Sunday at Vermilion

The new chef at Vermilion has a great way with soft shell crabs. Today, I had my first of the summer, fried crisp in a light tempura and served on a wonderfully fresh ratatouille as a starter. I paced myself, know that if today was to be a true me-day, I'd have to savor my glass of framboise and the meal to follow. No quick bowls of pho this Sunday, I'd decided. Today I'd take my time.

Lunch was a shrimp salad sandwich, piled high on a toasted brioche and blanketed with slices of red onion so thin you could read through them. It was perfect, creamy with mayonnaise, spiced with a hint of tarragon and pepper, it was somehow exactly what I had been hungry for. The side of Old Bay fries was soggy, so I left them for the kitchen mice.

Dessert was a decadent panna cotta made with Nutella and paired with macerated strawberries. Like the preceding courses, it was just right for a summer lunch--cool, velvet-soft, and just hinting at chocolate and hazelnuts.

You may be wondering how Friday night went. Long story short, I've decided (with help from my nearest and dearest) that I'm singularly boy-crazy and I'm going mad obsessing over the flavor of the month/week. Henceforth, I'll stop devoting my energy--and my blogspace--to silly boys who don't merit the keystrokes. Sorry to disappoint, but it's for my mental well-being.

Random Thoughts

I'm very upset that Rainier cherry season is almost over. This year, I've had probably a million gajillion of them, but it's never enough...

Last night, I watched The Messengers. I had to fast forward through the scary parts, so it took me about twenty minutes. After that, I went through and watched the making of and now I think that I can watch it all the way through tonight... with one finger on the mute button, of course.

The regular lifeguard at my parents' pool was on duty last night. He's completely hot. He looks Scandanavian, like his name would be Lars or Sven. Unlike the girl who was there on Tuesday, he actually watched me swim. Good grief, the last thing I want to worry about is what Lars thinks I look like in a bathing suit.

Last night, when I changed out of my bathing suit, I caught a glimpse of my backside and scared myself silly.

I'm doing MyFoodDiary.com again. It's amazing how much you can focus on food when you're counting your calories. Thank goodness for the turkey rice soup at the cafeteria.

I saw my old boss, Toni this morning. Her car was facing mine at the corner of Gallows Road and Annandale. She was wearing a white tank top, smoking, and flipping her ponytail around. I got so nervous when I saw her that I felt like yakking. Ick.

Mysterious Me

I watched a strange little movie called The Mistress of Spices last night. It stars Aishwarya Rai and Dylan McDermott, but the main character is a gorgeous spice shop in San Francisco. The mistress of spices has spent her whole life learning about sensing what people want, then helping them attain it with a mixture of spices. She lives under 3 restricting rules: 1) she cannot touch another person's skin 2) she cannot leave the shop 3) she cannot use the spices for her own interests. It was beautifully shot, with lots of abstract scenes and closeups of spices you may never see in real life, but the overall effect was a little art-housey for my taste. Naturally, she fell in love with a handsome young architecht who lured her away from her shop, and then she had to deal with the consequences. I never knew that chili peppers could be so spiteful.

One thing that struck me, though, was how demure and ladylike she was. The main reason why her architecht fell for her was because he'd seen her from afar, and she always had a little half smile for him. They never actually talked, and when they finally met, even the viewer felt relieved and excited at the prospect of getting to know her better. I had this same realization after I saw Memoirs of a Geisha for the first time. I'll never forget how Chris laughed at me when I said I was going to start being more geisha-like. Kimono and white makeup aside, I think I do need to work on being more mysterious.

So many of you have told me to not do anything about Jason at the Bean, I suppose I have to listen to you. I don't know if I have it in me to smile but not laugh too loud, listen to him and not make too many jokes... is that really what men want???

Floating

There's something marvelous about being chubby that never occurred to me until today--it makes it really easy to float in the pool! I guess I'd never noticed it before because I'm more of an ocean swimmer, but it was so relaxing to float around in the deserted pool at my parents' condo complex tonight. No one but me and the adolescent lifeguard who was busy texting away on a tiny phone...

I swam dozens of laps. She got tired of watching me when she realized that I was quite possibly the slowest swimmer in the world. I'd make my way down the length of the pool, touch the edge with my fingertips, then flip on my back to float back down to the shallow end, propelled only by the intermittent flutterings of my arms and legs. When I was close to hitting my head on the bright blue tiled wall in the 4' end, I'd head out and do another. Over and over again, thinking about nothing but how blue the sky was and how perfectly cool pool water is, I spent an hour or so getting back in touch with the Esther Williams in me.

