Thursday, June 30, 2011

womp womp

lesson learned: hold the bag by the base (also, yes, that is the same bottle of V8 fusion juice that's been in that same place on the counter for, well, don't even ask me how many months)

cute? yes. precise? maybe not so much...

egg separation fail

lesson learned: frozen berries go rogue in the oven

For what I lack in meal preparation skills, I like to think I make up for in the baking arena.  I don't say this because I like to brag, but because I feel like I should be able to do at least something right in the kitchen. 

And usually, I can.  Usually, I can make an addictive batch of chocolate chip cookies for overseas friends, or a spot-on tiramisu for Sunday girls dinner.  I've expanded the repetoire lately to include the often-baked blueberry buttermilk cake, and I have a bevy of bookmarked links with new things to try.

So when my office decided we needed to send our boss off in style, I offered to crank out a few things for our final staff meeting with her.  I already knew my new go-to guy, mr. blueberry buttermilk, was going to make an appearance.  But this seemed to be the perfect opportunity to yank Pioneer' Woman's coffee cake recipe right out of the "someday file."  The Pioneer Woman's recipes have never failed me (see: bbq sauce, shortbread cookies), and I'm a sucker for anything with that much butter (there must be some French lineage in there somewhere...). 

Things did not get off to a fortuitous start.  As I was attempting to grease and flour the bundt pan, I grabbed the (very full) bag of flour by the top, and dropped a good cup to cup and half of flour in the sink.  After I defrosted a plethora of frozen blueberries, I dripped bright blue juice all over the floor.  As that cake baked, I noticed a remarkable absence of blueberries (meaning they'd all sunk to the bottom of the pan, which, unfortunately, became a very unattractive TOP of the cake). 

If all else fails, I've got the Pioneer Woman cake, I thought.

So while the blueberry cake baked along in the oven (losing a few reliability points, mind you) I chopped pecans, I creamed butter and sugar, I separated eggs....or should I say "I tried to separate eggs?" As i was cracking egg number two of three, I managed to drop a bit of yolk into my bowl of whites.  And I didn't have enough eggs to just start over.  Trying to embrace the Pioneer Woman's nonchalant attitude, I rolled with it (after kicking myself). 

When it came time to beat the egg whites into stiff peaks, I felt like the tiny bit of yolk was leading the whole crew on a revolt, because after several minutes of trying (with an electric mixer and with a whisk), I admitted defeat and accepted that the eggs were staunchly against moving past the soft peak stage. I folded them in to the batter, threw it in the pan, and poured the sinful topping on there (I say sinful because, well, it's butter, sugar, cinnamon, and pecans.  Heavy on the first two). 

I mean, really how big of a deal are properly beaten eggs? Right?

So, while me and my type A self would've been content to sit in front of the oven and watch the cake (hopefully) bake up properly, I had about eighty bajillion dishes to contend with.  See, I always start out all "clean as you go" and organized.  Then egg yolks go rogue, blueberry juice is all over the floor, the egg whites join the egg yolks in revolt, and I just don't have time to worry if the counter is littered with various tools that were pressed in to duty in an attempt to stave off a kitchen uprising.  

After what seemed like ages, my hands were pruney, but the casualties around the kitchen had all been accounted for and were scrubbed and drying peacefully on various towels.  I finally had time to check on the cake.

It was puffing up, not at all like the delicious "sinking" of the sinful toppings as Pioneer Woman had described in her recipe.  Even when I pulled it out of the oven and gave it a gentle (ok, maybe slightly violent) thwack on the counter, there wasn't much settling. 

But I am happy to report that when both coffee cakes were sliced up in oh-so-professional fashion (thanks to my years behind the counter at Midtown Cafe), they were incredible.  The Pioneer Woman cake in particular was a hit (I mean, three sticks of butter might be responsible for that...just sayin).  If there was any lingering hesitancy to my acceptance here in the office, I think it was decimated by the coffee cake. 

So anyways...normally "stress baking" manages to assuage whatever nagging worries have been keeping me awake at night.  The farewell coffee cakes certainly distracted me, but they were a little unexpectedly stressful.  Nevertheless, the overall success of the endeavor has re-convinced me that I can do at least one thing right in the kitchen, even if said kitchen ends up covered in blueberry juice.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

for a rainy day

long before the "someday file" actually existed, i think this chocolate hazelnut mousse cake was in it

My discovery of the blog "Dinner: a Love Story" happily coincided with my pledge to give up eating out for Lent. Not only did I try a handful of their recipes, but I really associated with some of the sentiments they articulate with respect to getting dinner on the table frequently. Along those lines, the woman has a "someday file"--the mental list of all the dishes she'd make if the culinary stars aligned.  

