But if it were ...

I might tell you about how I made sweet potato hash browns and eggs with spinach and mushrooms for breakfast and then I served that all up with a glass of ice cold milk and eight grape tomatoes (not in the milk).

Heck, I might post step-by-step pictures of how I create amazing frittatas.

Mind. Blowing. And on second thought, never mind.

I might tell you that if we were to play a word association game and you were to say "freezer soup," my instant association is "I'm a failure," because even though I've probably made successful freezer soups, only the bad ones stand out in my mind. And there have been some bad ones.

Ever put powdered parmesan cheese in scrambled eggs before cooking them and then put that assemblage in a soup with peanut butter and Maraschino cherries? Like that bad.

But if it were a food blog, I'd be promising you I'm a decent cook. And a superior eater.

I'd discuss that my "one food," my take-it-on-a-deserted-island food, my I-could-eat-this-every-day food, is probably tomato soup. But then I think about the heartburn. And how I like chewing. So I change it to Yum Nua (Thai Beef Salad). Then I remember how I'm pretty much a vegetarian and not just because this one time I saw how Pigs. Actually. Live. So I change it to Bun Thit (a righteous Vietnamese noodle-y/salad-y dish), but then I think about how I can barely finish a serving of that and how am I supposed to eat it for every meal? 

And then I really remember TACOS. How could I forget? I don't even discriminate as long as they are Crunchy. Warm. A perfect balance of crisp lettuce and warm meat in a fragile, toasted outer shell. Yes, please. Get in my munching cave. In my fantasy where I live on tacos, it's okay that they're filled with meat, because that meat was raised on a rainbow and was allowed to do crossword puzzles whenever it wanted and wear pajamas all day and get All-You-Can-Hug-Hugs from a squeeze machine and eat pumpkin cake for breakfast. And then that meat was doused in hot sauce and consumed as a taco. With plain yogurt. The end.

If this were a food blog, I'd share the fact that once someone has given me a recipe, the dish is forever called by that person's name, regardless of how much I change the recipe or merely use it as a jumping-off point. Which is why I eat things like Emily Butler Enchiladas and Carole Studebaker Soup.

The beginnings of Carole Studebaker Soup, a concoction 

that I wonder if Carole Studebaker would even recognize.

I'd remind you that I've previously stated my intent to marry a chocolate lollipop.

That I've declared in an open letter to my favorite self-serve frozen yogurt place that I want to have its babies.

That every time I open the container of Trader Joe's Blue Cheese Roasted Pecan Dip, I make sweet, sensual love to it with slices of crisp green apples. And my mouth.

I'd write about my uncanny ability to "carb up" a meal. What's that? It already has potatoes in it? Are you going to complain about me making it double-delicious by adding noodles? And maybe rice? And serving it with a buttered pub bun? If I make it with extra love, none of it will go to your hips.

If this were a food blog I would divulge that the smell of garlic and black pepper sauteing in olive oil is more intoxicating to me than seven Flaming Dr. Peppers. And then I would have to admit that's a lie, because there's a difference between figurative intoxication and literal, one-too-many-means-never-again, intoxication. But, damn, garlic and pepper and olive oil. Mmmm.

But this isn't a food blog.