My burning desire to cook...without burning down the house

Security Tag.

Apron Anxiety has been fluttering between #1 and #3 on Amazon (in “Gastronomy”) since Tuesday … omfg, insane, nuts, can’t believe it, YAY, crazy, pinch me, kiss me, what?!!$@$!@$!!

Off to refuel in Nantucket before my book party in Boston on Thursday. Although I just discovered some high-level-dress-prison-security-tag situation on the left hip of the brilliant, little black number I’m supposed to wear that night. From knockout to stress-out … Sigh.

Ohhh, those who say that I sound “entitled” in the book will just love this post! That’s okay. Reminds me of this paragraph in AA:

As I walk away, through the streets of the Village, looking for fresh air and maybe a falafel, I am oddly unfazed by the experience of being ignored or insulted by the foodie mafia. I will always meet people who don’t like me, or don’t get me, who think I’m dressed like a high-class hooker or raised by wolves. But as all the women I’ve ever admired would say, “At least you’re interesting enough that someone gives a shit.” Which reminds me: There will always be people who think I’m not interesting enough at all.

I’ll sort out the dress jail.

Yesterday, while searching for said silhouette, I saw an old pal walking towards me on Prince. I was wiped, without a speck of makeup, and the last thing I could handle was smalltalk. He’s going to ask me to sign a book…or for my agent’s info…or some idiotic literary advice … Great, I groaned, feeling super-bitchy with low blood sugar.

So I stopped, and smiled, extending my arms for a fake hug, forcing out a phony “Hey you!” And then prepared to be examined, encouraged, applauded … 

"Yo, Lys, sorry, can’t talk!" he snapped, brushing right past me. "My wife is giving labor and you, sweetheart, are in my way!!!"

And so it goes. It’s just a book. And it’s all good.

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