02.05.05 - 6:30 p.m.

There's some Turophile stuff up, FINALLY, as promised. It's been a difficult week, especially when all my at-home downtime was during the early part of the week when our internet AND cable (because the come from the same conglomerate) were mysteriously Out of Order. Sigh. This gave me much time to read The New Yorker on time for the first time EVER, possibly, but since I refuse to do any at-work updating, did not bode well for the poor journal.

Which is a shame, because there is so much to catch up on! Not only the food journaling but slightly food-related but more wedding-related news like, we are SO CLOSE to getting our spot at The French Laundry. Dad's friend talked to his friend who knows Keller, etc., and as soon as they get back from golf, he's going to set it up. Bitchin'. And in more Keller-related news, I am completely assured of my visit to Per Se next month, even though it will be a silly press event and not a full tasting dinner. Still happy about this, though, because due to a massive set of fuckups that were so not our fault, we almost had to cancel the event that I'd worked so hard to set up. Convincing laid-back Californians at a small institution that we should be having our event at the best new restaurant in NYC, even with all the Napa connections, was not an easy task. But for the sake of my personal food passions, I persevered.

My dad sent me photos of his 50th birthday dinner at The French Laundry on the off chance I'd get to meet Keller at our event and somehow be able to wheedle my way into TFL on the basis of these random stalker pictures. Hee. No thanks, Dad. I don't think Keller remembers your visit to his kitchen. I showed the pictures to Abby and she was like, "um, your stepmom is touching Thomas Keller's stomach! She is totally molesting him!" Which, on further inspection, she totally is doing in the picture. And I have to say, I'd probably molest him too. I'd probably also molest Mario Batali if I had the chance, which is disgusting to think about. But I admit that things might happen in the heat of the moment, in the presence of unattractive men who happen to make REALLY GOOD FOOD. I am continually a slave to my stomach.