April is indeed the cruelest month, winning me over with its bursts of taunting spring, convincing me to let my winter guard down, only to strike me with cold winds down my neck as I walk to my car after work, sweaterless and betrayed. It's like that bitch in high school who said you were like a sister to her, but then slept with your boyfriend behind your back. Even in Southern California, where (according to authoritative 90210 and Baywatch) we splash in our teeny bikinis year-round, April is a meany of a month. Here I am, just two days after donning a sundress in gleeful ignorance, suddenly wrapped up in my college dorm room blanket and my husband's oldest sweatshirt, my laptop providing the only heat. I'm half tempted to light a trashcan fire in my driveway and warm myself by it, just to prove my point to cruel, heartless April.
April is cruel for other reasons as well. April brings us taxes, by which we are punished belatedly for things that happened last year, and for which we actually pay someone to tell us how much we need to pay. I know in our house, taxes were especially vicious this year. And I don't blame our poor financial planning. I blame that bitch April.
And so, it seems perfectly acceptable that I use April as an excuse for not having a recipe for you today. It's been takeout and leftovers around here all week, partially because of the aforementioned taxes, and also because of fluctuating weather-induced depression. I did manage to make pasta primavera tonight , as a culinary middle finger to the bitter chill in the air (primavera is Italian for "spring"), but other than that, my poor kitchen has been as disregarded as a prisoner in San Quentin.
That non sequitur of a simile brings me to my next Great Excuse for not having a recipe for you, which is that I have been prepping to go to San Quentin. As in, the prison. I'm going there for work, a new potential television project. Today I watched footage of a four-year-old getting a spray tan for a pageant, and tomorrow I will be in a prison talking to murderers and rapists. This is the life of a Reality Television Producer. It's almost as unpredictable as the weather in April.
So forgive me for not having something warm and delicious to comfort you. If I could have, I would have made you a lovely asparagus risotto, or perhaps a batch of pistachio macaroons. Instead, I can only leave you a promise: that soon April will give way to May, that the strawberries will make their way into tarts and the stews will step aside for lemony spring soups, and I will be here, cooking them up for you with love. But for now, I must pay my taxes and talk up some lifers.
(By the way, I am holding on to the sincerest hope that if I close my eyes and listen hard enough whilst in the halls of San Quentin, I will maybe, just maybe, be able to hear the faintest echoes of Johnny Cash. A girl's gotta have dreams. Especially in April.)
I'll be back next week, and hopefully so will the sun. To tide you over, here are some spring-sponsored artichokes, (which were lovely until I overcooked them in a tax-induced rage).