I'm so dysfunctional that, alone in my room not long ago, I removed a dirty article of clothing, pitched it across the really miniscule length of my quarters*, succeeded in getting it to land smack in the middle of my hamper, and promptly did a bilateral victory fist pump while pivoting on my toes in a happy circle. If you can respect me enough to continue reading my blog after that... well, I suppose I can muster enough respect for you to keep you as a reader**.
Thus, my current passionate argument in favor of legalizing gay marriage, and why said legalization should not even be an issue, is this: someone let me get married (in jeans and a T-shirt, no less). Read the above paragraph again and tell me you're not convinced. And stay tuned for future passionate arguments in favor of gay marriage, hopefully featuring the words "equality" and "human" and "rights" and so on.
Uh, yeah. So. I made gougères.
For those not in the know, biting into a gougère is like biting into cheese made from angel milk. That's not me trumpeting my culinary prowess. That's just what happens when choux pastry interacts with really, really delicious dairy products.
I served them with pan-roasted asparagus in a lemon and white wine browned butter sauce. Stops: pulled out. Dinner is early tonight because I'm going to attempt to get very, very last-minute tickets to a sold-out Steve Reich concert; I felt like a little extra elegance might have offset the plebeian hour at which I ate. At least, people keep telling me early dinners are plebeian.
*Seriously, if Shaq lay down on my floor, I cannot state with confidence that his feet would be totally in the room.
**Just kidding. I love you all. Deeply. Really. Please don't leave me. I get, like, 100 hits per day. I need you. Especially since I now have only eleven followers as opposed to my former astronomical number (twelve).