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Welcome to my little corner of the ether. This is where you will find information about my books and musings on life and love in New York City. To stay in the loop about all things ADR...

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Last night, Husband and I went for a yummy dinner at a fabulous little restaurant in the neighborhood: Salumeria Rosi Parmacotto.  [Please note that I am being commendably generous here by linking you to this small- plate-sanctuary.  It's not that too many of you are reading. It's not as if this is the Gastronomy Gospel.  It's just that this place is the size of your Pomeranian and I quite like the fact that Husband and I can pop in and get a table.] Anyway.  Please see Exhibit A to the right.  This was our appetizer (and a fraction of Dear Husband's taut torso).  I contemplated (for a few seconds) stealing the menu because it was so serious and detailed - it taught me how to pronounce all the varieties of parmacatto I was about to nibble.  But I am too much of a good girl (and wuss) to do that, so sans details, I will keep things simple and fondly refer to it as the Pig Plate.

It occurred to me as I sampled said pig that though pathetically allergic to all things adventurous, I have a seemingly magnetic attraction to the danger-du-jour.  Remember a while back when everyone was freaking out about spinach?  All I wanted was spinach.  In my omelets, in my salads, as a side to my din.  Frozen.  Fresh.  Cut.  Creamed.  Organic.  Au Gratin.  You name it.  And I was pregnant.

Now?  As the sinister Swine Flu swirls through the states, I seem to be doing everything in my power to contract H1N1.  A recap of the steps I took just yesterday: (1) I took Toddler to Fairway which fellow Manhattanites know is the go-to gourmet germ fest; (2) I went to the gym to swap sweat and sneezes with the general population (okay, yes, that was the day before but I'm making a point here); and (3) Husband and I patronized the aforementioned precious-parmacotto-purveyor for the second week in a row.  Sure, those who know better insist that swining and dining is not dangerous, but I figure if there is a slight chance, why not give it a shot?

Yet another instance of yours truly acting like a toddler and doing exactly what she has been told not to do (a la my jury duty antics a few weeks back).  Okay, off to take actual Toddler to her preschool-prep class (no joke) at the incomparable Children's Museum of Manhattan where we will be serenaded by the day's sweet chorus of coughing kids.  Cheerio!

This Is Where Our Christmas Tree Will Go. In 2011.

What's So Great About The Ivy League Anyway?