It reminded me of the list of things (not mental, but jotted down and pinned to my fridge by my magnetic kitchen timer) I would miss most during Lent.  I wanted to master those dishes, both to distract myself from my restaurant withdrawals and to feel some small sense of kitchen-based accomplishment previously lacking in the LKTC. 

Unlike the Dinner: a Love Story bloggers, my "someday" recipes seem pedestrian, and my excuses for averting my eyes from the list some nights were pretty weak.  They, after all, have picky kids to contend with, and that trumps my laziness any day. 

Fortunately there were at least a few things on the list that I conquered, thanks in equal part to the ideas in their post and to my self-generated guilt.  So while the "patas bravas" and "drunken noodle" bullets still mock me from their positions on the list, there are surprising number of things I at least attempted.  There was the bolognese/bread night, the buttermilk biscuit/meatball day, and the successful chicken korma re-creation (that eventually followed the afore-linked cooking class).

The someday file for the LKTC is a little neglected, both in terms of supplying new recipes and bringing them to fruition. In fact, I'm eating pasta with peas as I type this, and if that doesn't put the italics on my point on the necessity of cracking open the file, I don't know what does.  

I'll get right on that...after my long-weekend adventures...

Wednesday, June 22, 2011


If you know me at all, you know a few things about me.  I'm terrified of flying, I have a minor shopping problem, I always eat the red chewable vitamins first,  bad reality tv is my post-work weakness, and I am basically allergic to cooking/cleaning (much like I am to networking).  

I am fairly vocal about said personality traits, as the boys in the office across from me are quickly learning.  (Side note for clarification: at my new job, we have people sitting 3 to an office in some cases, and the office directly across from my otherwise isolated cube is occupied by a hilariously opposite duo of guys in their mid 30s; given our proximity, we talk often).    

So over the course of my first 2 1/2 weeks on the job, the boys and I have gotten into conversations that have revealed my aversion to cleaning, cooking, and the like.  This led one of them to declare (with more than a tinge of incredulousness) I've met women who don't want kids, but I've never met someone so resistant to being domesticated before. 

Unfortunate association with feral animals aside, he has a point.  After all, this was my dinner (on top of a cheese stick and some carrots with hummus):  

but isn't this the cutest bowl ever? need a closer look, well you're in luck...

(the latest edition to my new collection of little bowls, courtesy of World Market)

Ok, so, when I started the Lent adventure (and this blog), I had hoped dinners like this would become a thing of the past (except for the cute bowl thing--that isn't going anywhere).  To be fair, I am eating out way, way less.  I'd show you my credit card bill, but I don't want you stealing what little money I have left.  But in general, I'm succumbing to the anti-domestication tendencies.  I'm planning fewer meals, making more sporadic and unsuccessful grocery trips, and deferring to my pre-Lent dinners of child-like carbs. 

I think I just need a little motivation to get me back into the LKTC.  I'm cautiously optimistic about a completely lop-sided trifold plan I have developed while watching bad reality tv (see paragraph one) and wondering what exactly the upstairs neighbors can fight about so frequently and at such a frightening volume.  

It goes a little something like this (my plan, not their fights...we'll save those for another time): exploit new subscription to Bon App├ętit (thanks Groupon!), read through latest issue of Cooking Light the parents left behind this past weekend, and break in my little green ramekins making deep dish cookies (about which I just read today, apparently making me the last person on the face of the earth to hear of them).  

I say it is lopsided because two things will likely happen: 1) I will make the cookies first (and let's be serious, there's no dearth of dessert in my life, meaning that is the last thing I should be cranking out in the LKTC), and 2) I will devour said cookies as I tear out pages of the magazines, drip a little of the requisite vanilla bean ice cream on the pages, and file the recipes away for a  later date.  If they're anything like the bajillion recipes I stole from my parents' cook books back in February, they will look real pretty in my lime green binder, but they'll never have to worry seeing the artificial light of day in my kitchen.  

But at least I'm going to make a bit of a renewed effort, which is more than I can say for the past few weeks.  If anything, I can at least avoid future parallels between myself and an animal of the dangerous variety. 

