I’m looking for awesome salads. I’ve been eating salads for lunch every single dingdong day since like, mother fucking piece of shit April, and I’m burnt out. BURNT THE FUCK OUT. I’m tired of alfalfa sprouts and garbanzo beans. The flax seed stays, though.

I need options. Something exotic, erotic and mind-bending. Something without meat products.

Tell me how you make your salads. Give me secret family recipes. Anything that involves vodka and porn is a plus.

Otherwise, I’ll fall back on cheese sandwiches and get all bloated.

Things I do not like in my salads:

• beets
• radishes
• onions (sometimes those purple fuckers are ok)
• tomatoes (unless they’re cut up all tiny)
• carrots, unless they’re as shredded as the jeans on the collective ass of 1980s heavy metal
• dressings that do not include oil and vinegar
• broccoli
• urine

I really like ingredients that are not only hard for Henry to procure, but also hard on his wallet. And then I’ll write up some reviews maybe and possibly become a salad expert and get to do some whoring on Food Network.

Christina is making me a grilled cheese made of bleu cheese and orange blossom honey because I found a recipe and told her I wanted it.

The Xiu Xiu show was like a religious experience, if the religion was Paganism goes to the Circus. I loved it.

Earlier I was wishing that there was a grilled cheese store across from my house instead of the stupid church that currently pollutes the lot, and it made me think about all the wonderfully caloric combinations there must be of such two simple ingredients: cheese and bread.

I have two favorite versions of the old school classic.

1. The Adult Grilled Cheese: No, it’s not filled with Astroglide and money shots, but I call it the adult grilled cheese because it’s a sophisticated take on the traditional kind, maybe not one for crude pallets.

Pumpernickle bread, havarti, and an artichoke heart.

It’s like, really good and shit.

2. The Jellied Cheese: People think I’m disgusting, but I’m telling you, this is REALLY FUCKING GOOD.

American cheese (or cheddar, swiss, cheese curd, whatever), bread and JELLY. I like raspberry jelly with American cheese, to be honest. It’s delicious.

What’s your special version? I need to broaden my horizons.

(In other kitchen news, I think today was the first time I made oatmeal the way it was intended.)

Internet,

What’s your preferred method of stripping the shell from a hard boiled egg? Because I just lost thirty minutes of my very important life, hunched over the garbage can with two dyed Easter eggs squealing under my grip.

By the time I finished, half of each egg came off with the shell, I have cuts under my nails, and my kitchen looks like a crime scene.

Also, there were tiny specks of shell hiding in my egg salad.

RUINED.

Last week, I bought a box of some deliciously exotic-sounding coconut pudding/custard bullshit in the foreign food aisle at Giant Eagle. It’s called tembleque, I think.  I spent the better part of a week asking Henry, "Did you make it yet? That coconut bullshit, did you make it? Are you gonna? When?"

This morning, he was out doing some electrical work for his BFF Randy (read: he was hoping to lose his asshole innocence but Randy is a homophobe for real). When the Henry is away, the Erin will play…with things she knows nothing about.

The directions seemed simple: they were divided into two steps. Simple. It doesn’t take long to get to two, I thought.

A few minutes ago, I withdrew the bright pink cereal bowl I chose for the mold. The contents were runny and sloshed around the edges with little movement from me.

"It didn’t WORK," I cried from the kitchen.

"Maybe the bowl is too big?" Henry attempted to hypothesize. "Maybe pour into several smaller —" but I was already leaving the kitchen, hands thrown overhead.

Moments later, as I was sitting in the living room reading a book, he asked, "How long did you let this boil?" I didn’t like how he was standing at the foot of my chaise, mouth all contorted into a familiar expression — the one right before he unleashes the smug sneer of triumph that I know all too well.

I shrugged. "I don’t know…I didn’t know I had to boil it. I had it in the sauce pan but I just mixed it and then poured."

Henry shook his head. "What is with you and directions? You throw them aside and just do. Did you even read the box? I know you know how to read."

