Yesterday, I went to the grocery store and bought myself a jar of pickles. It was the only item in my cart. And I felt like the quintessential preggo-stereotype.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a spotlight shining directly on the jar-in-question as I tried to fast-and-furious my way through the check-out line. It bothered me.
Probably because I don’t like to conform.
The very first time I ever planted herbs, I planted a basil plant in a pretty little pot, sat it outside my apartment, watered it, loved it, doted on it…
…until the time came to make pesto. And I cut him down at. the. knees. As in, literally. Nearly all the way down to his fragile little roots.
Fact: I just exercised my powers of restraint.
As I scanned my list of recent posts, I realized that 4 out of the last 5 have been slathered in nut buttery deliciousness.
In a vain attempt to remind
you myself that I do, in fact, lead a fairly balanced lifestyle, I am going to toss my peanut butter cup ice cream back in the queue. Sad.