My bed is like quicksand lately.
Comfy Quicksand.

I don’t know what the hell is going on, but this life long insomniac has been sleeping like a champ lately. 9 hours one night, 10 hours the next…a record breaking 12 hours straight after my little visit to Margaritaville on Oscar night! It’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven, except I get to wake up and drink Graham Cracker coffee and eat english muffins.

The sleeps are so powerful it takes me at least two minutes to remember my middle name, and an additional two to recall the crazy dream I had the night before. One night there was a road trip to my old college and I got to see all of my old friends, (except we’re not old, ok! College was like two weeks ago!) Another night, I was expected to dance like a Fly Girl at some show even though I didn’t know the choreography. And last night, every single one of my work friends made me a cake. A chocolate cake. Hundreds of cakes piled high in my cubicle and I wasn’t expected to share.

Heaven without the dying.

So if you guys are cool with it, I’m going to go ahead and stay in my bed…forever. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. My glasses are on the window sill right next to me as are two books for my entertainment. Thank God I have a coffee press so that will fit on the sill, too. If you could stop by and check in on me, I’d appreciate it. Just pop a mini-pie in the oven for me on your way in, and bring the comfiest DVDs you can find..like “The Adventures of Pete and Pete”! Yes, please. Nothing brings me more joy than the best television open of all time.

You can climb in and hang out for a while.
As long as you bring a chocolate cake.

All that remains from last night’s batch of margaritas is a salty, limey countertop and a dirty skillet from the enchiladas I made to accompany them. I should have cleaned it before I left for work. But ya’ know… I had margaritas last night.

If you make these margaritas, I wouldn’t recommend driving…or betting in Oscar pools. Thanks to Eywa not showing up for Avatar last night, I owe some MoFo lunch this week. Luckily, I had enough sense to offer Noodle Bar… which he kept calling “Noodle Town”, p.s. Again…margaritas.

This is an Ina Garten recipe and it is LEGIT. Filled with booze, and devoid of the sugar that ruins most mixes. Easy to make, easy to drink, easy to lose Oscar bets. You’ve been warned.

New York City’s high temperature is 60 degrees today. If you’re enjoying some early spring, take your clothes off and make these margaritas. But later you guys…it’s only noon!

Ina Garten’s Real Margaritas
from Food Network

1 lime, halved
Kosher salt
1/2 cup freshly squeezed lime juice (5 limes)
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice (1 lemon)
1 cup Triple Sec
3 cups ice
1 cup white tequila

If you like margaritas served in a glass with salt, rub the outside rims of six glasses with a cut lime and dip each glass lightly into a plate of kosher salt.

Combine the lime juice, lemon juice, Triple Sec, and ice in a blender and puree until completely blended. Add the tequila and puree for 2 seconds more. Serve over ice.

If you prefer frozen margaritas, halve each of the ingredients, double the ice, and blend in two batches. Serve with a cut lime.

As is required by international galactic amateur photography law, here is a self-portrait taken with my new camera. I took this last night to try out my new (cheap) fast lens. The aperture is wide, which blurs the background nicely and hides the messy bedroom behind me.

It’s a little bit the terrifying climax of a sci-fi movie, right? Like I’m some creepy Camera-droid? The Hero suddenly wheels around on his bi-racial girlfriend, (whom he’s been frenching very publicly at all the dive-y space cantinas on their intergalactic road trip), and rips off her face to reveal she is one of them! A Camera Robot!

“No baby! Not you, too! I thought we were going to stop all of these generic self-portraits!”
But hello! Of course I’ve developed feelings for this puny human. So I’m all…
“BeeBooBopBeeBooBop…I…LOVE…YOU…HUMAN.”

Right?! This picture looks just like that, right?! Wait…no?

Sorry. I’ll take some better pictures this weekend.

This photo is one of my first with my new Canon Rebel T1i . I love it so much I want to marry it. Don’t worry, I’m taking a class tonight on DSLR basics. I’ll be sure to ask if there could possibly be anything else to take a picture of besides my brother and his sick Chia pet and snowy fire escapes.

