Remember that other shoe? Well, yeah. It dropped.

I remember having a conversation with my mother a couple of months ago, right after I found out I got un-waitlisted at the law school I most wanted to attend. I told her that everything in my life thus far had been so nearly close to perfect that I felt perpetually nervous, as if something bad must happen soon, just because no one should have it easy all the time. I mean, I'd always accomplished what I set out to do, my family is only very mildly dysfunctional, nothing had ever really been withheld from me, and even the small slips and stumbles only managed to make me a better person. This scared me shitless. No one's supposed to have it easy all the time, right?

The answer is, "ya damn right." While I would in no way classify the past month as anywhere near catastrophic and is only a minor grievance compared to what many people deal with, it has been, in my world at least, a doozy. 

I found out that my boyfriend of a year (The Brit) actually was leading a double life, and had multiple other girlfriends and a fiancee back in England the entire time he was dating me. He's actually a textbook sociopath.

If I went into detail about all the messed up things I learned about the person I thought I knew and loved, we'd be here all day, so I'll spare you the details. And while I normally wouldn't share this much personal info with strangers, I felt since I was missing so long, if anyone bothers to check this thing, they might be looking for an explanation. 

I was putting myself back together. And applying to go on Oprah. 

Pretty much sums up dating in the District

The Old Tomato

Message sent to the Brit:

The Top Chef finale is on at 7:30 p.m. tonight.

That means, if you want to see me at that time, and possibly ever again, you must TiVo it.

Since you forgot to do it last night because you were "out," and having "fun." Sigh.

The Brit knows there are no compromises when it comes to Top Chef.

Let's Discuss: The GBF

The Girl Best Friend. The GBF. Why do they exist? To torture other women, naturally. Everyone knows the GBF secretly wants to be the GF. Why else would she text your boyfriend every hour on the hour? Leave him messages with cute secret acronyms that actually mean, "I'm in love with you. Let's make some babies?" Have him fly home to England this weekend for her birthday party?

And clearly, his gchat message that's a countdown until he sees her is just because she's a great friend.

I'm not speaking in specifics, though. Obviously.

They've been friends for like, ever. And of course there's no attraction there. Even though she's blonde and has huge boobs. Like, post-op Marisa Miller huge. (This is apparent from the copious photos of them together on Facebook. Lo and behold, her profile picture is of the two of them. The boy and her, not her boobs. Shocker. Not that I've looked or anything.)

Note: I am a brunette and a card-carrying member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Consequently, I hate Marisa Miller with the fire of a thousand suns.

I know what you'll say, though. Obviously, if this is something I'm worried about, I've got some Deep-Seated Issues and am clearly insecure in my relationship. I'm actually quite secure, thank you, and he actually has never given any indication that he feels anything more than brotherly to her.

But I know women. Fuck, I am one. And I've got a sneaking suspicion that she feels a bit more than sisterly toward him.

Any woman is lying through her teeth if she tries to tell you this situation wouldn't bother her the tiniest bit.

The worst part of it is, what do you say? Any questions you may have or anything that expresses discomfort with the situation makes you seem like Insecure Psycho Woman, while she's just good old [insert stupid poncy British chick name here] who will laugh about it when he incredulously tells her that you think she's got feelings for him.

While secretly she's thinking, well duh, and delighting in the fact that the score is now her 1, you nil.

So instead, the best thing to do is rant in a passive-agressive way on your blog that no one you know reads. Naturally, and pray that GBFs everywhere read this and take this advice:

If you are a GBF, a true and good GBF, you will gracefully step aside and BACK THE FUCK OFF if your MBF, man best friend, starts dating someone. Those are Girl Rules. I play by them, and you darn well should, too.

Photo Credit: Christian Lantry/Getty Images

Apparently, they actually DO say things like this.

"What color are your eyes?"

"Hazel."

"What a coincidence! That's the same color as my Porsche."

"Really."

