Pray for the Chef tomorrow as he has to go to court at 8 am for this. Hopefully the man won't bring us down...

I am turning into an exhausted mess. I'm acting like Britney Spears minus the erratic drug use and head shaving. I am hallucinating and I can't nap. I really do not understand where all my so called 'end of the road energy' is. You know what I mean, right? At least all you ladies who have had a baby in the belly for eight months do.

Apparently I am supposed to get this giant gust of nesting energy and so far I have the opposite. I sleep like shit and I know why:


1. Baby girl lives on my sciatic nerve. No matter which side I lay on, I get this shooting sever pain down my right leg that is so mind numbing I can't sit up. Seriously.

2. These assholes that sleep with the chef & I:

Potato somehow has turned into a human being and spoons me. He wraps his paws around my neck and pushes me to the side of the bed. Then he lick attacks me and once he falls asleep he snores like an overweight smoker. It's quite pleasant.

3. My fat ass. Now I know, I know, I'm not fat...I'm pregnant. I hear it everyday. The thing is though when you have a belly that looks like this:

there is absolutely no COMFORTABLE position to lay. Left side, right side, sitting up. They all blow.

54 days and counting. Do you think I can make it?

I just put Catcher to bed after reading 11 books. I usually limit myself to five but today I got a little crazy at the library and I took out all the Joost Elffers books I could find. If you haven't heard of dear Joost I suggest you check him or her (? who knows w/ a name like Joost) out...

They are great kid/adult books. Each story or tale is accompanied by pictures of fruit transformed animals. Totally great and fun to read to the boy. I have to read Dog Food every night or else he wails.

Now I am off to sleep. I just can't seem to get enough of it these days. Woe is me. 55 days away...

This is why I do what I do. This little crazy man who cracks me up 18 hours a day. What a goober.

The chef & I are the most unlucky couple in the world. Ever since we started dating we have had a notorious string of 'bad' luck. This 'bad' luck seems to hit us hard at least once or twice a year and then leave us alone so we think that our karma is realigned.

Last year, the day after our church wedding (a year ago from this past Monday) we hopped on a plane for our honeymoon in St. Barth's. Before we could even leave the country all of our honeymoon cash was stolen. That's right we (actually me) took $1000 on a plane and expected everything to work out well. It didn't. We had a layover in Newark and when we got to the fancy hotel that chef's parents had put us up in for the eve, I realized my wallet was gone. Needless to say our honeymoon did not start out as planned. Thank god for the chef's parents who immediately calmed both of us-I had never seen the chef so mad, I thought he was going to punch a hole in the wall-and then Western Unioned us cash for the trip.

This year, the night before our 1 year church wedding anniversary the chef gets arrested and taken to jail. That's right my friends, jail. For what? Well that's where it gets a little tricky and I get a little angry.

He & the boy were driving to his parents house when he went through a yellow light. My phone rings about five minutes later and it is the chef asking where his insurance card is. At this point I am naked and literally getting into the bath so his call does not make me the happiest wife. In the background I hear this cop say "I think we have a bigger problem here than your insurance Mr. Chef." The chef puts me on hold, comes back to the phone and then tells me that he is being arrested for driving under suspension. Long story short is that the chef had an outstanding ticket in NYC (big surprise) and it showed up on his record. Basically in the state of Ohio if you have an out of state unpaid ticket the officer can either be a respectable human being and let you know about your ticket or he can be a complete suburban cop asshole from North Royalton and suspend your lisense right there on the spot, arrest you in front of your two year old son, and take you to jail to post a $500 cash bond on the eve of your anniversary.

At the time, I thought it was comical. I mean between the chef and I & every other person that lives in NYC, the tickets unpaid could be infinite. I mean the average New Yorker who uses a car in the city probably gets a ticket at least once every two weeks. However, once I got home with my jailbird and I started researching what happened, we realized that this suburban cop asshole totally fucked us. I mean the chef's license wasn't even suspended until that eve. Now almost $1000 later & he has to go to court on Wednesday to pay more money to this power abusing suburban police department.