In other news, my best friend Andrew made the terrible mistake of telling me he went to a restaurant called Portobello the other day- the first mistake being that he forgot the mere mention of the word “Portobello” would launch me into my Portobello Mushroom Hate Speech.

“Ughhh, I hate portobellos. HATE them!”
“I know, Sarah. I know.”
“They are too weird and big! And I don’t care what anybody says… I know they are secretly meat. I just know it!”

Andrew should have let me continue my speech like the grumpy old man I secretly am. He knows that once I’ve wound myself up to the place of “and don’t even get me STARTED on sun-dried tomatoes. They are definitely gigantic, gross raisins!”, my frustration burns itself off fairly quickly and we can get back to our usual business. But no. Andrew stepped in too early and made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

“Calm down! I don’t even think they serve portobellos.”
stunned silence
“Andrew. What the f–k are you talking about?”
“Oh God.”
“You are telling me that you’re going to a restaurant called Portobello and they DO NOT SERVE PORTOBELLO MUSHROOMS?!”
“I shouldn’t have said anything-”
“You don’t think that’s weird?! You don’t think that’s TOTALLY weird?!”
“Well, they don’t have to Sarah! Plus, you hate them. This should make you happy!”
“That is not the point now! This is so much bigger than that!
“Relax!”
“No. Listen to me. Let’s say that you and I go to a restaurant called Chocolate. And then I’m all ‘can I have some chocolate?’ and they’re all ‘No. We don’t have any.’
“…Fine.”
“You better believe it’s fine! Don’t ever tell me something like that and not expect a reaction!”
“I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you.”

Best friends til the bitter portobello end.

Please believe me when I tell you that there is NO ONE more sick of my snowy fire escape photos than me…or “I”. I don’t know, man. I got up way too early..and I am cranky..and I hate February…and I really don’t want to go to work today.

Please disregard any of my “snowstorms are charming” posts. By this point of the year, they just make you feel like the main character of a Stephen King novel on the verge of a nervous breakdown so huge it causes murderous, paranormal actions.

Unless you bake something. Then you usually feel better.

As much as I hate this fire escape scene, it is my first view of the world every morning as I impatiently wait to press my coffee. Here is my incoherent, rambling weather report at 5:45 this morning.

Don’t worry.
I put an extra tablespoon of coffee in the press.

February finally found me and smoked me out of my happy place.

I was doing so well!! Maybe it was the bonus birthday sun in Miami. Perhaps it was Phil, Conan and their funny accents ordering bagels in New York City? Something scrambled February’s evil instruments designed to make me feel like a robot, a depressed robot (the worst kind), every single year. For the first February on record, I was a fully engaged and happy human being!

It was fun while it lasted.

I’ve got two recipes for you today. The first is my own secret recipe for emotional disaster.

Preheat your apartment to 495 degrees farenheit because your apartment’s radiators are totally beyond your control. Take a healthy fear of Lake Erie-sized black ice patches that keep you locked indoors.  Add obsessive, cranky thinking that you can’t escape because your brain is layered in hats and scarves. Mix in a self-imposed austerity budget in order to save for a big vacation in the summer…

Voila! You’ve got a fresh batch of February Blues; a bland, uninspired, yet pathetically manageable level of depression.

Kinda tastes like sawdust…or pencils.

My second recipe was born from the first recipe’s leftovers. Turn February’s frugality and house arrest into an opportunity to search your cabinets for some baking inspiration. Take a minute to realize that the black ice has melted in the 40 degree weather, and that you have a few extra bucks to run out for some cashews and Ghiradelli chocolate chips. Add the leftover coconut from a few lazy Sundays ago to make your sweltering apartment feel more tropical and less tenement building…

Voila! Bikini Blondies!

The sawdust/pencil complaint is one I often have of the typical Blondie. Why people waste their precious splurge calories on uber-floury, barely sweet bars of Blaahhhh-ndies on the hunt for the three chalk-y chocolate chips is beyond me.

