Sorry! I feel like every post for the last few months has started with a sucky-blogger apology. In the words of a young Levy: “I thought you were good!” I swear, I’m eating, it’s just boring. Maybe I’ll document “An Average Day in the Life of Anne’s Stomach,” just to prove it. Last weekend though, an aberration from the avocado addiction and plain yogurt norm. Home, which nowadays always means a little bit of gluttony. One of the best things (besides drinking juice out of the carton) about not living at home is being able to go home. It feels special. And because of that warm special feeling, I also feel it’s alright to go ahead and eat six pieces of toast so I can inhale Mom’s kickass apricot jam and top that off with some serious Steury bacon, then a couple hours later trot down to Mikeys for salad the size of a Greek city-state, then maybe later a gigantic Levy Larkin dinner, then probably a box of fake chicken nuggets (don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, meat snobs) for a midnight snack. Why not? You’re home, after all. One night we had a shish-kabob feast complete with pasta salad and regular salad and even chocolate-covered strawberries, the next night (saintly Mother’s birthday) we had grilled salmon and salad (I made the salad! I’m an achiever!) and (drumroll) champagne morel risotto.

Buddy, risotto-ing.

So good, I was eating it out of the pan while the rice was still hard. That good. Morels are tasty, yes, but the fact that they’re foraged (especially by mountain biking dads) makes them a thousand times better. They make you feel simultaneously fancy and earthy, a difficult note to hit. Then, as if I hadn’t ingested 3,000 calories in one sitting, Camie’s unbelievable strawberry tart. Camie is pastry queen, if you weren’t aware. Every important day is accompanied by a Camie dessert. Coffee cake at Christmas, pumpkin bourbon cheesecake on Thanksgiving, angel food cake for Logie’s birthday, anything my secretly sweet-toothed little heart desired for all my birthdays, chocolate zucchini cake for any last minute joys. And Mom’s “28th” birthday: almond crust, sabayon-esque citusy custard filling, packed with strawberries. So creamy, so good. Topped with ice cream, just for good measure. It is home an all.

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