***Sidenote***All we had to do to get his license back was prove that he paid the tix and pay the state $30. That's right $30. So basically this prick of a man arrested my husband in front of my son for thirty dollars.

All in all I am not angry at the chef. It messed our week up pretty bad and it proved the fact that we are still the most 'unlucky' couple alive. But it also made me realize how much I still hate the suburbs. And cops. I just can't deal with abuse of power. Especially when you pull some shit like that cop did in front of the boy. I mean you gotta be such a maniacal ego maniac to arrest a father (who did not commit a crime) in front of his all knowing 26 month old. The problem is that the 'burbs get way too much money from the state so then it has to be dispersed and the 'burbs build up this super human testosterone driven police force. For chrissake, the police force in Strongville (where we happily reside) is almost as large as the city of Cleveland's police force. Does that make any sense at all? To put that into perspective check it out:

Cleveland has roughly 400,000 people living in the city. Strongsville has 44,000. Their police forces are close to the same size. But that's another conversation for another day.

Enough already. I have vented. Now I must go enjoy the Cleveland's Children Museum with the chef & the boy. Happy Sunday y'all! Be sure to check out train wreck Spears this eve on MTV. Apparently good 'ol Brit Brit is the opening lip syncing act.

Ciao. Ciao.

This week has been fucked and I really don't wanna relive it by writing a long ass post about it. So I'm not going to. I am gonna leave work and go home and take a bath while I can. I am going to give myself a pedicure and drink a glass of sparkling (grape juice, that is) and I am going to try and forget that I weigh 165 lbs, 11.8 stones to you British folk, and that I still have 2 more god awful months to go before my baby girl pops out. It's hot and I am bitchy. God bless the chef for not leaving me.

It's been a long holiday/anniversary/birthday weekend. I am really still recovering from all of the unexpected and chaotic events that took place between Friday & Monday. At some point today I plan on sitting in front of this beast of a computer in hopes of getting some shit out.

Until then I will leave you with some lovely pictures of my not so secret boyfriend. The man before the chef....

Friday Funk

Thirteen Things That I Just Can't Seem to Get Done

1. Call this guy. (Above)
2. Unpack from vaca.
3. Finish both bathroom remodels (that way I can post all the hilarious pics of the chef and I laying tile while trying not to kill each other).
4. Figure out how I am going to decorate baby girl's nursery without going crazy in a sea of bubblegum pink.
5. Post on any of my three (non paying) blogs.
6. Alone time w/o the boy, w/o the chef, & w/o the dogs. Especially Potato who has recently turned into that ball crazy dog in the movie Spanglish. If you haven't seen it, rent it, it's great and it's about a chef.
7. Put the chef's most recent press in his portfolio. This would literally take 5 minutes. Which I haven't seem to have had since we have gotten home.
8. Buy the chef an anniversary present. Our one year (church) wedding is on Sunday and I don't have squat for ideas.
9. Make my best friend a CD for her birthday which is tomorrow.
10. Shower. It's been about five days. I know. Gross.
11. Give Potato an itch shampoo bath. Ever since we got back his rash has been making him insane.
12. Plant the gardenia (I think?) plant Ruth cut off from her tree in FLA.
13. Make out w/ the chef. It's been awhile. Plus he has wine tastings every night (yes that's what chefs call getting drunk) and I can't stand the smell of the vino while prego.

The chef did an interview over at Cleveland Foodie, a local blog out of Cleveland. Check it out.

Congratulations Franny's for your amazing 2 star review in the NY Times. You deserve it. Your pizza deserves it. I miss you dearly.
I remember my first trip to you, Franny's. My bill ended up being $140 (all pizza except 2 cocktails) and I didn't even blink. Living a block away from you may have broke our bank but it gave our tummy's the best presents of yummy pizza and delicious small plates ever. The chef's widow and her chef miss you. Hell even the boy appreciated how amazing you are.

