What not to make.

It was Friday night. There I was, at dinnertime. In front of me was a bunch of arugula. Instead of doing all the usual arugula-y things I do with arugula (known as "rocket" to some of you and "rucola" to others and "arugu-wha?" to a smattering), I decided to make arugula pesto. I like pesto, and I like arugula. Arugula pesto! I thought I was so smart.

After making it, I noticed that it tasted like a solvent, like it would eat straight through the countertop, should any of it spill. The arugula was especially strong. I noticed its awesome bitter powers before whirring it in the blender; post-whirring, with its fellow pesto ingredients, the bitterness had increased exponentially. Please note that I am highly tolerant of the bitter greens. And yet. Anyway, I thought maybe if I mixed it with ricotta cheese, we would be able to eat it and live. Henry, as you may know, abhors anything green (or anything non-white, for that matter) so he would have just plain ricotta cheese in his pasta, and would thus be spared. I had some whole-wheat rotini, which I thought would be okay with the diluted horror of the arugula pesto/ricotta cheese thing.

We all sat down to eat, and Scott declared the pesto delicious and me clinically insane. My husband will eat anything. He's a goat. Actually he's part goat. He once ate an entire plate of fiberglass insulation for dinner. I, on the other hand, have no goat relatives on either side, so I picked at my dinner. The ricotta cheese had just made the whole affair gritty and gloppy. The whole-wheat pasta wasn't helping it go down any easier. I had made us some kind of Green Penance Sauce on a High-Fiber Pasta of Penitence. It was scouring my insides. I might as well have gnawed on a steel-wool pad. Unfortunately, I was really hungry, and I ate more of it than I should have--the amount I should have eaten being "none."

As you may have guessed, my body revolted. Scott took Henry to bed as I lay on the couch, gasping. I marveled at the fascinating new sensations coursing through my innards. Were my intestines actually twisting around my esophagus? Because that's what it felt like. I'll never know. I took about fourteen Tums (translation: four) but it was no match for the pesto. The horrible pesto. In conclusion, I was up until 4 a.m. And I was sad. And that's my story.

But hey, things are looking up! Because tomorrow, my friends, tomorrow, Wondertime is coming to my house for a photo shoot. Perhaps you've heard about Heather Armstrong's anthology, Things I Learned About my Dad in Therapy. Well! My contribution to that is going to be reprinted in Wondertime, in their May issue. I'm ridiculously excited about both the anthology and the Wondertime publication. I don't want to give away the subject matter, but let's just say that for the photo shoot, there will be light sabers, and cinnamon buns will be affixed to the sides of my head. You can bet your sweet bippy I'll be back tomorrow to tell you all about it.