dying of laughter

The best part is that Todd has no idea why this is so damn awesome.

march madness

It's bracket time.

And I don't know a damn thing about sports, especially if they involve balls. (You can interpret this however you'd like.)

So let's talk about food instead.

And let's imagine that the French macaron is squaring off against the American macaroon. (Let's also imagine that I actually have a picture of the American macaroon, instead of a photo of two French macarons from Paulette, a San Francisco macaron "salon." Let's also ignore the fact that, based on this picture alone, it's quite evident where I'd put my money should a French vs. American championship game actually exist.)

Both the macaroon and the macaron are sweet and bite-sized. Both are usually made using a piping bag. (Both are also featured in the Wine Center's dessert pairing. Yes, shameless plug.)

However, the French macaron seems to require absolute precision, since the top half of the pastry has to match the bottom half exactly (unless you want freakish-looking macarons). It also requires egg whites, which for some reason always make a recipe seem more complicated. And almond powder is always involved. The end result is a little jewel of a sandwich cookie, filled with cream or ganache of some sort, with a fluffy, airy texture. (Or at least the good ones have that texture. The bad ones are sort of gummy.)

Meanwhile, the American macaroon typically involves coconut. And it kind of looks like a cute little haystack. The good ones have a very slight crunch but are still pliable. The bad ones are burned on the bottom and resemble tater tots.

However, given the choice, I would gladly take a bad American macaroon over a bad French macaron.

Yet when it comes down to it, I am a sucker for presentation. I am a No. 3. And for some reason, I associate American macaroons with baby showers. Therefore the French macaron wins.

I know you are surprised.

And I know you care. Because really, this is a stupid post and a silly premise. And the truth is: My brain is fried. This is what happens when you spend all weekend tying twine around things and calligraphying and picking out linens and looking for the right ring for a man who has never worn a ring ever in his life and thinks jewelry looks weird.

Did someone say madness? Madness!

awake because

Last night, we were in SF. In an artist's studio. In a basement in Bernal Heights.

We were learning how to properly melt wax to create a seal. (By the way, this does not involve sticking the wax directly into a flame. That will only result in black wax. And possibly a fire. I know because I have made this mistake many times. Which is why we needed said lesson in melting wax.)

And it hit me: We have two months. Two freaking months!

And shockingly: I think I am actually excited.

this is not PMS

Unfortunately, for me, this is just what you'd call "normal."

backtracking

I should have mentioned earlier that we went to Healdsburg Bar & Grill, also known as No. 5 on The Eat List or -- perhaps more accurately -- Home of the Fabulous Truffle Fries with Parmesan Cheese.

The experience? Pretty much perfect. (Well, except for the random drunk barrel tasters that were stumbling through downtown Healdsburg, waving wine glasses around and ignoring the crosswalks. There was even a bachelorette party -- all holding that tell-tale barrel tasting glass, all dressed identically in white shirts and jeans, all armed with matching pink shoulder bags. Scary. Please do not let this be in my future. Please. I beg you.)

And now back to perfection: Sunny day. Patio seating. Cold beer. Chopped salad with bacon and bleu cheese. Cute life partner-guy sitting across the table (we had just finished a round of miniature golf and arcade games). And of course, the glorious truffle fries.