self: Do not have photo taken in oven lighting. This is maybe the best tofu-in-a-homemade-dish I've ever had (LSis's tofu parmesan notwithstanding), and still? There's not much to say about a block of soy. It just ... is.

I mixed together the citrus juices with 2 tablespoons each brown sugar, shoyu, and rice vinegar, and boiled it for a few minutes until it reduced slightly, then mixed about 1/3 cup into the rice.

At the last minute, I sliced the avocado.



And: assembly. Citrusy vinegar rice, tofu, scallions (yeah, I am), avocado, and toasted nori and sesame seeds.



So delicious. If you're keeping track, you'll notice nothing ever happened to the lemon and orange zest. That's because I forgot them, because that's how I do. It's that whole pursuit of imperfection project I have embarked upon. I mixed it into the rice later, and none was worse for the wear.

Heidi says this serves four to six people, but I think you'd have to find a pretty hungry trio for that to be the case. I was pleased to discover I'll be noshing on this for the next week.



You're supposed to add more dressing as desired, but I kept the last 1/4 cup or so to marinate the leftover avocado in, thereby staving off the leprosy avocado is prone to contracting.

THEN, after roughly two months of stress-related sofa surfing, I slept through the night in my own bed.

I'm a big kid now.

I have blog envy, and I'm trying to assuage it by determining some photo formatting styles that will improve the borderless sadness I currently have going on.



So I shall leave you with a smiling man and a beautiful girl until something disastrous emerges from my kitchen. Should be any minute now.

Circumstances beyond my control have made blogging impossible the past few days. Wait—crippling procrastination is beyond my control, right?

But I shall return! Because I love you, and you love me, and I love that you love me because I am a needy son of a bitch.

The theme for this weekend will be work, work, and more work. Or, for the pithy, "Booze and Bitterness."

Happy Friday!

Oh, Sandra Lee.



Honey. No.

The garnish on this perverse concoction (Bananas Foster Cocktail, if you must know)? A splash of cream.

The only thing I can figure is that SL is a closet heinous hosebeast. Someone had to be afraid for their job not to notify her about the dangers of bobbing for phalluses.

Consider this a cautionary tale.

Tonight the Woodside had a come to Jesus. It is an abject MIRACLE the Christmas tree came down, because we just haven't seen a clean-up 'round these parts in many moons.

Frankly I was beginning to fear for my life. It was all a matter of what would take me first—dirty dishes or dirty laundry. There was also the danger of being crushed beneath the weight of mismatched shoes and/or charity-donation boxes (the result of an attention-deficit-thwarted fraction of an earlier clean-up attempt).

But tonight, this



became this.



(Aren't those hardwoods pretty? It had been so long since I'd seen them.)

This



became this,


this



became this,





and this



became this.





Somewhere, my father is prouder than he was at my college graduation.

Did something happen this past Tuesday night? Was there a freakishly full moon, or some sort of solar flare? Did Britney make a public appearance I don't know about? Because my day went like this:

5:00 a.m. Alarm goes off.

7:00 a.m. Second alarm goes off.

7:09 a.m. Third alarm goes off.

7:18 a.m. Fourth alarm goes off.

7:27 a.m. Fifth alarm goes off.

7:36 a.m. Sixth alarm goes off.

7:45 a.m. Seventh alarm goes off.

8:19 a.m. Breakfast in one hand. Diet Mtn. Dew, two sets of keys (house and World's Largest Rental Car), and handbag in other. Wearing something that passes, through heavy lids, vaguely as clothing. Not even a half-hearted attempt at a made-up face. It's possible there's only mascara on one eye, but it's hard to tell because of the difficulty differentiating today's from yesterday's. Lunch clenched firmly between teeth, a wrench of the ankle trying to cross the roots-bestudded yard in heels, and I'm off.

So far, so normal.

8:39 a.m. to 6:48 p.m. Workity. Workity workity work. Work work work. Inhale something completely forgettable for lunch. Work some more.

Here's where it gets weird.

7:15 p.m. Change clothes and take the dog for a run. Hit up the Publix for its last bag of basil (previous grocery trips—to two separate stores—were fruitless endeavors). Then head home to crack open the Everyday Italian.

I KNOW, RIGHT? Who is this person? She sweats (on purpose), she spends money, she embarks on appropriately industrious evening activities that do not involve Bea, Rue, Betty, and Estelle. Were it not for my old friends festering dishes and fetid laundry, I would not know myself.

Although, to be fair, I had help.



Thanks, G!



To begin: Microplaned fresh Parmigiano. It's soothing, the effortlessness it requires to make that downy pile. Luckily the rest of the wedge will live for a while in the one clean corner of my cheese drawer—that's a $13 dairy investment I will not soon forget.



Next: Chopped fresh parsley, chiffonade of basil, and garlic (note: I always double the amount of garlic called for in any recipe. I think Alabama cloves are puny).



Then: A mountain of pebbly Arborio. I had the rice on the Woodside, which made me feel like someone who could pass as capable. I don't have a pantry and I live like a slob, so having ingredients on hand is a rare and pleasant event.

And now, let us pause for reflection.