"So it’s ruined?" To be honest, I had kind of been over it since an hour after I stowed it in the fridge, because it was taking so long to set. I didn’t consider the possibility that it was my fault; I imagined it was just a very high maintenance dessert packaged in a modest box. Like myself.

"You could probably freeze it," Henry suggested, but I was already thinking about the box of flan that I bought at the same time as the coconut fuck-up.

It’s still in the kitchen, stewing all non-perishably in its package, daring  me.

There are few things my child could do to make me want to disown him. I was willing to turn the other cheek when he flung a forkful of noodles ala ketchup at me in protest. That’s one of my favorite meals, my signature dish. Nothing beats a bowlful of al dente egg noodles drenched in a sauce of congealed and lukewarm ketchup.

It took some time, I won’t lie, but I healed. I moved on. I continue to enjoy ketchup’d noodles alone.

I didn’t think he would find a way to hurt  me more than he did that day. Until this morning. I slaved over slathering the perfect marriage of peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff onto two slices of bread. I painstakingly cut the sandwich into tiny, bite-sized cubes, perfect for popping while enjoying an A.M. viewing of "Blue’s Clues."

I set the plate down in front of him. He grunted. I pushed it closer and he gave it some consideration. Then he grunted again and pushed the plate back at me. I tried to sneak a tiny morsel past his lips, in between chews of Goldfish. He crinkled his nose and his lips transformed into an iron barrier against unwanted edibles.

My asshole son doesn’t like Fluffernutters. I’ve been stabbed in the heart. Stabbed with a forkful of Fluffernutter hateration. How could he betray me like this? I’m running out of meal options for him, things that I’m capable of preparing and/or assembling, and if he keeps turning his nose up at my creations he’s going to be subsisting on crackers and Pringles every day until Henry comes home.

Maybe I can eventually get over this latest rejection. But if he doesn’t learn how to dance like the Jabbawockeez, I’m returning him to the hospital. Maybe I can exchange him for Lasik or get a voucher for an organ transplant. Or maybe they can just give me an organ if I’m in no immediate need of transplantation, to fashionably display outside of my body. "What? Is it my kidney brooch you’re admiring?"

Henry made me the perfect dinner. I’d like to think he’s attempting to make up for not delivering my forgotten sandwich to me last night, but I think it’s likely just a fluke that what he whipped up turned out so wonderful. It’s basically crumbled tofu decorated with roasted red peppers and mushrooms, followed by a finishing flourish of unknown spices and a bath of Heaven’s nectar. Oh, and cheese! How can a meal be called complete without a hearty coating of cheese? It looks like slop, but it tastes amazing. I’m a sucker for tofu. And cheese. And cheesy tofu.

I choked on a mushroom, but went right back to eating without crying about it. That’s how good it is.

Henry’s going to make someone a good wife one day.

EDIT: Never mind. My molars just clamped down on something sandy, possibly metal shavings, like miniscule fragments of glass cracking under the weight of my jaw. I hate incidental crunch in my food. Mood-killer.

I did a really Big Girl thing today — I made my own dinner to take to work. It was a delightful entree consisting of two slices of fifty billion grain bread (jetted here directly from France; the cellophane bag promises that it’s straight from a hearty hearth and I believe it), one hearty slab of savory mozzarella, and a couple shreds (the slice kept ripping when I tried to peel it out of the deli bag) of the most ambrosial American cheese your tongue ever did molest. Picture all of this off-set by the tangiest helping of dijon-flavored soy-mayo ever to sink into those tiny pockets in bread.

It was then plated with lots of love and care in fine tupperware with a bright yellow banana to add some flair to the presentation.

When I finished, I took off my toppling chef’s hat and stood back to admire my work. I bet Bobby Flay does that too.

But halfway here I realized I left it on the dining room table. I keep texting and email Henry, begging him to bring it out to me, but he won’t reply. I was nice at first, but then I started in all caps (I WANT MY SANDWICH!) and now I’m threatening to hold the damn Girl Scout cookies I bought from one of the dayshit employees (FOR HENRY) hostage.