FIRE IT UP Andrew Feinberg, Francine Stephens and their daughter, Prue, at Franny’s.

By FRANK BRUNI
Published: August 29, 2007

ALMOST from the moment it opened in 2004, Franny’s had followers so ardent that they seemed to be willing themselves into their swoon over the place. Their unfettered enthusiasm was one of several reasons for skepticism.

Pasta with mussels.

Another was their ZIP code: many lived near Franny’s, which is in the Prospect Heights section of Brooklyn, and you know how Brooklyn boosters can be about their restaurants. Football fans who show up on sub-zero days with bare chests and painted faces have more perspective.

And it was hard to fathom their passion when they had such difficulty making the food sound special.

What, you’d ask, did this mecca for the modern epicure serve?

Crostini, they’d say. (Yawn.) And cured meats. (How transgressive!) Salads, too. (Heart palpitations commence.) And, and, and ... pizza.

So was Franny’s essentially a glorified pizza parlor? For those outside Brooklyn, did it really warrant a water crossing?

To the first question the answer is no; to the second, an emphatic yes.

Other restaurants have honorable pies, admirable lettuces or noteworthy salumi. But take it from a cranky Franny’s doubter, now a besotted Franny’s believer: not many do all three with as much joy and distinction as Franny’s.

Besides which, Franny’s does more. In June it reinstated pasta dishes on its menu. A few had been there in the beginning but were quickly jettisoned, because Franny’s chef, Andrew Feinberg, didn’t think he’d mastered them.

Now his kitchen has new equipment, while he has new confidence. So it’s pasta once again, and the rigatoncini with peppery pork sausage and sweet cipollini onions will have you hoping it’s pasta forever.

The lengthened menu makes Franny’s feel more fully formed, though you could subtract the pasta and still be left with plenty to savor and celebrate. Even in this era of Greenmarket reverence and food-miles shame, not many restaurants put as high a premium on seasonality and freshness as Franny’s does.

Artisanal pizza may be all the rage, but it’s the rare pizzaiolo who spreads dough thin enough and gets a brick oven hot enough to produce the gorgeous blisters like those on Franny’s best pies. And the restaurant’s soppressata has a suppleness that would make Armandino Batali blush.

Franny’s simplicity is deceptive. The restaurant finds transcendence in dishes and genres that wouldn’t seem to yield so readily to invention or open the door to so much pleasure.

For a Franny’s crostino no mere caponata will do. The crostino I had on a recent night was topped with porky, fatty pancetta — cured in the basement, along with the soppressata — and a house-made peach butter that simultaneously amplified the meat’s richness and provided some sweet relief from it.

A clam pizza at Franny’s isn’t one of those clumsy pies studded with shells that force you to embark on an odyssey of deconstruction and reconstruction.

The clams have already been liberated and placed on a thick amalgam of clam juice and cream — a doubly clammy whammy. If you ever loved a bivalve, you owe yourself this romance.

Mr. Feinberg owns Franny’s with his wife, Francine Stephens, for whom the restaurant is named. And although Franny’s has plenty of polish — a sophisticated Italian wine list, a manicured garden out back, a long mirrored brick wall more urban-chic than rustic — it retains a certain mom and pop soul, though the mom and pop in this version are notably young and idealistic.

Ms. Stephens is 35, Mr. Feinberg is 32, and they have a year-old daughter, with a sibling en route. The couple clearly want Franny’s to be an open-hearted, accessible place, and to that end there’s not a menu item over $17. And the restaurant doesn’t take reservations.

This policy creates predictable chaos, but it also seems to encourage a diverse crowd: families with small children early in the evening, tattooed hipsters later on. They can drop by on a whim and have the same chance at a table as anyone else.

Franny’s has its vanity. Turn over the menu and you’ll learn the provenance of not only the restaurant’s organic ingredients but its conservation-oriented energy supply (“35% New Wind and 65% Small Hydroelectric”).