That's the handsomest thing to grace my kitchen since Coppertone. It's part of a set of five pretty pretty copper pots that TFin and JB bought me for Christmas. They're supposed to weather to a jaded, bitter finish with use, but for now I appreciate their spit-shine naivete.

There's rice in there boiling away, which, once cooked, is rinsed and mixed with the chopped herbs, garlic, salt and pepper, a splash of olive oil, and the Parmigiano. That mixture gets spooned into hollowed tomatoes and placed in an oiled baking dish.



Le Creuset. SPOILED ROTTEN, I am.

Bake at 350 for 20 minutes, and serve with dense, butter-drenched bread. [Italics mine. Arterial assault optional.]



The Food Network lists the difficulty of this recipe as "Intermediate." Why? The rice cooks for 10 minutes, you mix it with a few other things, and you stuff it in a tomato. What's difficult about that?

They are meant to be eaten either hot or at room temperature, which made them perfect for the next three day's lunches (packed in Snapware!). If I had it to do over, I'd mix half of the cheese into the rice mixture and sprinkle the rest over the top, for a golden crust.

10:00 p.m. Curl up on the sofa for my nightly three-hour Lifetime sitcom marathon. Discover "Will & Grace" episodes I've already seen are being preempted for some horrible baby-snatching/wedding disaster/only hot vain dudes can help sad fat women see their true hideousness nightmare.

10:03 p.m. Eat M&Ms. Not a hot vain dude in sight. C'est la vie.

---

CONGRATULATIONS TO ME. Wednesday marked the anniversary of onthewoodside. May it live on and prosper in its spasticness. (365 days, 153 posts. F-.)

Thanks for reading!

What? It's Tuesday.

Oh, shut up. So I'm a day late. There HAPPENED to be something sort of important that happened yesterday. And that something made me rather effusively happy. Happy enough to at least temporarily divest me of the knowledge that, even as this country broadcasts message of unity, some people will still embrace ignorance willfully and spew hatred unabashedly. I've heard enough of it in the past 12 hours to dampen even the hardiest optimism, but IT DIDN'T WORK. I'm still grinning. Kiss my ass, racists. (That invitation is not extended to anyone whose religion requires them to live in a fear bubble. Those people should not be anywhere near my person, or at least maintain a 50-yard radius from my ass.)

All of which is to say: Whee!

Aherm. On to business. Despite the protestations of the snobby, I frequently consume wine from a box. Because it's affordable (four boxed bottles for $19 works out to a better deal than four normal bottles for $7 to $10 apiece) and efficient (less spoilage! less waste!), not because I'm indiscriminate. That's why I love this.



In part because they call it a "cask." Classy, no? It's still a cardboard box with a vacuum-sealed pouch and a plastic spigot, but if you call it a cask with confidence, who's going to argue? And think of how long it would last! My wallet sings just thinking about it.

Until I read this post, I'd never heard of raclette, but once I discovered it's basically a way to turn just about anything into nachos, I was sold. So I was overjoyed to see this in my e-mail inbox.



It combines my two favorite things—melty, gooey, delicious dairy, and an enormous kitchen appliance that only serves one obscure purpose.

This is positively a miracle.



B bought it for me for Christmas, and while I realize it is unseemly and probably pathetic to conduct a love affair with plastic containers, I am now a veritable Tupperware-ist. Snapware is the Next Big Thing. It's more reliable; it's good looking; it's the right size ... oh my! That was unintentionally racy.

Remember how I have a salt-throwing problem in the kitchen? (Memory refresher: I'm clumsy.) This made me literally giggle out loud at work.



I think they frown on that.

I'm currently tucked into my sofa, wearing a "Dog Whisperer" sweatshirt and my brother-in-law's pants and wishing desperately that my laundry machines weren't outside. It's cold out there. (Although somehow my heat is only set on 60, yet I'm overly warm. Sometimes it's nice to have minimal square footage. Or be impossible to please.)

I'd like to be cozied in front of a fire, long stems tucked beneath me, stirring chewy, angry coffee with these.



Yes, I have long legs in this scenario.

OK, allow me a little indulgence this week—I found two cool things for J. One is this.



It's a pet camera! You hook it onto your pup's collar, and it takes "pet's-eye view" shots at intervals. Allegedly it allows you to see what your pooch sees during the day. I suspect in J's case that's one big blur, followed by periods of lying down. Like having a seizure in time-lapse photography.

And then there's this.



Which J would look QUITE handsome on if he lost about 35 pounds.

This is the crazy-coolest thing.



It's like a Swiss Army knife for the kitchen—an herb crusher, a pestle, and a knife sharpener all in one! I think it is an incredible tool for anyone unlikely to stab themselves with a newly sharpened knife—i.e. not me.

You know that scenario wherein I drink steaming coffee and have a fireplace and look good in skinny jeans and have long legs? (Hint: I talked about it earlier.) I'd like to add this to that picture.



In this scenario I take cream and sugar in my coffee. AND understand physics.

But in the spirit of this new era, I have to admit—as budgetarily unsound as it may be, had I not had to pay an insurance deductible and a plumber in the span of one week, I would absolutely buy myself this ring.