Collin, more Pro-Henry than ever, doesn’t seem to think Henry should risk his life driving my lost sandwich to me. Why, because it’s snowing a little?  "It’s just a sandwich," he chided. But it’s MY sandwich. I nearly gave myself callouses in its preparation. I might die if I don’t get to savor the amazing craftmanship that went into building that true artisan sandwich. I’m so upset that I’m chewing on my hair.

Why do I feel like Chooch is probably eating it right now?

Messy food. I hate it. I could never even fully embrace sloppy joes when I was growing up, and isn’t that like, the dream meal of youth? Any meal that requires a napkin the size of a tarp spells out tedium to me. Maybe if it were cubed into bite-sized morsels and someone wearing a tophat and tails spoonfed it to me, I’d have applauded happily like the children in the Mamwich commercials. Then we could call them lazy joes.

I hate the sensation of cookie dough between my fingers.

“Now’s the fun part, kids! Get your hands in there! Make a mess!” No thanks, please pass the latex gloves. I think maybe this is why I never got into pottery.

Tonight at work, we ordered out.

I put a lot of thought into it, as I generally do with everything in life, before settling on a half of an eggplant parmesan hoagie. In past experiences, these hoagies have not been kind to me. You have your rebellious slivers of egglant, slipping off the sandwich and landing in your lap with a greasy plop. You have your strings of melted cheese, pliant and elastic, snapping in half and busting you in the cheek like a broken rubber band. You have globs of marinara that wants desperately to be your new lipstick. You have pieces of bread, paste-like once it mingles with the saliva, becoming caps for your front teeth.

This time, I was prepared. My desk was equipped with a stockpile of napkins; I halved the hoagie; I took slow, small, and careful bites. With luck, I can finish my second half without appearing as though I just ate out a streetwalker with a can of tomato paste plugging her vagina.

Good morning. I made a creamy pear pie last night all by myself. (Except that Henry cut the pears because I’m not allowed to use knives.) Then Henry skulked around behind me like a member of the Kitchen Secret Service, making sure I didn’t set off any culinary equivalents of the a-bomb.

And it came out good! I’m a baker! I’ll be baking more pies today. Maybe not today, but soon. I’m making my own crust for the next one.

"So, basically, I can put anything I want in the middle of a pie?" I asked Henry.

Flipping through the circulars, he mumbled, "Yeah, pretty much. Wait, why?"

"Because now I’m thinking."

"That’s scary," he monotoned.

I can’t stop thinking about oranges and currants. And maple syrup.

When faced with the daunting decision of after dinner pie-choosing, I would always be swayed by the sweet familiarity of the apple persuasion (although I could be bribed by any coconut or banana creams on the menu). My eyes would dance right over the cherry pie, with its deep red filling making it look like the harlot at the desserterie.

I will admit that the few times I’ve had it, the glaze of the cherries serviced my tongue in more ways than any lover has ever accomplished, but it was always the tartness of the cherries themselves that sent me back into apple’s arms.

My aunt Sharon offered three pies for consumption on Thanksgiving: pumpkin, sweet potato, and a proud-looking cherry with a regal latticework crown. The tartness of the cherries pleased my buds this time.

Call it growing up, call it acquiring a new taste, but I call it being struck by cherry’s arrow.

Fuck you apple, you boring slop of caramel-colored crap in a pan. I’m sticking with cherry and all it’s menstrual-hued beauty.

And you know who else can suck a dick? Pumpkin pie. I’m so fucking sick of pumpkin pie now that so many restaurants have unlocked it from its seasonal confines.

When you can get pumpkin pie on a sweltering July evening, it kind of takes away its holiday magic. I’m riding the sweet potato jitney now. I still hate meringue.

Speaking of pies, today I’m going to be making my own special one for practice (Henry said I can!

) because there’s a really fabulous-sounding one that I want to make for my guests at the upcoming Game Night. Quaking yet?