I didn’t need to be told in writing that milk from Evans’ Farmhouse Creamery is “rich and creamy just like Mother Nature intended before homogenization.” I could taste its splendor in the fantastic fior di latte gelato on Franny’s brief list of desserts.

Several of those desserts — the cannoli, the chocolate sorbet — are underwhelming, as are a few of the dishes on the menu’s “small plates” and “plates” sections, where the crostini are found and the salads predominate. Although I loved the sulfur beans and salsa verde with wood-roasted octopus, the octopus itself could have been more tender.

You may not even encounter this dish. Franny’s menu seems to change almost hourly, reflecting the real value Mr. Feinberg and his chef de cuisine, Joshua McFadden, place on using the best ingredients they can rustle up at a given moment.

Wood-roasted eggplant replaces raw zucchini in a salad with pine nuts, purple onion and mint. Shell beans arrive just as wax beans depart.

Mr. McFadden arrived this year, having worked at Franny’s in the early days and then left for other restaurants, including Momofuku Ssam Bar and Lupa. Ms. Stephens and Mr. Feinberg said Mr. McFadden’s experience at the latter restaurant is partly why Franny’s can now do pasta right.

Right, but not flawlessly. A pork ragù in one dish was slightly gummy, and the restaurant’s apparent determination not to overcook noodles leads to undercooking them at times.

But the carbonara sauce on top of al dente bucatini was almost ideal, neither stinting on eggy richness nor turning the bucatini into a gluey mess. Equally on target was the saltiness of pasta alla chitarra with butter and bottarga.

Franny’s earliest supporters weren’t impulsive. They were prescient, and they’re going to have to keep making room for more recruits to the religion.

Franny’s

**

295 Flatbush Avenue (Prospect Place), Prospect Heights, Brooklyn; (718) 230-0221.

ATMOSPHERE A brick-walled room with an open kitchen and room for about 50 leads to a verdant warm-weather garden.

SOUND LEVEL Loud.

RECOMMENDED DISHES Soppressata; pork cheek and beef tongue terrine; vegetables with tonnato sauce; green, romano and wax beans with ricotta salata; eggplant with Parmesan; butter lettuces with radish and mint; rigatoncini; bucatini alla carbonara; chitarra with bottarga; olive oil and sea salt pizza; clam pizza; vanilla panna cotta; fior di latte gelato.

WINE LIST Italian and varied, most under $50. Some interesting house cocktails.

PRICE RANGE Appetizers and small plates, $6 to $16. Plates, pasta dishes and pizzas, $8 to $17. Desserts, $7 to $8.

Only in Cleveland would there be a rally in support of dog executioner Michael Vick. Only in Cleveland would The Plain Dealer print an article promoting it.

In case anyone forgot I thought I would sum up a few of Michale Vick's 'non existent' past offenses & incidents:

• In 2007, Michael Boddie, his father, told the Atlanta Journal-Constitution that around 2001, Michael Vick was staging dogfights in the garage of the family's home in Newport News and kept fighting dogs in the family's backyard, including injured ones which the father nursed back to health. Boddie said his son had been urged to not engage in the activity, but continued. He stated "This is Mike's thing. And he knows it." ^[17]

• In early 2004, two men were arrested in Virginia for distributing marijuana. The truck they were driving was registered to Michael Vick. The Falcons coach Dan Reeves recalled that he lectured Vick at that time on the importance of reputation, on choosing the right friends, on staying out of trouble for the good of his team. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution quoted Reeves as having told Vick: "You are an Atlanta Falcon...Whatever you do is going to be a reflection on all of us, not just you."^[18]

