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Hello, my name is Agi and I’m a dooce‘oholic. The last 72 hours I have spent on the couch, laptop resting under my chin, while browsing through the archives and flickr files uploaded by the Armstrongs for the world to see and get ADDICTED! I haven’t slept, eaten, brushed, or shaved. I may have cut some cheese here and there, but was too busy to acknowledge it. Here’s a proof of the madness found after I had finally scraped my rear end off of the above-mentioned piece of our household.

Seriously, I think I should quit dooce, you know, the most popular mommy blog on the face of the Earth. My maternal instincts have been howling for quite some time now. Hence, Cosmo. Hence, the girls and boys names’ lists. Hence, dooce… The problem with the latter is that every time I visit the website and watch some 30 second video of the Armstrongs’ older offspring, or a picture of their joyous 6-month old dumpling with those HUGE blue eyes, it’s as if I was tossing shots of grain alcohol into a fireplace while standing right in front of it.

It’s not the lack of practice that stops Jason and I from procreating, oh no. On the contrary, we have been practicing with such intensity and devotion that we discovered we possessed skills previously unbeknownst to us. I shall elaborate on that…NOT.

There are several reasons preventing us from making babies, however. The most immediate one is made of lubricated latex. Next, there are several existential circumstances, if you will, that are still amiss for us to start talking family. And if I am to point fingers, a steady income and health insurance, or rather a temporary lack there of must take the blame.

In order to expedite the process of getting our shit together and organizing our lives, I’ve been proactive securing our best odds. Not only have I been flipping coins into the local WISHING WELL, rubbing Buddha’s belly right before bed, offering an innocent lamb to Zeus and the rest of the Olympian gang on every full moon, but also I’ve been trying to start my own business and work as a Personal Chef. Considering how brand new the idea is, I’m proud to say the first clients arrived.

Let me share with you my joy of cooking for people who love the food I make for them. Cheers to the very simple GREEN SALAD WITH MAPLE ROASTED ROOT VEGETABLES.

What you do is you go to a store and pick up a bunch of fresh, organic root vegetables like carrots, parsnips, red and golden beets, and maybe some butternut squash to finish the patchwork of colors. Peel ‘em and cut ‘em in even chunks. Preheat your oven to 400°. Spread the colorful joy of nature flat on a baking sheet, then season it all with kosher salt and black pepper, drizzle with olive oil and then maple syrup (Grade B, always). Roll your sleeves up and get your hands dirty mixing all veggies and spreading the love evenly. Shove the pan into the oven and let them ROAST for 25 to 40 minutes (depending on the size of your chunks, and I’m not talking dirty here).

While the root vegetables are getting their sins forgiven within the hell of your oven, fetch your greens (e.g. arugula, chopped collard greens, spinach) – wash ‘em, spin ‘em dry, and place  ‘em in a BIG bowl. Add a handful of chopped toasted pecans, drizzle with a simple BALSAMIC VINAIGRETTE (you know: balsamic vinegar, good olive oil, salt, pepper, Magic Bullet or a whisk in a fast hand), and toss around. When your veggies are done, let them cool for a minute and then add to the bowl. Once again, shake ‘em up a little with your salad spoons. Last but not least, crumble just a touch of goat cheese all over the bowl for that extra creamy texture. It’s optional, however, as the salad will be just PHENOMENAL without the cheese as well.

Believe it or not, this very SALAD WITH MAPLE ROASTED ROOT VEGETABLES makes for a delectable, healthy, balanced, and perfectly satiating dinner. If there is anything else to do that evening it’s to enjoy a glass of wine and shag your better half.

Oh-Mah-Gawd, what a paralyzing accident did I get myself into last night! I crashed face first into a platter of… (are you sitting down?)… CARAMELIZED PEARS WITH… (oh, god, save my soul!)… WHIPPED CREAM.

Our sweet neighbor Mike stopped by in the afternoon hours carrying “something small and trivial, but better than sex”. He appeared at our threshold oh-so gently cupping two precious, juicy, perfectly ripe pears he had purchased from a specialty store. Generous man that he is, he hurried to share the joy the fruit had given him and Peter, his husband, with us.

We have a special bond with our neighbors, as not only are they fun, life loving, gregarious and genuine people, but also Mike is as nuts about playing in the kitchen as I am (if not more…? Nah, can’t be!). He often runs over with treats of his own making as those are the simple things in life that make the difference. It doesn’t hurt that Peter, like myself, is Polish. All in all, most of the neighbors are rather sweet and semi-chatty making the place our version of “Melrose Place”. Well, maybe with less inter-unit screwing.

Mike tenderly slipped both pears into Jason’s hands while giving the cooking instructions to me. “Slice those babies up and sauté them with a little brown sugar. They’re heavenly. I’m telling you, they’re better than sex!” he exclaimed visibly elated and off he returned to his lovely abode.

I know, I know I was supposed to keep it clean and light during that time squeezed between holidays. I didn’t plan on being put against the wall by an idea of that incredibly decadent dessert that’s “better than sex”. Who could resist that? So I did it. Yup, I broke and made the CARAMELIZED PEARS WITH (gasp) WHIPPED CREAM. You can walk around huffing and puffing all you want, but you can’t stop me from telling you ABOUT THOSE PEARS, because it’s simply too divine to just keep it to myself.

I followed Mike’s directions, and sliced the fruit into half-an-inch thick discs and set them on a heated pan with a touch of olive oil and butter. I sprinkled them with raw cane sugar, as that’s the only kind of sugar you’ll find in this household. Then I christened each slice with a drop of pure vanilla extract, and drizzled fresh lemon juice all over the pan. Just a touch. I let everybody get happy for a few minutes over a low-medium heat. Then I flipped the pears and gave the other side a moment to lounge in their own juices.

Within minutes I had this beautiful delight on a platter dressed with a flower of whipped cream and drizzled with its own caramelized juices. All it needed was a dust of cinnamon and a fork. The rest is history.

The whole pear incident, from start to the last bite, took no more than half an hour. However, I needed many hours of bouncing off the walls in our living room before I wore off the sugar rush and was able to settle down in bed for the night. Just saying.

And yes, it was ORGASMIC. Jason, however, thinks pears taste like dirt, so he would have none of the dessert and he never experienced what I did. I guess we’ll cultivate the old fashion way and won’t give up sex just yet. (PHEW!)

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