It’s kind of a big promise, too. But let’s start with the explaination:
On Friday, I had designs to write an interesting, and potentially long, blog post about what I cooked last week and what I ended up making to satisfy my food dilemma and what I did with my spinach (the answer: lots and lots and lots of spinach and mushroom salad), and I was all settled in and pleasently hungover (old friend in town) and whaddaya know, I got an email. And it said: Dear S, we are exicted to welcome you to our master’s program. And I stared like a dumb goat for a moment and then realized I had been accepted to grad school.
I only applied to one grad school.
The rest of the day, to be honest, is kind of a blur. As it turns out, when you mix a major adrenaline rush with a pretty bad hangover, you get roughly the effects of snorting a couple monster lines of cocaine at about 4:30 in the morning; I ran around like a maniac, yelled a bunch of things, got a lot of hugs, and then, 12 hours later, fell asleep wherever I was. Lucky me, I had a little bit of foresight and made it home and into my bed by the time my body just up and quit on me.
That mania has colored my entire weekend, all the way through yesterday. And so, dear readers (all 35 of you, I love all of you), this fall I will be in grad school and a lot more poor and still shopping at farmer’s markets and things should get a lot more interesting.
Here is the promise:
I make the best spaghetti sauce. I’m not bragging; it’s the only food I have truly mastered. And I’m getting pretty good at meatballs. Tomorrow, I am going to give you the recipe.
Tonight, though, I’m going to get cocktails at Bar Pilar. 
