Where the hell have I been?

Well, I've been snowed in, of course. Yes, in Alabama.



I know, right? I could hardly believe it myself. But it was gorgeous and perfect and giddy-making.



The flakes fell like Champagne bubbles on rewind, fast enough to make you laugh



but slow enough you thought you just might be able to catch one.



Living as we do, deep in sweltering summer territory, we weren't quite sure what to make of this particular type of humidity.



But once we'd warmed up to the idea,



and determined that it meant that most hallowed of all days, a snow day, we were pretty jazzed about it.



Especially because all that pretty precipitation could only mean one thing: SNOW PARTY.



The sheer awesomeness was almost more than we could fully understand.



But we did our level best to whoop it up.



We donned our sweats and drank our wine and wagged our tails and ate Fritos dipped in chili.



Yeah, that might have been a mistake. But then we had the most incredible epiphany of all: Snow day Friday means an extra-long weekend.



And that might have been the greatest gift of all.

---

Also, there was Valentine's Day. I was curled up by a warm fire, sipping wine and watching the snow drift with the one I love.



Whatchoo lookin' so suspicious about, woman?



Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so testy. I could never stay cross with you. What's that you say? "Owl be your Valentine?"



Oh, Stella. You're a hoot.

In the absence of any actual news—well, that's not exactly right. In the absence of time to report said actual news (I'm going to try to get to that soon, I promise!), I bring you Things That Have Lately Been Responsible for Threatening My Seams, by K.



Taco bar at la casa del padre. Yes, that would be queso over that there flame.



Mexican Vegetarian Casserole. I made this for LSis and BiL, which meant I wanted to put my own special stamp of love on it. So I added beef.



Possibly the strangest craving I've ever had, in that it was for something I'd never tried. Pan bagnat, French for "soaked bread," which at the very least should have immediately signified it as something I'd abhor. But it was delicious, and lunch for about four days. Although if you think anchovies are "optional," you're insane. Not judgin', just sayin'.



Shrimp taco, also at La Bonita. Never grill, sauté, or otherwise mess with shrimp again. Sheet pan, drizzle of oil, sprinkle of salt and pepper, roast at 400 for 5 minutes. Do not question Ina.



Home fries, that is, fries I made at home. Because I thought I'd flirt with kitchen fire #3 for the year. I prefer unadulterated French fried potatoes; the cheese and bacon you see there were just for photographic purposes. (I picked them off later because I was home alone and strange behavior was therefore permitted. And par for the course.)



Pomegranate margarita. Less a danger to my seams, more a danger to my brain cells. Meh, who needs 'em?



Spanish Chicken and Chorizo Paella, which morphed into Spanish Drumsticks and Hot Smoked Sausage Paella because my trendy Alabama 'hood doesn't carry furrin ingredients.



Guacamole. Creamy, spicy, and crammed as full of fresh tomatoes and red onion as possible.



I didn't eat the kitty cake. But JBSH did carefully dissect it, to the delight of the kiddos.



Every available flavor: peanut butter, peanut, dark chocolate, and almond



LSis managed to bogart $200 worth of Alaskan crab legs from work. They were the length of forearms and contained meat that prompted a rather indecent amount of groaning from around the table. I didn't eat those, either. I can't do crustaceans, no matter how fancy.



I had this, instead.



TFin makes a mean gratin. That's right, he's not just a pretty face.



RIDICULOUS. Best chili I have ever eaten in my life, and that's not hubris, that's just the truth. Courtesy of The Lee Bros., and Whole Foods, for not being afraid to stock exotic and heavenly chilies of all varieties. I salute you.

We had a crazy weekend.



Like this, only infinitely more insane.



He's not out of the woods yet, so I'm not going to jinx his feeling better by telling the cracked-out story in its entirety, but I will soon.

For now I'm just going to go home and hug his big brown hairy neck and hope he's perked up and not staring at me with those enormous, mournful, make-it-better-Mommy-why-did-I-eat-the-bedspread-again? eyes.

It's hard being a parent.

Mommy see:



Mommy do:



Chicken me:



Chicken you:



Stella coo:

HEY, THIS WEEK!



KISS IT.



The weekend is ON, bitches!

Sorry Stella.

I know I've been a bit scarce of late, for reasons that are both within my control and without. The work has been piling up—this week marks one of those remarkable times when my triumvirate of jobs all come due at the same time, a cheery tapas cookbook and a March issue of one magazine and a March/April issue of another magazine, and trust me I am not complaining about my overabundance of occupation, but it was all very hamster-on-a-wheel.

The side effect, oddly, of that meticulousness, the scanning of black-and-white pages for errant apostrophes and misplaced modifiers and "witlof" where "Belgian endive" should be, is a curiously mad creative twirl. It's like a mini mania, filled with crazed pronouncements like, "You know what? I think I'll change all my money into Sacagawea dollars and then use it to buy a big box of hair. WAHheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehooooooooooooTHUD."



They should probably have me tested.

But then Tuesday arrived, a day so terrifically awful it could only be surpassed by Wednesday, and I got sad and sadder and found myself without even half a Sacagawea to rub together and maybe cried a little bit in the liquor store.



I joke a lot here about the sagging Woodside, but there are days I'm genuinely terrified that the old homestead is going to get so depressed as to end it all and go all last-two-minutes-of-Poltergeist on me. I dreamed this week that I went outside to use the hose and discovered that the whole structure had shifted off its foundation.

You think that was a metaphor?