Guess he likes me after all.

I like Valentine's Day. I know, I sold out. :P

A heinous story to get you in the mood

"Why don't you just call it what it really is?"

"What?"

"S.P.A.D."

"What in the hell is S.P.A.D.?"

"Single Persons Awareness Day."

I went to an all-girls Catholic high school. While most of the nuns had died off by the time I arrived, there was still a vestige of Manhate that permeated the air of the 200-year-old Academy. It wasn't so much a hatred toward the opposite sex that school administrators emitted, more like fear coupled with an intense desire to believe that every single girl in the school did not do a 180 appearance-wise on Friday nights, tarting up to go drink cheap wine coolers in the parking lot of the boys' school before football games. Mostly, the Academy pretended that boys just didn't exist; it was easier that way, because without boys, there could be no sex, and without sex, eternal damnation of its students was a lot less likely.

Valentine's Day, however, was another story. All of a sudden, young (CHASTE!) love was a thing of beauty, to be celebrated and glorified by allowing us poor innocent young females to receive flower bouquets from our significant others. Yes, every Valentine's Day, without fail, the last hour of the day was spent with the Bouge (our ex-nun principal) or the Nipp (our 200-pound-plus dean of students) calling girls' names OVER THE ANNOUNCEMENTS to come to the office and pick up their massive bouquets of flowers and any other trinket (stuffed teddy bears, chocolates, spark plugs) a boy saw fit to send them.

This was one of the most miserable hours of the year for people like me, who for the first two years of high school studiously avoided any contact with the opposite sex out of pure, unadulterated fear, and for the last two avoided contact with them because I realized that the great majority were complete idiots. Girls like Alyssa or Kendall or Brittany, though, lived for this hour; it was the culmination of months of slutty outfits and SlimFast lunches. They rose triumphantly from their seats when the Nipp called their name, only to totter back in the room 10 minutes later, completely obscured by an epic spray of pink or cream roses (red would have been too serious; carnations just meant your man was a cheapskate - he may as well have sent you pork rinds and a can of Mountain Dew.) They would sit there, preening and purring (yes, purring), as other eager and secretly hopeful girls inquired as to who sent them - Ian (last week's flavor) or Jeff (this week's?)

Some girls couldn't take the shame of not receiving a public display of affection in plant form, and if they didn't happen to have a boyfriend come February, would insit their parents send them an-over-the-top arrangement at school to make up for it.

Is there a moral or even a point to this story? I don't know, kids, I just don't know. I actually did receive a bouquet senior year from my boyfriend, but by that time I was just so disgusted by the entire ritual that the flowers just seemed like a waste of money. Maybe the moral is that 200 lb. deans of students should not be allowed to perform sadistic Valentine's Day rituals designed to shame the unattached. Or maybe I just wanted to remind you that if tomorrow sucks for you, remember things could be worse.

(And if you're bored tomorrow, and want to like, I don't know eat an entire cheesecake or go key couples' cars while they're eating their candlelit meals, I'm available. I actually have someone I'm supposed to spend V-Day with, and he's on business. In Dallas. Where I went to high school, ironically. So...yeah, let's hang out.)

Wok 'n' Roll

The Brit loves to cook. Which is partly why I'm crazy about the Brit. His latest obsession is a $120 wok that he bought and refuses to wash with dish soap because someone once told him it would make the wok gods angry and result in perpetually burnt stir fry. (He's also endearingly nerdy, did I mention that? But in the closet nerd sort of way, where he's all Guys' Guy but then secretly subscribes to New Scientist magazine because he's into neurobiology. Love that.)

In any case, the result is that I get fed quite well and often, with which I am totally content. Most of the recipes have been coming from Ken Hom's Top 100 Stir Fry Recipes, and man, does this guy know what he's talking about. I don't know who Ken Hom is, but something tells me he's a baller in the world of stir fry. The recipes are quite simple for the most part, but we haven't had a bad one yet. Lunch today was spicy pork with mushrooms which we put on toasted bits of French bread, and I'm pretty sure the wok gods smiled down on us because it was scrumptious.

