Overnight Oatmeal

You may recall that I'm beginning to think that breakfast is great. It's especially great on mornings when needing to be out of the door at 7 in the morning, ready to start the day, smile, tell you're coworkers you're great, thanks, how are you when really you're ashamed about yawning too much and wondering when it's no longer to soon for coffee. On these types of mornings, which are increasingly becoming my types of mornings, it is particularly great not only to eat breakfast, but to have it be prepared well before you are.

One potato, two potato...

A woman of habit, one who finds comfort in routine and is only slightly prone to biases, I like to eat what I've known. For example, matzoh balls. I won't stand for anything fluffy, anything large and airy that allows a spoon to glide effortlessly through. I love them dense. Heavy and hard, like golf balls, my mom says. They're what I was raised on.

I just envision certain foods a certain way, and most often, that way is the way that my mom prepares them, the way that her mom prepared them, the way that I've always had them.


It is no surprise that I'm partial to my mother's potato salad. I'm no stranger to variations and find no fault in these different types, but I strongly believe that of the many makes, one is superior, fool-proof, and decidedly remarkable. I have backing. And it's not from my siblings.

I heart your tart

The Internet connection at work died for several hours today. That was when I realized that absolutely every single one of my tasks requires the use of the World Wide Web. At first the break was comical. The hallways erupted with alarm, a domino chain of irritation, as neighbors of the shared office space scampered through the hallway: "Is it on for you?" "What about your phones?" "Howaboutnow?"

It's hard to look busy when there's really nothing to do. Like the others, I too became frustrated, refreshing my homepage every three seconds, or so, sighing often, growing sleepy. Everyone would be happier, I thought, if the owners mollified us with ice cream. Others seemed to think a rent deduction would be a better fix.

Ice cream never came, and it was over three hours before the Internet did.

Cooking for one

Two years ago following a Saturday night Halloween celebration, I developed a very wonderful secret habit. It stemmed from another not-so-secret habit of mine: whenever I enter my home I head straight to the kitchen, usually to the spot where I am wedged comfortably between the fridge door and its shelves - easy access to leftovers, whipped cream, and the like.

The problem with habit number one two years ago, way back when I was living in my beautiful pink-walled Montreal apartment, was that save for eggs, plain yogurt, and a head of cauliflower, my refrigerator shelves were routinely bare.

True to habit when I returned home in boozy splendor that Saturday I marched straight toward to the kitchen, but I couldn't face the sadness that was my empty refrigerator. Cauliflower wasn't really going satiate my late-night hankering for something carby and delicious. My pantry was better equipped than my fridge. I had pasta, and a plan - simple as could be, and outrageously satisfying.