Blowtorch 1 (thumb), Rikibeth 120, margarita imminent

Despite the economic downturn, people are still booking catered events. This is good because it means I still have a job. Sometimes it even means extra hours for my job, like today: an evening reception for 110, including dessert.

Now, a lot of the time, Chef will guide the customers towards cheesecake, or chocolate mousse torte, or apple crunch tart for their dessert. Those are the ones I can do pretty much in my sleep. Which I would have been doing today, really, because it doesn't seem to matter how late I get to bed on a weekend, I still wake up early. Especially if the sun comes right into my eyes at 6 AM. So I started out the week a little short on sleep.

But this event wanted Mini Pastries for dessert. I said "cannoli, cupcakes, bite size lemon meringue pies?" Chef said sure.

I'd made the cookie cups and the lemon curd on Friday. So today was baking off cupcakes, making frosting, making Italian meringue, and then a marathon session of playing with piping bags in order to fill the cannoli, frost the cupcakes, and fill the cups with the lemon curd and top them with the meringue.

Why yes, my wrists ARE a little bit sore. Funny, that.

After all of that, it was time for the blowtorch! Uncap the front, turn on the butane, click the lighter, and foosh! Wave it over the piped meringue tops and watch them get golden brown and delicious.

The only problem was when I went to put the cap back on after I was done. I brushed my thumb against the nozzle. The still-hot nozzle.

Ouch.

I think this is going to be the excuse to try Moe's Southwest Grill in Blue Back Square. It's right across from Whole Foods so I know it's walking distance, and if I WALK, I can get a margarita with no worries.

I think I've earned it.

Thwarted (but not for long)

Moe's only had STRAWBERRY margaritas. blech.

This AFTER I convinced eternaleponine to walk with me despite her disinclination to do so.

However, I still didn't want to cook with a blister on my thumb. So I did, in fact, eat a burrito that was thicker around than my wrist.

But then we got home, declared pantsless o'clock (pajama pants are not pants, in this notation: mine have Frankenstein's monster on them) and I hauled out what eternaleponine calls my drug paraphernalia: the cocktail shaker. And the Cuervo, and the Grand Marnier, and the Rose's Lime Juice.

Even the kosher salt for the rim of the glass.

I HAVE MY MARGARITA.