Monday, June 20, 2011

these boots are made for walkin'

navigating Venetian acqua alta in my beloved colorful Pucci rainboot

the even more beloved bright pink hunter wellies that have since replaced the Pucci pair

Today didn't have a lot of things going for it.  My apartment felt empty after the departure of my family. It was raining torrentially when I woke up.  Said wake-up did not happen in a punctual fashion as I forgot to set my alarm last night.  I left my coffee on my kitchen counter when I made a mad dash for the bus.  My linen dress resembled an accordion after approximately an hour (note to self: stop buying linen). Tough life, I know.   

Enter my shiny pink wellies.  I'm not typically the kind of girl to go walking around the city smiling.  Maybe at home I would, but around here, I think people just look at you like perhaps they need to remove all sharp objects from your general vicinity (especially if you're walking around smiling in driving wind/rain/snow). But these wellies put a definitive spring in my step, and a (small) smile on my face, torrential downpours and all. And it never fails--any time I wear the pink wellies, I get a lot of commentary from the peanut gallery. (Notes to peanut gallery: yep, they're pink.  Bright pink.  I knew that when I bought them.  I meant to do it.  I love them.)

Now, I've gotten a lot of random comments (see: notes to peanut gallery), but today was the first time anyone has broken out in song upon seeing my pink rain boots.  As I rounding the corner towards home, I heard someone belting out "these boots are made for walking."  I was honestly rendered speechless.  I mean, how do you respond to that? Not to worry, he just kept singing as I walked past.   

I trudged home in the suddenly sunny, humid afternoon, feeling a little less of a spring in my step now that the wellies were totally out of place.  I decided steak and potatoes were the solution to the late-breaking case of the Mondays that had settled in post-lunch.  When that didn't quite do the job, I decided to follow it up with a dessert of chocolate teddy grahams dipped in vanilla ice cream.  Genius if I do say so myself.  

Thursday, June 16, 2011

the yoga dichotomy

on one side of the LKTC, we have my oh-so-grown up dinner (ps-have I mentioned lately how much I love my overly magnetic apartment? well, I really do)

and on the other, we have all the makings of blueberry buttermilk pound cake

is this not the cutest little bundt pan you've ever seen? no? well it's the cutest one i've ever seen 

Today is the third time I've made it to Pentagon yoga, meaning I currently have perfect attendance since I first started going again after a one year hiatus.  I realized that yoga class tends to inspire some pretty dichotomous thoughts, and subsequently actions.

There are moments in yoga where you feel like the world's most powerful person.  When you're in the middle of bird of paradise (go ahead, google it, I'll be here when you get back), it can be really energizing.  

Then there are moments in yoga where you feel like you can just check out when it's convenient.  Most yoga classes begin with the reminder that you can return to child's pose (go ahead, google this one, too) at any time the practice becomes "more than you want it to" that day. I don't know about you, but I rarely need an invitation to take it easy in the gym (yeah, I warned you all a long time ago that I was lazy).  

You can quickly go from twisting yourself into a pretzel to just laying on the mat while the rest of the class goes from plank to downward dog and back a million times.  

Tonight's yoga class was low intensity, but very balance-focused, which can demand a good deal of concentration (something I've long struggled with in yoga). I initially left feeling all world-conquer-y.  Or at least kitchen conquer-y.  I had grand plans of walking home from the metro station further from my apartment to allow for a stop at Safeway, and thus an ambitious dinner involving the chicken I remembered to set in the fridge to defrost pre-work this morning.  

Then I got to the Pentagon metro and realized I had to wait 15 minutes for a train. This would typically incite a frustrated, antsy response, but tonight all I could muster was a halfhearted complaint to Allie via BBM.  I attribute this in part to my Nook (seriously, love that thing), as it allowed me to re-immerse myself in my latest purchase, The Fourth Star.  (I felt like I needed something with a little more weight after devouring The Help.  Must say, not totally loving it, but, they're at the part where all four generals are in/involved in Iraq so I currently can't put it down).  Reading always makes me sleepy, and the lingering stress from starting my new job snuck up on me and joined forces with the sleepiness. 

Suddenly I was on the opposite end of the yoga dichotomy and indulging the "you can quit any time your body tells you to" part.  (I should have known it was coming.  I totally bowed out of 3 separate instances of camel pose because I just wasn't in the mood).  By the time I made it home, I had no desire to so much as touch that raw chicken, but I did want to bake.