I've never been any good at the waiting game, preferring a kicky combination of denial and fear that leaves me in a crouched position, waiting to pounce on bad news with a screechy but largely unsatisfying "IIIIIIIIIII KNEW IT!"



So even though my furnace took a flying leap and cost me all my remaining pennies, and circumstances are conspiring to make me lose all my remaining marbles, I'm going to do what I have to do when the sky starts falling: put on my helmet.



Because there are days when my head is in the universe's pinball machine, when I'm walking uptown on a crowded sidewalk when everyone else is headed in the other direction. There are days when I get right pummeled, and on those days I'm generally a ratty-haired, mascara-smeared, wild-eyed crazy person.

But today I feel determined. To return to my comfy creative swirl, even if I can't afford it right now. To make my bedroom wall



a photo wall.



To give the doddery Woodside's Black Bean exterior a yellow door.



In Decisive Yellow, because ... well because.



I understand it's terribly out of character for me to be decisive about anything, but today I have a message for the world:

No. No, I do not accept your terms. I am not going anywhere. I know I upset the balance, somewhere along the way, and you're going to throw a lot of fury and tree branches at me. But the Woodside and me, we're here for the long haul.

Yo! It's Friday! Know how I can tell? Because I'm doing a tiny cubicle happy dance, and using words like "yo."

Because it's almost the weekend, and you're all busy being so excited about that fact that you've peed yourselves, I'm going to sneak in a few dull tidbits, propped up by pictures of baby eyeballs so that you don't collapse from the tedium.



Firstly, to avoid the lawsuits that will inevitably arise whence you're all hospitalized with terminal carpal tunnel from typing "onthewoodside.blogspot.com" into your browsers all day every day, anxiously awaiting my missives, GOOD NEWS!



I have purchased, for the low low price of $10, onthewoodside.com. I am a domain owner. Mistress of mine own domain.

Wait.

You can still reach me through the old blogspot address, but you all know what a stickler I am for brevity. And sarcasm. This will, however, make you $10 less rich should you decide to follow through in suing me regardless. Which will make you the possessor of a dampening homestead, a dirty dog, and -$10.



Agenda point #2 regards a camera bag, the only item on my current "wants" list that also wanders over into the "needs" column. (Those of you who think a hair cut might be higher in those priorities, hushup.)

If anything were to happen to my beloved Nikon, I would die, just DIE, so for the sake of the many more years I have to be obnoxious and verbose, help a sister out.

OH! Only one requirement: It can't be butt ugly. Or cost $800. Trust me, it's harder than it sounds.



Enjoy your weekend, fellow humans! And if you're just about to succumb to the vapors of your own good fortune, take a minute to click up there at the top and share some with the people of Haiti, if you haven't already.

I'll be so touched by your generosity that I might be forced to hug you. And for those of you who know my stance on hugging, that could be very awkward, indeed. Yo!

Full disclosure: I am wearing my cranky pants today.

The clouds outside are rolling by in a hurry, in hourly shifts that are alternately sunny and angry without warning. It's like wearing a mood ring over my head. (Though if I were narcissistic enough to believe my antsy irritation were truly affecting the weather, you would be well within your rights to have me committed. I'm narcissistic enough to believe a lot of things, but not that. Yet.)

And I can't intersperse my grumbling with pictures of sweet baby faces, so I'll bookmark this day with some of my recent meals, inexpertly taken with my camera. Clearly this photography business is a work in progress for me.

Risotto with fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil.

A.k.a. the recipe that used up the last of my balsamic vinegar, shattered my tiny Le Creuset pot, and started my second-largest kitchen fire.



YES, it was the recipe's fault.



Chicken casserole a la JULIE.



A.k.a. my favorite casserole of all time. She won't teach me the recipe (she says there is none, but I think she's just keeping all the goodness for herself). Deceptively simple, but richly satisfying.



Shells with pasta sauce and slices of melty fresh mozzarella, topped with slow-baked eggs.



An experiment of sorts, so easy and so tasty.

The one thing lifting my spirits today, aside from the fact that only 52 minutes remain of the work hours, is the presence of two old friends outside my cubicle window.



Mama and papa, flitting around like two birds do. They're tiny and they're up rather high, being just outside my fifth-floor window as they are. Where's Waldo and his pretty lady?

There they are.



Here's to brighter plumage tomorrow.

My friend JULIE has a 4-year-old son named Alex. Alex is a prodigy, a speaker of full sentences at 9 months old, born a big-eyed, bald-headed genius with a propensity for heart-breaking.

Alex's legendary vocabulary has become my vernacular; he is responsible for "issat newiss?" (what's that noise?), "ee-pahd" (iPod), "motor troll" (remote control), and "wha hoppeen?" (what happened?). He is stubbornly literal and rigid, as 4-year-olds are wont to be, and funnier and more sensitive than he has any right to be.

He's in for the surprise of his life.

JULIE found out today that the fetal project she's been working on for the past 20 weeks is going to be a girl.



Thankfully Alex has chosen a gender-neutral name for his sibling-to-be: Termie.



I am so thrilled for her, and for her family, and for the opportunity to watch what happens when daddies have daughters.

Mr. JULIE is in big trouble.



You can track the B family's journey, and Alex's exploits, here, at JULIE's blog.



And since you're already procrastinating, stop by LSiS's Internet homespace, here. They're each giving the world a smart, wise-cracking, take-no-prisoners lady and some absolutely undone dads and grandpas.

Thank heavens.