Do not think for a second that these “Bikini Blondies” are meant to get you bathing suit ready. Please, these things are like doorstops from all of the butter, sugar, and fixins. The name is an homage to the Sugardaddy Bakery’s secret Tahitian Blondie recipe that I’ve heard so much about, but have never sampled. Fellow better-Blondie lovers have posted their best guesses at that recipe all over the internet. My recipe below (I guess it’s my recipe, right?) comes from what looked good about those and what’s great about my very favorite baked goods. Browned butter to make the bars denser, nuttier, chewier. (Thanks Cooks Illustrated!) Instant espresso for some more depth. (Thanks Martha!) And a controversial sprinkling of salt. (Thanks Smitten Kitchen!) I’ve also followed in Sugardaddy’s footsteps by cutting the Blondies out with a biscuit cutter so as to avoid hard edges. Well…a wine glass actually, because I don’t have a biscuit cutter. Don’t worry, I saved the edges for all of my co-workers who like their Blondies with right angles.

These will not get you into a bikini, but feel free to bake them in your tenement apartment wearing a bikini. We only have one week of February to go. You may as well be ready the instant the black ice cracks and you can head to the beach.

You may want also want to work out in your bikini…just so you’re totally ready.

Bikini Blondies
inspired by Sugar Daddy’s Tahitian Blondies

1 1/2 cup unbleached flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 teaspoon Kosher salt
1 1/2 cup light brown sugar
3/4 cup butter
2 large eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla
2 teaspoons instant espresso
1 1/2 cup shredded coconut
1 cup cashews, chopped
1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chunks
extra coconut, chocolate and cashews (optional, for topping)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F, butter a a 9 x 13 baking pan and line with parchment paper.

In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder and salt and set aside.

Brown butter in stainless steel pan, then pour into a large mixing bowl to cool to room temperature..a few minutes. Add brown sugar and combine with whisk. Once combined, allow butter and sugar to sit for 10 minutes. Whisk in eggs one at a time vigorously until mixture is glossy. Add vanilla and instant espresso and mix well with a spoon. Take the flour mixture and fold into wet ingredients until just combined. Do not over mix.

Fold in coconut, cashews, chocolates into batter. Try not to over mix. Pour batter into prepared baking pan and smooth out with a spatula or spoon. Top with extra coconut, chocolate and cashews (optional, but highly recommended. I also sprinkled the top lightly with some more salt. This is a SWEET recipe. A sprinkling of salt on top brings everything out).

Bake for about 25-30 minutes, or until top light golder brown on the top. Do not over bake! Edges should be dry and the center soft. Cool to room temperature before cutting…in squares, circles, whatever takes you away from February.

Here’s a little insight into my work; I often work “out of house” at edit facilities on specific promo projects. My workspace is one of those big, open, Google-style cubicles. My co-workers double as my best friends. They are privy to pretty much every detail of my life; from what I ate for lunch that day to who I made out with the weekend before.

So knowing what you know now, try to imagine the stir a bunch of flowers on my desk would cause while I’m at an edit facility in mid-town.

Sarah: Sarah speaking…
Kim: Sarah. This is Kim and I’m at your desk with Lesley. We wanted to talk to you.
Sarah: Oh God, what is it? Just say it…
Kim: Ummm, there are flowers on your desk.
Sarah: (pause) What the f–k are you talking about?
Kim: They are yellow and they are in a smiley face mug!
Sarah: Who are they from?!
Kim: CAN WE OPEN THEM?!
Sarah: HELLO?! YEAH!!
Kim: She said open them! (to Lesley). They’re from Conan and Phil! “Thanks so much for putting up with us both. Love, Conan and Phil. This better appear on your blog. x” Awww, that’s cute.
Sarah: Totally cute!
Lesley (off phone): ..very sweet.
Sarah: Alright, I gotta go. Take a picture!
Kim: With what?
Sarah: I don’t know, man. Lesley can do it. She’s taken pictures of her haircuts and sent them to me with her phone a hundred times!

Since it’s the day after Valentine’s, I have license to dedicate my love in a more non-traditional way. This Valentine’s wish is going out to two people at once. Pretty sure my heart is big enough to handle it.

If Comedy Central held a Sadie Hawkins Day Dance I would pluck up enough courage to ask TWO boys. Although, I’m not sure if they would know what a Sadie Hawkins dance is since neither one of them are American. Come to think of it, do Sadie Hawkins Day Dances exist outside of popular 80s sitcoms? Whatever…assuming they are real and these boys would have me, I would love to awkwardly slow dance with…

Conan from Australia, (by way of Sweden)…

…and his good friend, (now my good friend) Phil from the UK. (Pictured below in Venice because he refuses to post any pictures from our time together in NYC!)