• On October 10, 2004, Vick and the other members of his party were at Atlanta's Hartsfield International Airport on their way to board an AirTran afternoon flight to Newport News, Virginia. While they were passing through a security checkpoint with Vick, a security camera caught Quanis Phillips and Todd Harris picking up an expensive-appearing watch (either a Rolex or a fake) which belonged to Alvin Spencer, a security screener.^[19] After watching the theft on a video tape, Spencer filed a police report. However, he claimed that Billy "White Shoes" Johnson, known as the Falcons "fixer", interfered with the investigation.^[18] It took six days for Spencer to get the watch back, according to the Washington Post.^[19]

• In March 2005 a woman named Sonya Elliott filed a civil lawsuit against Vick alleging she contracted genital herpes from Vick, in the autumn of 2002, and that he failed to inform her that he had the disease.^[20] Elliot further alleged that Vick had visited clinics under the alias "Ron Mexico" to get treatments and thus he knew of his condition. On April 24, 2006 Vick's attorney, Lawrence Woodward, revealed that the lawsuit had settled out of court with an undisclosed amount.^[21]

• November 26, 2006 - After a Falcons loss to the New Orleans Saints in the Georgia Dome in apparent reaction to fans booing, Vick made an obscene gesture at fans, holding up two middle fingers.He was fined $10,000 by the NFL for his obscene gesture, and agreed to donate another $10,000 to charity. ^[22]

• January 17, 2007 Vick surrendered a water bottle which had a hidden compartment to security personnel at Miami International Airport. "The compartment was hidden by the bottle's label so that it appeared to be a full bottle of water when held upright," police said. Test results indicated there were no illegal substances in the water bottle and Vick was cleared of any wrongdoing.^[23] Vick announced that the water bottle was a jewelry stash box, and that the substance in question had been jewelry. ^[24]

Obviously Michael Vick is an amazing human being and a fantastic role model. Not only should he get probation but he should be paid millions more for all the press he & the NFL are getting.

Actually, I really think he should be locked up with the 53 pit bulls that are about to be euthanized because he raised them as aggressive killing machines.


PS. These are pictures of Vick's dogs. Graphic, I know, but maybe they will open some people's eyes to the monstrosities of his crimes.

Honestly I am so freakin' tired from our fantabulous vacation that I may very well need another one. I need to get bloggin' again both here and at The Nest but tonight is not going to be the night for that. At least not right now. Maybe late night after I make myself a very large mint (from my garden) ice tea.

So I was gonna leave the chef for Johnny Depp but...he's just not that great of a cook, and girl's gotta eat!

Riding the teacups be back on Tuesday....

The Craziest Catcher Alive

This kid is too hilarious. His new thing is whenever I have my camera pointed at him, he stops, poses, and blinks (?) for the camera. What a maniac. I love him.

Happy 49th Birthday Madonna!

As a young girl I rocked out to True Blue like it was going out of style. I sang Like a Virgin at the top of my lungs in the shower when I still thought a virgin was Jebus' mom.
In my teen years, I turned to Madge for sex advice. Probably not the smartest or non sluttiest move but hell she was my own mother's idol, so why shouldn't she be mine?

Today, the most famous woman in the world turns 49. Unfuckingbelievable. I feel like she was 20 three years ago. I really feel like an old hag.

Happy Birthday Madonna. Thanks for teaching me about bisexuality, adoption, yoga, fingerless gloves, and fishnets. As Homer Simpson would say "Keep on a Rockin'".




In unrelated (actually blood related) Madonna news...

On Top Chef last night, two competing teams had to throw together a restaurant, decorations and all, in 24 hours.

What you may not have noticed, because he was never identified, was that one of the patrons was designer Christopher Ciccone (brother of Madonna, of course, who is incidentally celebrating her 49th birthday today).

We think Christopher Ciccone should appear as a judge on every episode, because, like Simon Cowell, Ciccone does not mince his words when it comes to judging what's put before him.

First the decor:

CHRISTOPHER: The chef should know better than to put a scented candle on the table. (putting it on the floor and covering it) And it's dead now. And I need a new napkin.