So I scarfed down a bowl of cheerios (see above) while talking to Mom about the family's impending visit (hence the blackberry's prominent position in the baking line up above), setting up the LKTC for some light baking, and taking pictures.  Check out that multitasking skill.  (Obviously the world conquer-y endorphins were still making one last stand)

I had both buttermilk and blueberries that were nearing the end of their short life spans, so I decided to make this cake that I've baked with great success before (with blueberries in place of raspberries, as I hate raspberries).  A cop out, I know, but, I was only feeling so inspired.  It turned out to be a bit of a mess, with a fine layer of creamed butter/sugar on my work out clothes (ironic, yes), but there were no major disasters, and by the smell of things, it came out deliciously. I won't be cutting in to it until the family arrives this weekend.  Stay tuned. 

Now in keeping with the freewheeling side of the yoga dichotomy, I'm going to ignore the dishes and go read in bed.  Genuine wild woman right here.   

Monday, June 13, 2011

what do you think happens in the fridge, jenny?

surprisingly, this is not how it's meant to open

I didn't plan on eating at home tonight. I was supposed to go from work to a grad school fair.  And then I had an allergic reaction to the thought of networking.  I hate networking on a good day.  I loathe it after I have spent the past week meeting new people at a new job. So, I hemmed, I hawed, I called my parents to have them talk me out of going.  I chatted with a new coworker for almost an hour to just plain avoid going.  

So by the time I headed home, I wasn't just hungry, I was really mad at myself.  I had absolutely no excuse for not going.  And yet I still didn't. So I refused to let myself buy dinner.  No rewarding slacker behavior here (err, at least not today, that is). 

Instead I came home, and forced myself to cook.  I have a few bags of pasta sauce frozen for nights when I'm starving and either don't have time or don't have energy to cook, but pasta sounded terrible. I really wanted, I decided, a steak.  As the steak was defrosting, I debated a side dish.  I couldn't really stomach another round of plain pasta or rice, so I dug out my recipe binder that I threw together when the Lent adventure was gearing up. 

I realized that this would be the perfect time to use up a bag of spinach that was nearly expired in my fridge.  See, I have this irrational preoccupation with expiration dates and spoiled food.  I always hesitate to so much as touch expired anything, and I won't eat leftovers that have been in the fridge more than a day, maybe two.  My friend/former coworker Allison found this so stymying that she finally asked me "what do you think happens in the fridge, Jenny?"

I think things go bad, that's what!  So, this spinach was a ticking time bomb in the LKTC, and using it in a couscous recipe was the only way to defuse it without totally wasting it.  I got the garlic minced and the olive oil heating up, and went to open the couscous (which has been sitting unopened on my shelf since, oh, February).   I broke off a little tab...and nothing happened.  I pulled, I tugged, I tried to use a knife for leverage (I get a little irrational when I'm especially hungry).  No dice.

I thought about just reverting to plain rice or pasta, but then I got all Catholic guilt-y on myself. You can't just give up on everything today, Jenny.  So I attacked the plastic lid of the couscous with the scissors.  I'm sure the neighbors were concerned, as it sounded a bit like I had shot something.  Then again they spend 90% of their time yelling violently at each other, so, I like to think of this as inadvertent payback. My brief fit of rage against the couscous was a success, and I managed to whip up a surprisingly delicious complement to the steak. (I say surprisingly because I had never even tried couscous before tonight.  I have a lot of lost time to make up for). I can't say the PBR added much to the meal, but I've had a case of it since well, I won't even tell you what month (not to mention year), and the slowly dwindling supply of cans has been mocking me from the refrigerator for ages. 

I made enough couscous that there are, ironically, leftovers.  I'll be sure to eat them within 24 hours, don't worry, Allison!

ps-in case I left anyone particularly curious, the sweet potato biscuits were pretty good.  The girls at Sunday dinner were awfully effusive.  Then again they were probably just being overly polite to spare my feelings.  

pps-the couscous I now find myself borderline obsessed with is of the Israeli variety, and I think I will prefer it to the much smaller (regular) couscous. I say this like I have any idea what I'm talking about.  I don't. 

Sunday, June 12, 2011

pumpkin homicide

So the title of this is, I admit, a little deceptive.  I neither cooked something with pumpkin nor killed anything/anyone.  For a while this afternoon, I did, however, look like I had committed a felony against a poor, innocent pumpkin.