When I get un-poor, I'm going to go out and buy a wok of my own (although probably the $17.99 variety) and this book to accompany it.

Sometimes a "hi" is all it takes.

A friend of a friend went on a date with this man.

Read his newsletter about how to pick up women here.

I feel like there are an infinite number of ways to mock this, but all I can muster is a vague sense of pity. God bless you, sir, but females just aren't that complicated.

EatHere

Apologize for the brief hiatus - my term as sorority president officially ended today, so I've been wrapping up some things. With the occasional break to run outside and jump up and down with pure, unabashed glee. Oh the bonds of sisterhood run deep, my friends.

Anyway, ate at EatBar with the Brit (I know, I know, we're On Again I suppose, although who really knows with those creatures?) last night and it was a total blast. I'd been to the adjoining restaurant, Tallula, and had enjoyed drinks at the bar, but never dined there. (The bar has a completely separate, more relaxed, but still delicious menu.) It's just such a fun little place - they have fun cocktails, delcious sandwiches, charcuterie, an impressive selection of beer, yummy desserts, the list goes on. I ordered the BBQ pannino, which was pretty much just pulled pork on grilled bread, but it was delicious. I also had a Wimbledon, a strawberryish cocktail rimmed with Pop Rocks. The cocktail was mediocre but the Pop Rocks made me feel like an eight-year-old, so all was forgiven.

The best part, though, is that Sunday nights at EatBar are movie night, meaning that at 8 p.m. they turn down the lights and play a movie on a big projector screen. They offer complimentary truffle butter popcorn and get this - ALL THE CANDY YOU WANT. Literally, a chick walks around with one of those old-fashioned concession boxes and offers candy bars to everyone, free of charge! POP ROCKS RIMMED MARTINIS + FREE KIT KATS = HAPPY KATE.

This is so clever - the manager told me the bar fills up every Sunday night now. Next week, they're playing Sixteen Candles, and I'm totally dragging my posse. Yes, my posse. Because, after all, POP ROCKS RIMMED MARTINIS + FREE KIT KATS + JAKE RYAN = VERY HAPPY KATE.

I am single. Balls.

Why is December always the month when someone decides to crap all over my heart?

Panic Nowhere Near the Disco, or Gee, your loins are tender!

The following dish is what happens when you're cooking for your boyfriend for the first time, planning on grilling some pork tenderloin, and you turn on your gas grill, and it sputters for a moment and then you realize you're out of propane. Brilliant. So you get a little panicky, pop it in the oven, and pray pray pray that it won't explode or turn out dry and crumbly like an Easy Bake Oven cake.

But then you remember that you have this magnificent sauce (from the great state of Texas) that would make even an Easy Bake Oven experiment taste like something from Alain Ducasse's kitchen: Fischer & Wieser's Roasted Raspberry Chipotle Sauce. It's smokey, savory, and and sweet all at once, and can be used as an accompaniment to pretty much any meatstuff, to make salad dressings, even as a topping for vanilla ice cream. It can also be used to power cars and may be the cure for some communicable diseases, but test results are pending.

Oven-Roasted Pork Tenderloin with Raspberry Chipotle Sauce

Recipe adapted from here
Serves 4

1/4 cup olive oil

1 tsp. dried rosemary

1 tsp. dried thyme

1 clove of garlic, minced

1/2 tsp. sea salt

1/2 tsp. ground black pepper

2 (1-pound each) pork tenderloins

1 botttle Fischer & Wieser's Roasted Raspberry Chipotle Sauce

1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees, and trim tenderloins of excess fat.