It's a nice reminder.

Look out, world. He's 21 today.



(That'd be 3 in dog years, if you're counting.)

You've come a long way, baby.



OK, maybe not.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, J!

Ever have one of those days? When you get up in the morning, find that a lack of clean foundation garments means you have to wear the SMALLEST POSSIBLE UNDERPANTS, wash your hair with conditioner, and arrive to your occupation provider only to find you have to work once you get there?

Yeah, I had one of those days.

But stand by. I have a post, and it's about this:



And tomorrow I will tell you about my tonight. I'm prepared to sparkle.

Birmingham: The diva has landed.

When I was just a wee pre-adolescent, I received my first compact disc: Celine's "The Colour of My Love" (For TwinFin it was Boyz II Men, for LSis, "Meatloaf Bat Out of Hell: Part II.)

I think I had "terminally dweeby" written on my face when I came out of the womb.

Nevertheless, I cut my teeth on ballads and forehead-smacking white rap courtesy of the Queen of Adult Contemporary. I'm taking the mother figure to see her, tomorrow night, for crazy-people watching and maybe—if she's very lucky—an airbrushed clothing item.

I'm going to get my Lovable Whackjob fill for the year.

"Speaking honestly: Rene loves me the most when I'm wearing nothing."



"My husband and me retired for two years, so that there will be less talking about us and my weight."



"I always put on makeup at home, because I think I'm looking boring without it. "



"I've never been cool—and I don't care."



"I looked in the audience. There were no strangers. Everybody was singing and cheering and hugging. That was a beautiful picture to look at."

It may well be the nerdiest night of my life.

I can't wait.

This morning I woke up with the distinct impression of both sets of teeth in my cheeks, made a Tabasco-laced breakfast, and put on my cranky pants.

I grumbled through a morning meeting, spent too much money on home goods, and stared blankly at the Subway employee who asked me if I wanted PEPPERONI on my veggie sandwich.

Then I resisted the urge to throw my Tim Gunn page-a-day calendar at the wall. (Today's advice is "Treat your pants with respect and your dresses with dignity." Yesterday reminded me not to wear a coat with the label still attached to the sleeve. It's sartorial advice for feral people.)

I think I'm mostly sleep- and money-deprived, which would explain why I've turned the inside of my mouth into a midnight snack. It makes for easy Tuesday posts, though, as the list of things I cannot afford grows ever longer.

Like these.



The Woodside kitchen would have one of these for every door if the bank would just deposit someone else's money in my account for me. Granted, I only have eight cabinet doors, but that's, what? $500? Yeah, I can do math.

When the weather is chilling and brisk, as it is here, I start to falsely romanticize summer as warm and delightful as opposed to sweaty and horrible. Were I throwing a beautifully elegant outdoor party, I'd serve the lemonade in this.



The glass would keep bugs at bay, and the lemony yellow beaming through the smoky decanter would make me smile.

I have a drawer with a motley assortment of measuring tools, most of which are crusted with old cottage cheese/eggs/something that looks suspiciously like mildew (indestructible silicone, meet K). This seems like a nutball price for measuring cups, but look how utilitarian!



My basic criterion for kitchen tools is that you can back over them with your car without incident, and I think these fill the bill. According to Sur La Table, they won't rust or react to food, either, and my culinary endeavors are pretty incendiary.

There's at least a 90% chance I've already posted this.



That only serves to prove HOW MUCH I DESIRE IT. For now I keep my salt at the ready in an ugly sushi dish with a teaspoon sticking out of it. I manage to turn that spoon into a salt catapult more often than I'd like to admit. This solves that problem (function!) beautifully (form!).

I'd never even heard of a garlic grater until today.



Although you can guess (YELLOW!) what drew me to it. I've seen people grate garlic before—on a Microplane or on the knuckle-shredding side of a box grater—but I love this. Especially the suggestion to pour oil onto the surface, over the garlicky shreds, then serve as a dip with crusty bread. I love a product with a bonus feature.

I admit that of these the heart mold is predictable and cheesy, unless you have sappy kids or something, but the star is kicky.



I could see it as the topper for a pretty (though potentially ridiculous) huevos rancheros.

The 20th is only a week away, so put your orders in for this, stat.



Though there is guaranteed to be boundless toasting that day, should any Inaugural vino go unsipped, I'd cap off the bottle with this.



I'm not generally a pretty-pretty-princess girl, but something about the steel gray and the facets appeals to my muted elegance sensibility.

Note: Muted elegance is something I strive for. I generally wind up somewhere between fall-down girl and screechily neurotic lady.

Here's a little cheat this week: This is free!



I credit its discovery to LSis. The photos are beautiful, the tone is irreverent (go figure), and the basset is perfection.

But ultimately, if George W. Bush decided to send me a $50 bill right this second, I'd probably spend it on a subscription to this.



For most anything that's more than I can afford, and certainly for four issues. But have you seen lovelier loveliness in your life?

See there? It's rendered me redundant.

Tune in tomorrow, folks. There's frost in the air and (FINGERS CROSSED) there will be soup on the stove tonight. Unless I get distracted by hard liquor and American Idol. Stranger things have happened.