Only too soon, it was closing time, and I wrapped my blue and green sarong around my waist. I hadn't worn it or my plain black swimsuit since Thailand in November. I wonder why and flip flop my way upstairs.

Chrissy's Mojo

I have to admit, when I was told that Emily's friend Chrissy had some major mojo, I didn't know the extent to which it applied. This past Friday, I got to see it in action.

She hadn't been at the Bean for longer than 5 minutes when three guys sidled up to our booth with a very calculated, "Hellloooo ladieeeees..." Keep in mind, Virginia and I had been there for at least 20 minutes, nursing beers and listening to music with nary a nibble in sight. The ringleader was a very cute, very secure guy who immediately pulled up a couple of stools for his compadres and scooted in next to C. If you ever get the chance, take Chrissy out with you. She's the most powerful guy magnet I've ever seen.

You may be wondering if Jason, my 25-year old boy, was at the Bean that evening, and I'm happy to announce that he was. He was just as cute as I remembered, in a rumpled yellow Polo oxford, jeans, and the backwards Redskins baseball cap. We played darts, flirted a bit, and at one point, he re-tied my sash that V had conveniently yanked free. He put his arm around me quite a bit, but nothing pervy or even remotely inappropriate (dammit!). Somehow, in my efforts to keep things light, I didn't find out why he hadn't called, and I'm still a little confused about that. I get the feeling that he likes spending time with me, but isn't exactly going to go out of his way to make sure it happens. So does this mean I keep going to the Bean religiously, or play hard to get? Does he even still have that Lean Cuisine coupon?

At the end of the night, when we were settling up tabs, one of Jason's friends snapped a picture of us with his cell phone. J had his arm around me and I was smiling, praying that I didn't have anything in my teeth or an extra chin. All he said was that he had a good time, and that he'd see me around at the Bean again. Is this his way of saying he just wants to be friends? Boys are so confusing. Weigh in on this one please, there are only a handful of days til I see him again, and I'm not sure how to play this hand!

Cricket and Slurpees

Apparently, Virginia and I are brilliant at darts. Friday night, we went to The Auld Shabeen to watch my favorite local band and get in some R&R before V's first day on the job. After dinner, a few shots of SoCo and lime, an hour of playing marathon PictureMatch, and a few drinks, we were ready to play cricket.

Our neighbors were two twenty-something boys, well into their second pitcher. My boy, Jason, was the requisite Charlie Brown lookalike, with a backwards baseball cap, flip flop, and cargo shorts. He reminded me of Jack Black, with his mischievous smile and constant head nods. V's boy was much cuter, but much much drunker. He was sporting strategically frayed jeans, flip flops, and a tattered polo. We'll call him Drunkass.

In the beginning, we stuck to our respective dartboards. A few pitchers later, we invited the boys to play with us and proceeded to give them a championship spanking. Drunkass was all over V, waving his arms in a manner that would have made any high school basketball coach proud. Every now and then she'd give him a quick punch to the midsection to stave him off. I tried to run defense, but ended up being pulled back by the beltloops and held with two very nice, stocky arms. Soooo high school, I know, but there's just something sexy about a guy who puts his arm around you to whisper in your ear. By last call, I'd learned that they were both 25, worked with computers, and lived around the corner. No, I didn't tell them that we are a couple of cougars in comparison... When they announced last call, Jason indicated that they'd be going to 7-11 afterward, which started a monologue from V about her favorite 7-11 foods: hot dogs, slurpees, nachos with jalapenos...

Long story short, we declined, then I changed my mind halfway home. As we cruised into the 7-11 parking lot, I saw him, leaning against a railing, clutching a little bag of food. He escorted us inside, made small talk, and was generally being a sweetiepie. V stayed inside, creating the perfect hot dog and watching Drunkass scoop up hot dogs, ice cream, a breakfast sandwich... I went outside and gave Jason my number-- he was very excited that I wrote it on a 75 cents off Lean Cuisine coupon. Drunkass came stumbling out with his booty, yelling for J to follow, and our moment was soon over. As he walked away (backwards, waving at me), the homeless man on the corner yelled a thank you to him for his sandwich and soda. There's something to be said for 20 somethings!

I'm talking a big game, but we all know the truth: I hope he calls. I'll keep you posted.

PS: Chef Boyardee just wants to be friends. He's clearly gay.