When hosting international guests, you dread/get excited for the whirlwind New York City tourist stories that happen while you’re at work and your NYC newbies are left to their own devices. Conan and Phil had plenty of these to entertain and terrify me when I got home from work. But at the same time, they managed to be ridiculously courteous and generous roommates. If it weren’t for the faint trace of cologne and the TV being left on ESPN, I wouldn’t have even known they were there.

By the time the weekend arrived, I was finally ready to stop being such a narc and get down with Conan and Phil. Several nights in a row of funny and intense conversations until 4 am definitely did a number on me. I lost my voice, and that is a tough TOUGH thing to do when you’re hanging with a Jackson. When your friends live so far away, though- and those friends are as excellent as Conan and Phil- you have to suck the marrow out of your time together and push your vocal chords to new limits. They reminded me how great my city is, and got me excited for all of the places I have yet to see…and will see soon enough.

Some further insight into my work; if I don’t have to schlepp all the way downtown back to the office, I most definitely do not. But when a bunch of flowers are just sitting there all lonesome amongst a sea of DVDs and work orders for spots I have yet to cut, I definitely have to. Yellow flowers riding the yellow subway line all the way back to Queens.

International houseguests rule, domestic houseguests drool.

Conan and Phil, Choo-choo-choose me.
Be Mine.
xoxoxo

In case you haven’t heard, New York City is being “pummeled, battered, and walloped” by our first snowstorm of the year. Schools are closed. Flights are grounded. I haven’t left my apartment to buy breakfast.

it’s the end of the world.

If you have ever been to New York City during a snowstorm, you may have noticed that people love is to break out their umbrellas in the middle of heavy snow. I have absolutely no explanation for this. Sorry.

You may also have noticed that it’s been a little quiet in these here blog parts for a week or so.

Last week was a different kind of storm for me. I was pummeled, battered, and walloped by friends visiting from Australia and the UK. (Wait..that doesn’t sound right.) It was a week of sightseeing, stand-up comedy, conversations until 4 am, and The Bag Game. There is an explanation of The Bag Game, but you’ll have to wait until I get some pictures from my international friends. Sorry.

If you are a part of Nor’Easter 2010, I hope you’re doing something especially comfortable right now. Bake something quick, preferably something mini. and leave your hat on while you do. It helps you concentrate on the recipe, I guess. That’s the only justification for my outfit here.

Good news though, you don’t need a snowstorm to bake. Feel free to bake in tropical climates during a cyclone!

That’s what my good Twitter friend Chelsea did when a cyclone pummeled, battered and walloped beautiful Port Douglas, Australia. She and her friends at Tourism Port Douglas Greek Butter Cookie-d their way through some bad weather. I gotta say, I would much rather be baking in my shorts or summer dress, drinking a VB, before heading out to Mossman Gorge. But whaddya gonna do..

The grass is always greek-er on the other side.

Work is nuts.
My apartment is nuts.
My hair looks nuts. (I really don’t feel like washing it today. Only those with curly hair can appreciate this.)

I have to tell you about these dudes who are crashing with me right now who I’m pretty sure will either be offered keys to the city or get arrested. Then we have to talk about “Lost” and my theory that the show will end at the Enchantment Under the Sea dance. And we’ll wrap it up with the lovely email and pictures I received from Tourism Port Douglas whose office made my Greek Butter Cookies in a cyclone.

Until then, please watch one of the best videos of all time.
Janet. Miss Jackson, if you’re Nasty.

Well, next to Sue Ellen of course. Her mother leaves five children for a summer vacation in Australia. Sure, they get the meanest babysitter on Earth. But lucky for Sue Ellen and co, she dies. What else could they do but dump the old woman in the trunk of their car and drop her off anonymously at the local funeral home? This of course leads to Sue Ellen’s exciting new opportunity in the fashion industry, changing forever the way we see service uniforms.

That’s not f—d up…at all.