And thusly, with an errant photograph of garlic, have you been snookered.

You know what the saddest part is? I HAVE all the ingredients for last night’s Smackdown, duxelles-stuffed chicken legs with Supreme sauce, potatoes and haricots verts from The Professional Chef. Last night, as we know, I passed out in a drug-induced stupor and was unable to complete the task.

Tonight I left work at ten to five, in plenty of time to cook and maybe even take some photos with actual real daylight. And then? I DIDN’T WANT TO DO IT. Because I am now in the first hours of a 2-week vacation, and as soon as I left the office I got all, like, “FUCK OBLIGATIONS.” Even obligations that are technically fun.

So we went out for French food. And it was GOOD. I felt kinda guilty, until I remembered that THIS IS MY DAMN BLOG.

The kicker: At dinner, Brian says, “I wanted to cook the meal, but I didn’t want you to feel like you had to write,” and I say, “I wanted to write, I just didn’t want to cook the dinner.”

And then O. Henry spun. But whatever, that duck confit salad with white beans and sherry vinaigrette was frigging GOOD.

Stay tuned for a week or two of TNS relocation to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, its yearly migration, and all the barbeque that entails. But until I get there? FUCK THAT SHIT, YO.