En Papillote

Mes Cheres!  I have a few months to get back to basics (wedding, wedding, another wedding.. can't look beat).  Which means cooking in the kitchen more than paying Chef Dave to cook for me.  Less frying, more steaming.  No butter. Damn.

I love eating out for lunch, but since I am trying to slim down my waist, I'm going to go ahead and fatten up my wallet in the process.  Brown bag lunches.  Quelle Horreur!  It really is a travesty.

So, last night I prepped my packable lunch.  snapped some asparagus, julienne'd some carrots (I have to use those quickly or I'll forget about them and they'll end up grey and soft in the back of the fridge), and sliced a scallion.  All with the intention of pairing these with tuna and egg over butter lettuce.

Guess who ended up waking up late, bailing on the last part of the prep and saying hello to Nam at 701 instead?  This girl.  The salad was amazing as usual.  Thanks, Chef Dave.

Well, not trying to clean out limp veggies in tupperware next week, so guess what accompanied my fish for dinner?  I can't get anything past you guys. You're so dang smart.

I laid out the scallions, asparagus, carrots (with a few sprigs of the carrot green, how macrobiotic of me) and parsley on a sheet of parchment paper and sprinkled some white wine.  Placed a lovely, firm, seasoned (sea salt and black peppercorn) fillet of Turbot (a fish I'm now desperately in love with), arranged the remainder of veggies over it and folded the paper like a good French girl should.  Fine.  A good girl with a French last name.  Then into the oven it went at 375 until something divine floated from my kitchen.  

I was honestly BLOWN AWAY at how simply delicious this was.  The carrots were perfectly tender and sweet.  The turbot.  Oh G-D the turbot!!!  $6 for a half pound and I'm dreaming about it right now.  

Enjoy the goodness.

The Deal

Calories: 177; Fat: 3g; Protein: 19g; Carbs: 12g

Ctrl + Alt + Delete

Starting anew.... somewhere along the line, my skinny jeans got tight.  OK, fine they don't fit.  At all.  We all know I'm not buying a new wardrobe, so that just means one thing.

Recharge.  Reload.  Reshoot.  (note: this post was written Thanksgiving 2012 and I've slightly, but not really, amended to 1. acknowledge the violence highlighted in American culture and 2. acknowledge my procrastination... however, my editing a silly blog won't singlehandedly shift the stance of the NRA, sooo)

(note #2: I updated this post around Superbowl time, but never published.  Blogastination had set in, but I'm back.  Again.  On the regular.  Promise.)

I'm going Spa Lady on you and turning my abode into Canyon Sonoma Sedona Way Too Expensive For My Blood But Dying To Go Ranch.

A skinny little bitch named Tracy Anderson is going to help me do it.  Tracy is out of her mind and trying to tell me that it's going to take 90 days to shut down my computer and reboot, but ask any ex-boyfriend, I just can't commit.  So I told her, gurrrl, I'll hit you up for 6 weeks and if I'm one leg in that denim, it's on.

So, I headed to the store, on Thanksgiving Superbowl Sunday which is honestly THE BEST time to go... work your way around the clueless husbands girlfriends who've been sent out in the cold to fetch the lone missing ingredient from the sausage stuffing seven layer dip and it's a breeze.  The husbands girlfriends will stay out of your way, they're desperately trying to get home to the pigskin (should I have left that in?).

Well stocked, no lines, and the produce section all to myself.  I parked my cart in one corner and roamed around until my cart looked like a rainbow of sunshine fresh grown goodness. I strolled out, three recyclable bags and $200 deep.... Oh, Tracy allows booze, did I not mention that?

I have to admit, I haven't been the best girl and have amended some of Tracy's rules.  Namely numbers 6, 7, and 8... Look, I can't look like an asshole and carry tupperware anywhere but work, so Rule #8 NO RESTAURANTS NO PARTIES was the first subject to edit.  I like to enjoy life, my city and what both have to offer and that involves restaurants.  I've chosen wisely and haven't broken any food rules, just rearranged a bit.  You'll see.

Rule #6 states NO SUBSTITUTIONS unless necessary.  The brazil nut exchange was necessary due to availability.  Rule #7 states NO ADDITIONS.  OK, Tracy, I love you, but mama needs flavour.  I can't get by on bland chicken in dishwater, so I'm going to go ahead and assume you didn't mean herbs.  Clearly.  Who would omit herbs???? I know you meant to omit salt, but I'm going to ignore that too.  Doctor's orders.

I've also decided not to view Tracy's recommendations as restraints or limits, rather my base diet to which I'll shape everything around.  That means if I'm really truly famished, I'm going to have a handful of almonds, or a salad.  Both wise choices in which to compliment Tracy's regimen.

She'd say I was cheating.

Good.  We're on the same page.

The more I delve into this, the more excited/terrified I become.  So far the recipes are pretty tasty and I slowly realize that the best way to pack up Week 1 for the work week is to treat it as baby food.  Yes.  You heard.  BABY FOOD.  Suddenly, those US Weekly covers with Jennifer Aniston headlining in a teeny weeny yellow bikini flashed across my mental screen as I put two and two together and realized who'd gotten me into this in the first place.  Tracy, you celebrity whore, you....

**UPDATE: Baby food is for BABIES**

Back to square one.