retail therapy

I recently purchased this print:


That's right, it says, "Bacon is like a little hug from God." I think the print is quite fetching, but I do wonder if it might be a portent of things to come. What do you call a diet-inspired impulse buy? Can anyone think of a good Sniglet?

Speaking of Sniglets, we played a rousing round the other evening. We'd all had one of these - a rosemary manhattan:


So we may not have been our cleverest. But what we lacked in wit, we made up in artistry:

The Great Reducing and One Last Hurrah

n.o.c. and I have been reducing. We've reduced our carbon footprints, our consumerism, our time on the internets, and, most recently, we've decided to reduce our waistlines. We're a small people, but we've noticed a gentle and insidious thickening that is most upsetting when accompanied by the general doughiness of February. Heretofore, n.o.c. has ridiculed all slimming activities, scoffing at actual portion sizes and holding fast to bizarre, fatty theories about food and health. He has actually claimed that the consumption of Chipotle burritos has salubrious effects on the lungs, and he has touted the digestive properties of sausage. However, after a few disconcerting incidents with pant size, I received the following email:

According to a calorie counter I found online, I had 839 calories worth of drinks last night. Add that to the 459 calorie piece of pie I had yesterday a.m., and you're talking about a completely superfluous 1300 calories on a random thursday, for no good reason. A chipotle burrito has 1170 calories. How am I not 350 lbs?

He's a changed man. Two weeks ago, he wanted to eat a deep-fried, cheese-stuffed, bacon-topped hamburger; this week, I had to pull him away from the diet drugs at CVS. "It's just caffeine," he mumbled sadly.

Our strategy is simple, if sad and boring. We will only drink three nights a week. (It pains me to write that.) We will eat less cheese and bacon. (Pains me even more to write that.) We will continue our gym regimen, and, with luck, we will be more attractive than Our Favorite New Englanders by the time we go to the beach with them in April. The goal is not simply to look good; the goal is to look better than our friends. (That would be the gauntlet.)

BUT, before we began in earnest, we decided to have one last hurrah with Our Favorite Baltimorians. Their house (a whole house!) is fabulous, with a much-coveted amount of square footage.

The dining room:



They have the coolest shit. Like urns full of wind instruments:


One of the more colorful instruments:

And collections of heads:


Dinner was slap-your-mother good. Beer-braised brisket, Deborah Madison's leek and goat cheese galette (Make this. Immediately.), and beet salad with tarragon, followed by wine-poached pears in cardamom cream:





After dinner, we bid adieu to the joys of life with a Satie's Gymnopédie No.1. Lovely.



I promise not to bore you with tales of deprivation. Just know that if I seem to have a bit less happy, it's probably because I'm hungry and in need of drink.

On another track entirely, I forgot to mention the best part of my recent Professional Development Bof*ckingnanza. Toward the end of the day, things got touchy-feely, which, as you probably know, makes me want to gouge out my eyes with a dull spoon. The indisputable highlight came when we were asked to reflect on a teacher who "touched our lives," AND THEN THEY PLAYED "UNFORGETTABLE" WHILE WE "REFLECTED." There really are no words.