Then the food:

CHRISTOPHER: It wasn't the best lamb. The meat wasn't cooked properly. I thought it tasted like metal.

DALE: Like metal?

CHRISTOPHER: And if that's a vegetable medley, I'm a monkey.

DALE: I will let miss Sara know.

Top Chef needs to be shaken out of its stupor a little bit, and a biting, straightforward critic like Ciccone could be the perfect ingredient.

There has been a lot of activity on Chef's Widow in the past month. Actually more than I have ever experienced in the year and a half that I have been tooling around on this blog. I have met two other chef's widows, numerous foodie bloggers, and just random peeps who for some reason enjoy reading my not so secret diary.

Check out my new friends when you get a chance...

Desperate Chef's Wives of NYC (Chef's Widow in NYC)

Cleveland Foodie

Hot Coffee Girl

Boo's Bistro (another widow in Canada)

Stepping Over the Junk

The Parents

Slow Food Northern Ohio Blog


In other news, the Chef finally made his big announcement. Check out The Cleveland Plain Dealer & The Free Times for more. Also if you are in the CLE area this Saturday please come out and join the chef, the boy, & the widow at Heritage Farms in Peninsula for an amazing tomato tasting experience.

Later Gators.

Ridiculously Adorable Picture of the Day

Catcher choo choo chooses his new choo choo train!

Saturday Soup

Yes. I might be a bit obsessed.

The chef & I already have a name picked out for baby girl. The thing is that it hasn't really stuck for me. The chef really really really likes it. I'm not so sure. It's just that when I was prego with the boy I absolutely knew his name was Catcher. I called him Catcher from 4 months on (to myself of course, we didn't tell anyone his name until he popped out). With baby girl, I don't even know what I call her. I have tried to call her the name we both agreed upon but it doesn't seem to fit.

Woe is me.

The name I currently like is Memphis. Is that ridiculous for a girl? I can't decide. It's either really f'ng awesome or really stupid. Thoughts?

In other non-stripper news, I have recently starting blogging on The Nest Baby. It is a weekly thing and I basically talk about babies, kids, pregnancy, and motherhood in Cleveland. Check it out if your interested in that kind of malarkey.

It has come to my attention that I have a celebrity look alike other than Tara Reid (who I just don't see at all). If you would even call her a celeb, Brandi C. is one of the contestants (not anymore) on VH1' Rock of Love. You know that show where Bret Michaels humps a bunch of strippers and then claims that he found his true love.

"Brandi C. is one of the many buxom blondes vying for the affection of Poison frontman Bret Michaels on the VH1 reality series Rock of Love. As one of the Barbie twins on the show, along with Kristia, Brandi C. is on the self-named "A Team," a group of girls who just want to go wild and have fun."

I have been told three times in the past two days that I look just like her except my boobies are real. What do you think?

Side Note.
It's hot as fuck out. Seriously. I feel like I moved to Florida during hurricane season. Ohio sucks really bad sometimes. No offense Ohio. I'm sure you can't help sucking.

The Sawyers=The Simpsons

Chef Simpson
Catcher Simpson
Chef's Widow Simpson

Ummm...how funny is the one of the chef? At least they got my tata's right....

A Story

A man came home from work and found his three children outside, still in their pajamas, playing in the mud, with empty food boxes and wrappers strewn all around the front yard.

The door of his wife's car was open, as was the front door to the house and there was no sign of the dog.

Proceeding into the entry, he found an even bigger mess.

A lamp had been knocked over, and the throw rug was wadded against one wall.

In the front room the TV was loudly blaring a cartoon channel, and the family room was strewn with toys and various items of clothing.

In the kitchen, dishes filled the sink, breakfast food was spilled on the counter, the fridge door was open wide, dog food was spilled on the floor, a broken glass lay under the table, and a small pile of sand was spread by the back door.

He quickly headed up the stairs, stepping over toys and more piles of clothes, looking for his wife. He was worried she might be ill, or that something serious had happened.

