Our potluck International lunch at the office prompted me to make use of myself in the kitchen. Needless to say, starting small would be the most realistic option for me, since I've yet to use my oven. I'm an all or nothing type of person. I don't just "eh" things. I love it, hate it, am obsessed with it, or want to destroy it.
Absolutely necessary to engage myself in a self-created month of attacking sangria recipes. Along with cupcakes, New York has a fetish for all-you-can-drink brunch specials, of which include none other than simplistic sophistication -wine. Unfortunately, I can't blame my obsession of grape smashing on my current residence. I'm convinced it's a step up from Purdue's grape Mccormicks and a lukewarm Keystone. I'll be juggling different types of wines, juices, and fruits. Perhaps I may share the best combinations. I am so determined to get rid of my current reputation of being domestically disabled. Just like a magician, I've mastered my way around the microwave. Now it's time to gypsy myself through greater obstacles, much harder than terrorizing those in Greek life who think Ed Hardy is the cat's meow. I will be stewing over my pitcher for the next month like a witch on Halloween. Same type of torture, complexity, and catastrophe.
30 days of solid bliss.