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[about the author]

i actually like speaking in front of large crowds. freakish, eh?

i work crossword puzzles in ink.

i am the american nigella lawson. or maybe the american eddie izzard. can't decide, really.

i would be a really good mom, but i'm cool with being a really good aunt.

i am sometimes more perceptive than i would like to be.

i am fiercely loyal. sometimes, stupidly so.

i never play dumb. never.

i am way too hard on myself.

i am a change agent.

i sometimes cross that fine line between assertive and aggressive.

i am not afraid to tell people that i love them.

i am militantly pro-choice.

i am pro-adoption.

i know a little bit about alot of things.

i typically enjoy the company of men more than women.

i am capable of being really mean and nasty, but i fight it. hard.

i am a lifelong cubs fan. do not laugh.

i have been known to hold a grudge.

i have hips.

i am not my sister.

i am lousy at forgiving myself.

i am an indoor kind of gal.

i am a bargain shopper. to the point of obsession.

i am 32 flavors. and then some.

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[all content copyright 2007 by tequila mockingbird. seriously.]


this post is one part martha stewart and one part dave barry! which is to say, it includes a recipe and an amusing anecdote about a kid
last weekend, i went home to attend my niece's first dance recital.

for those of you who have never experienced the endurance test that is the dance recital, let me recap:

1. a bunch of three-year olds, none of whom are related to you, prance around in a way that has no relation to "dance" for about an hour and a half to the strains of such classics as what i like about you from the shrek 2 soundtrack and i hope you dance by lee ann womack. of course, this being west virginia, there was also a number involving boot scootin' boogie, during which time the entire three rows in front of me sang out loud with every word, causing me to weep softly in my seat.

2. your niece appears onstage for approximately three minutes, during which time you observe none of the non-dance-related prancing because you're trying to take pictures. and because you're still a little weepy from that boot scootin' boogie thing.

3. you go eat.

the next day, i told my niece i was really proud of her and very happy that she had invited me to come and watch her dance.

"i like star wars."

"oh. you do? well, your mom liked star wars, too. who is your favorite? my favorite is chewbacca. i love the wookies."

"i like them all. except the bad guy."

"the bad guy?"

"yeah. darth elevator."

then we ate grilled avacados, which, if you've never had grilled avocados, you totally should because they'll rock your face right off. which is a good way to welcome summer...with your face rocked off and a grilled avocado in front of you. anyway, enjoy.

you'll need:
-4 ripe avocados
-extra virgin olive oil
-really good balsamic vinegar [a general note: if you invest in really good balsamic vinegar, your life will be a much better and happier place. really. really high quality balsamic vinegar is a transformative elixir that makes everything from strawberries to lettuce to chicken to, well, avocados, taste like ambrosia from on high.]
-parmesan cheese [another general note: stop using that crap in the plastic jar. it's not parmesan cheese. it's crap. buy a hunk of quality cheese and a grater. it's not quite the elixir that quality balsamic is, but it's damn near close.]

do this:
- peel, pit and halve the avocados
- brush them with a little extra-virgin olive oil and some of the balsamic vinegar
- preheat the grill to medium heat
- put the avacodos face down on a hot open grill for about a minute; turn and cook for another minute or so [although i like to cook them a little longer; until they get the dark grill marks on them and the balsamic starts to carmelize just a touch...mmmmm]
- remove from the grill and shave parmesan over them while they're still warm

i also like to saute or grill some red onion and some grape tomatoes to have with these. pour yourself a nice glass of pinot grigio or riesling, and it's instant summer.
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