He was met with a small trickle of water as it made its way out the bathroom door.

As he peered inside he found wet towels, scummy soap and more toys strewn over the floor. Miles of toilet paper lay in a heap and toothpaste had been smeared over the mirror and walls.

As he rushed to the bedroom, he found his wife still curled up in the bed in her pajamas, reading a novel.

She looked up at him, smiled, and asked how his day went.

He looked at her bewildered and asked, "What happened here today?"

She again smiled and answered, "You know every day when you come home from work and you ask me what in the world I do all day?"

"Yes," was his incredulous reply.

She answered, "Well, today I didn't do it."


I didn't write this but I sure could have. I think I may print copies and hand them out to any naysayers. Have a great hump day bizatches.

Let the dreaming begin.

At seven months pregnant, the incredible and sometimes extremely disturbing dreams are back. I remember them from my pregnancy with the boy although I don't remember being terrified awake by them. Last night, well this morning really, I awoke from a nightmare about the chef. It was 3.34 am. I woke up in agony and could only feel devastation, something I have only felt once when my grandma passed away.

In the dream, the chef was a heroin addict and we were in Lakewood being chased by who I assume were drug dealers that he owed money to. When we stopped the car, they approached his window and punched thru, violently beating him, all while I sat in the backseat pregnant & screaming. Fast forward in my awful nightmare and my dad is sitting in front of me explaining that the Chef's mother had sent him to Georgia and I would be raising the boy and the baby girl myself. Needless to say, I did not go back to sleep.

I watched some terrible tv (i.e Dawson's Creek) and then I thought about the dream for way more than I probably should have.
Someone very close to me battled a horrible heroin addiction for a very long time (which I am guessing influenced my dream). He was horrible when he was high and did things that no human being should ever subject someone they love to. I never talk about it on here because I refuse to give it the energy I did when he was going through it. He is 'recovered' now although I think he has a long long way to go until he is truly completely through with the addiction, if he ever is.

My dream just put my husband's face on the H beast and it made me so insane. I put him in every situation that I ever had to deal with my addict friend. Not very pleasant at all. All day today I can't seem to get past it. I forgot some of the weird shit that comes along with being knocked up. I always thought I liked the kooky dreams in the last trimester but now with this baby girl I think I hate them.

My family has never thought of me as a success. Even after I had the boy I could still see the disappointment in their eyes. Even after I lived in probably the hardest city in the world to live in they still judge.
I don't let it bother me because I have a WAY different view of what I think life is all about. I do not believe that we (the human race) were put here to work. I do not think that work & careers should be the basis of our existence. Don't misunderstand, I think that work is necessary, however I will not ever let it control the outcome of my future. My parents believe different.

I never cared that they thought this of me. I have always considered myself a success based on the way I raise my son and they way I live my life. I am a great mother and a great wife. My son is a great child. I did that. His persona and his behavior is amazing because the chef & I are hands on full time parents. We both believe that he comes first. Restaurants, careers, houses, even our relationship is superseded by our son and the way he is raised. We will, for the rest of our life put our kids (and our dogs) first. I will never be that woman who works 70 hours a week and has a nanny raise her child. I will always be a hands on active mother. This is what I know, this is what I want.

The thing with my family is that they are constantly suggesting alternate career paths for the chef. "He should go into catering" or "He should open a winery". For some reason, he is not a success in there eyes. Maybe because he is following his dream (something my father did not do) or maybe because they hate his food. Who knows. All I know is that it really pisses me off. It makes me not even want to hang out with them anymore. Which sucks because I really like my fam.
It doesn't bother the chef. He lets it roll right off of him. He can feel it though. He sees the way they roll their eyes when he talks about the restaurant. He gets so much support from his own family that I am sure he is probably not needing anymore. They are unbelievably supportive, not only with his career endeavors, but with me as well. I never had that kind of support ever for anything.