2. In a bowl, whisk together olive oil, rosemary, thyme, garlic, salt and pepper.

3. Give both tenderloins a sensual MAH-ssage with olive oil mixture, and place in a shallow baking dish.

4. Roast in the oven for 30-35 minutes or until juices run clear, turning once halfway through.

5. Five minutes before meat is done, heat sauce in a shallow saucepan. Hide the bottle if you want people to think you made it yourself.

6. Slice meat into medallions, and serve with heated sauce.

Optional side dish: 10 minutes before the meat is done roasting, place about 25 asparagus spears tossed in olive oil, salt, and pepper on a cookie sheet in the oven, too. Let them cook for 10 minutes and remove with the meat. Top with a bit of shaved parmigiano-reggiano cheese.

Notes:

1. This tenderloin turned out perfectly! Juicy, tender, delicious. Who needs a grill, anyway?

2. If you live in the DC area, I've found Fischer & Wieser sauces at the Spring Valley SuperFresh, and at World Market in Chevy Chase. Go get some!

3. There is no picture because in my state of culinary-induced euphoria, I lost all inclinations toward photography. Plus I didn't want Boyfriend to see me maniacally arranging food on a plate in the manner of a stage mother shellacking her five-year-old's foot-high beauty pageant hair do ("Hold STILL, Amber!"). Maybe not so much of a turn-on.

Happy eating!

"I had a scallop for lunch. It was decadence."

Over the weekend, I ate at Agraria Restaurant on the waterfront in Georgetown. The concept, however admirable, seemed a little crunchy when I first read about it – it is farmer-owned and operated and American family farms and ranches supply all the food. The result, however, is surprisingly upscale – the décor rivals many D.C. restaurants and the service was impressive.

I wanted to like Agraria, I really did. The menu was simple, with dishes listed by their main ingredient. I ordered the scallops ($19), which were sautéed in rosemary butter, if I remember correctly. I guess I just assumed they’d be accompanied by a vegetable/side of some sort. Imagine my surprise when the plate came out and contained…three scallops. Call me crazy, call me an unsophisticated American obsessed with quantity over quality who fails to comprehend the concept of FOOD AS ART, but I don’t know what chef sends out three scallops and says, “Wow. That is a completely sufficient amount of food for a main course. Well done, me.” That’s $6 a scallop. Granted, they were absolutely delicious – flavorful, buttery, devoid of sand, but I was left unsatisfied. Perhaps I was supposed to eat the sprig of rosemary they so generously added as garnish.

I suppose I was a bit miffed as well because for a few more dollars, my date got an entire red snapper (complete with eyeballs and tiny snapper teeth, yuck). He said it was delicious; I took his word for it – something about seeing the teeth of the organism I’m eating just turns me off a bit, but I digress. My point is that portion size seemed a little skewed.

My date caught me looking longingly at the dessert menu (again, for me, 3 scallops does not a meal make), so we got two of their fruity options, labeled simply, “Peach” and “Blueberry.” The Peach turned out to be a cobbler with a flaky, brown sugar-y crust. I adore cobblers – they remind me of my Georgia-spent childhood, sitting on my neighbor Elliott’s front stoop and letting peach juice dribble down my five-year-old chin, but this one was (and I never thought I’d say this) too sweet. Way too sweet. So sweet I couldn’t even finish it (a rarity, in the world of Kate), and even resorted to tempering it with the other dessert. Which brings me to...the Blueberry. When we ordered it, I had no idea what it was – the description merely had random words like “float” and “vanilla” involved. It turned out to be this odd take on a root-beer float (sans root beer, obvs). I suppose the best way to describe it would be a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a glass filled with chilled blueberry coulis. Don’t get me wrong – it was tasty – very fresh, syrupy, a perfect blend of tart and sweet, but as a dessert, it just didn’t do it for me.

In all, I was not overly impressed. Honestly, if I wanted to show someone the best of American cuisine, I’d take them to a Texas barbecue joint (Dickey's, after which I will name my firstborn)before I’d take them here.

Logo credit: agrariallc.com