Tonight is the first Sunday girls dinner in over a month, and Alicia volunteered to host.  She's taking on an ambitious menu of southern favorites, so I volunteered to bring an appetizer. I don't really know what constitutes an appetizer in the southern genre (don't bother saying "duh, fried green tomatoes" because I will just tell you right here and now that I hate tomatoes.  Yes, I've tried them.) 

I did, however, remember these delicious sweet potato biscuits that once preceded  a meal of fried chicken and mac and cheese at one of my favorite restaurants at home.  It has since closed, and a tiny part of me died inside.  To compensate, I successfully replicated their mac and cheese (although they would never divulge their recipe), but I never tried to make those biscuits myself. Only since the Lent adventure started did I even try to make regular biscuits.  

But I figured if there ever were an opportune time for experimenting, it was Sunday girls dinner.  Alicia is already serving enough food for a small army, so if the biscuits are a flop, I won't have starving women angrily eying me over their wine glasses.  I say "if the biscuits are a flop" because they are currently still in the oven, and I'm hastily typing this out before I have to dash to her house.  I'm ignoring a giant pile of intimidatingly dirty dishes to bring you this update.  You're welcome. 

This was also a perfect time to experiment because all I needed for the biscuits were the sweet potatoes themselves, but the thought of going to Giant just for sweet potatoes didn't incite my usual irrational distaste for grocery store trips because I also needed a few things to sustain me.  You can only eat Snackwells for breakfast so many times before you just give in and get in the car and point it towards the grocery. 

In keeping with a handful of the comments on the the recipe, I decided to bake the sweet potatoes instead of boiling them to try and mitigate the "super sticky dough" issue (boiling infuses the potatoes with more water than baking).  I'm really glad I did, because the dough was still ridiculously sticky.  

Case in point, I thought I was at a point where it was safe to knead the dough per the instructions. I came away with hands covered in orange potato-flour-y goo.  It, in all seriousness, looked as though I attacked a pumpkin with serious force.  I am a self-admitted stress baker, but I have never intentionally destroyed an ingredient before.  After peeling the dough off my hands, I threw more flour in there, and managed to create a ball of dough that I then patted into a circle and cut in to biscuit shapes.  We'll find out in about 10 mintues if it was a successful experiment or not...

In the mean time, here's the photographic proof that I finally baked something other than cookies:

Can you tell that I'm a Giant-brand devotee?

The LKTC has no microwave, so this is how I melted the butter (the stovetop gets really hot when the oven is on.  So hot that I burned my fingers on that stupid bowl 5 minutes into the adventure)

Nothing with this much butter can turn out poorly, right?

Yes, it looks harmless, but soon this sweet potato will coat my hands like gloves

This recipe claims it makes 25 biscuits.  Do you believe them? Because I sure don't

The recipe also says to only re-use the scraps once. It doesn't say what happens if you don't heed that advice.  Obviously I believed it was something awful and scary.  So this is what went to waste. 

The seven dinner biscuits and my little test biscuit

I failed at Dad's "clean as you go" mantra this time around

Thursday, June 9, 2011

zen busters

(apparently I have not always been a big lazy bum)

The minute I thought of that title, the Ghost Busters song popped in to my head for reasons unbeknownst to be (I've never so much as seen it).  And now it's in yours, too.  You're welcome. 

Inspiration?  The rapid decline of my first post-yoga zen in, shudder, nearly a year.  When I left DoD last summer, I had to give up my awesome gym membership.  While at State, I never quite found a replacement for either the Pentagon gym or its staggering array of free group classes.  I think we've discussed that I'm on the lazier side of the spectrum, yes?  But now that I'm back in the DoD fold once again, I'm able to re-join the much-loved Pentagon gym.  I did so on day 2 at the new gig, feeling some odd sense of healthy momentum that I feared would swing back in the direction of my comfy couch far too quickly if I didn't wholeheartedly embrace it.  And I ate a couple dunkin donuts that morning and was feeling guilty.  Details. 

Since I don't work at the Pentagon proper, I plan to make the trek over there a few days at week for what I fondly call Pentagon yoga. If I can't do something, anything, healthy two days a week, well, that's just shameful (I never would have guessed my waistline would benefit from my Catholic guilt).  Other days, I'll try to use the little outpost of the PAC near my office.  If it's anything like the PAC, I will be one of the only female, non-military people sweating it up over the lunch hour.  Even yoga, which I think of as being much more popular with women, was roughly 85 to 90% male tonight. 