I guess I really don't know what I want out of them. I just want them to understand that I am never going to be the girl without tattoo's. I am never going to tell my son what he should do with his life. I am never going to make him feel bad about what he wants to do with his life. I will always support his endeavors as long as he is not hurting himself or anyone else. I am never going to be the girl who wants her daughter to dress in all pink. I am never going to be the girl who thinks that George W. Bush is a good president. I am always going to be the girl who supports her chef and her family. I will always be the girl who believes that travel is the best educational tool ever. I will never be the girl who won't try something new. I will always be the girl who believes that family is way more important than career. I am never going to be the girl who thinks that work=life.

That's it.

Dear Joe McHale,

You are now in my top three.


Love,
Chef's Widow

9 Months Prego 2005

Being that this is my second pregnancy, things have been a bit less exciting than the first time around.
The first time I was prego I actually looked forward to buying maternity clothes. Now I refuse to do it. I am living in wife-beaters and yoga pants and I don't care. I also stalked items on Ebay like a starved panther in need of food. Baby swings, baby rattles, overpriced Burberry outfits, diapers, toys, books, etc., you name it I was trying to buy it. This time around not so much. We already have so so so MANY toys it is freakin unbelievable. I hope our baby girl likes trucks cuz we are overflowing in them.
The one thing that has seemed to be the same as the first pregnancy is my intense desire to nest. Although this time it began a little early...
I redid Catcher's room, I redid the bathroom, next is baby girl's room. This all happened in the past month. And when I say redo, I mean everything. The walls, the floors, I even took out the bathroom sink. Can you say pyscho?
The funny thing is that we are trying to get the fuck out of the 'burbs. Our house is up for sale and here I am tearing walls down to prepare for the new girl. God, I love hormones. They make Chef's Widow go crazy.
Check out the crazy supermom things I did today:

• Lowes (w/ a two year old...not so fun but when is it?)
• Took the CatcherCrazyFace to the park, checked out the river trees, and possibly some poison ivy.
• Taped, then painted the bathroom.
• Completely reorganized Catcher's room.
• Put together a bookshelf for Catcher's room.
• Moved the baby dresser & baby bookshelf to the baby's bedroom (I know, this may have been a bit much).
• Made Oatmeal & Flax Cookies from scratch.
• Cooked Chix & Mashed Potato's for dinner.
• Laid down w/ the boy until he fell asleep (20 minutes of heaven).
• Wrote this post.

Umm. Yeah. So I am obviously a pyschopath. I guess I forgot what it was like to be a stay at home mama. A fat prego one at that.

The Chef & I share the same best friend. We all didn't come to be best friends at the same time which really works out well. The best friend was the Chef's super bff in high school. They were inseparable. They went on vaca together, they even dated the same girl (drama!) There was even some drama between all three of us. But whatever... that's high school.
Throughout college, the three of us somehow managed to get together at most holidays and get super drunk, usually at the Chef's parents house. After we all finished with our respective college careers (so we like to call them), the best friend and I moved back to the town we grew up in as the Chef traveled the world (Miami & NYC). The Chef's BF had somehow become my BF and soon we were professional drinkers gallivanting throughout Strongsville, he in search of the newest edition of Golden Tee & I in search of the next asshole to be my boyfriend. After a full fledged night of debauchery and extreme intoxication we would head back to his place, pass out, and the proceed to call his mom (who lived 200 miles away) in the morning for breakfast. Good times. Good times.
We hung out with the BF over the weekend for a brief period of time. He now lives way the f across the country and we barely see each other. It was nice though and he is so good with the boy which surprises me a bit cause he is shit with women (no offense M). Actually it doesn't surprise me because all in all he is a genuine guy who just happens to be way to f'ng picky about the opposite sex. But that's another post.
I guess that I feel blessed that my wonderful hubby, the Chef and I have such a great group of friends. We may not be able to such each other that often but the bond is always there. I like that Catcher is going to have ten aunts and ten uncles, pretty much all unrelated by blood. The more the merrier.