I digress.  So, since this was my first yoga class in nearly a year, it took every ounce of strength (not much) and energy (even less) that I had to keep my balance and not just give up when we did the bajillionth plank to downward dog.  Not only did I feel proud of myself for making it to class even though I was exhausted and had missed the shuttle (meaning it would have been easy to go on home and just forget it), every last ounce of my concentration was spent trying to do all the moves.  Normally one of the hardest parts of yoga class for me is keeping my mind clear the entire hour.  Tonight, it flew by. 

I floated out of the studio, feeling a little sore already, but in that good "I'm sort of doing something healthy" way.  I floated right on down to the metro, where I read my way through what would have normally been an obnoxiously long wait on for the train (thanks again for that Nook, parents!). I didn't even mind that my phone was dead, meaning I couldn't check to see if a bus was coming.  I'd take the much longer walk home from the metro.  See me being all healthy?  

As I emerged from the station, I was suddenly not so over the moon about my trek home.  I knew it was hot today, but I don't think I had acknowledged just how hot it would still be at 7pm.  Correction: I didn't realize it'd be like walking through pea soup.  That was still simmering on a stove. 

And then I found myself walking between the real zen busters.  

The couple in front of me was carrying large, greasy bags from Five Guys.  I don't even like burgers and fries that much, but I was so hungry that I briefly debated tackling them and making off with what I could. My sore muscles (and maybe some good sense) won, and I accepted that I'd be following the scent of dinner all the way home (where I had, of course, forgotten to defrost something to cook).  

The woman behind me was on her phone the entire 10+ minute walk (apparently she lives in my building).  I'm the first to pick up the phone to help a long walk pass more quickly, but I am hyper-sensitive about what volume I am using.  I loathe strangers hearing me talk on the phone (and generally assume most people don't want to hear me yammering away, either).  This girl, however, had no qualms about giving her friend a detailed play by play of her disastrous dates of late, her fears of being alone forever, her curiosity over why guys aren't fond of her etc.  Based solely on what I overheard on the walk, I could give her a few ideas regarding her more, umm, off-putting, qualities.  In case you're worried about her fate, she plans to (and I quote) "just join the dark side and become a lesbian." 

Between my hunger pains and the Dr. Phil episode unfolding behind me, I felt the yoga zen quickly melting away.  I think this means I'll just have to go back for more next week.   

Monday, June 6, 2011

brain dead

I have no pictures of my first dinner in the LKTC post-vacation.  This is because a)it wasn't even close to pretty and b)I got home in a state of frightening hunger, and I just didn't feel like risking starvation in the name of blog photography.   

Today just plain kicked me in the behind.  I would be over the moon if I were on the dock at the lake fishing (hence the wistful/nostalgic picture).  Instead, I woke up before 6 am, drove out to Ft. Belvoir (~20 miles away, but a one hour trek each way), filled out a lifetime's worth of paperwork, drove to Crystal City and filled out even more paperwork while enduring a day's worth of vague/pointless briefings, then finally drove home (which took 45 minutes.  I can't even talk about it yet).  

See, I really, really abhor driving.  Especially when it is traffic-tastic and/or I don't know where I'm going.  Both of said conditions were present today.  And I had to pay $20 to park in Crystal City.  Which pretty much just did not even phase me, I was so drained by that point.

So by the time I walked in the door to my already messy apartment, I just stepped right out of my shoes, threw my jacket somewhere near the shoes, dropped my tote bag (with copious paperwork) in the vicinity of the couch, and headed straight for sustenance.  

And now I am sitting amongst the piles of mail and paperwork and I can't even turn on the tv.  I am so tired of hearing people speak...I swear I almost spontaneously combusted at some point today during all the briefings.  Clearly my attention span has waned significantly since college.  Luckily, I managed to avoid creating a scene (cue self-congratulatory pat on the back for maintaining adult-like composure).  

As I sit here all but brain dead and exhausted, I'm left wondering what became of my glorious week off.  It ended in spectacular fashion with my second farewell happy hour and a wine festival.  I'm particularly bad at saying goodbye, so the farewell event was a bit tough, but it was very sweet of everyone to come send me off.  I'm particularly good at drinking wine, and the weather on Saturday was beyond perfect, so that definitely temporarily took my mind off of being sad about saying goodbye to my old office.

Now I'm going to go to do some yoga (and/or have a drink) to mentally prepare myself for another long day of briefings and paperwork tomorrow.  I'll be the one quietly repeating "you wanted this wanted this"