Serafina Pasta Sauce Behind the Burner

(Photo courtesy of www.behindtheburner.com)

Grandma would whack me with the wooden spoon if she knew I made pasta with jarred sauce. HowEVER, she'd make one exception... 

As you may already know, I'm a fan of Serafina Broadway, the famous Italian eatery in Midtown Manhattan. If you've never been there, I feel bad for you. Luckily enough, you can get your paws on a few jars of the same lip-smacking pasta sauce they serve at these fine Serafina restaurants.

 

The sauces sell for at least $10 a jar on the west coast. Sign up for Behind the Burner and get THREE jars for $19.99. Trust me. It IS a big freakin' deal: 

http://www.behindtheburner.com/deal/5

Mix it with cooked pasta on your stovetop, mop it up in your plate with fresh bread or sneak a finger-lick when no one's looking (I didn't say I do that...). Your friends will think you're the savviest saucier in town. 

Economically challenged as I am, I do allow myself a minor splurge once in a while. This one is definitely worth it.

Yum is the Word. Period.

;) H

Breakfast at Tiffany's, Dinner at Holly's

Early in the morning, in honor of dear Miss Audrey Hepburn, I'm trekking to 727 5th Avenue in my long white coat (in lieu of a little black dress--frostbite's not sexy) to eat the rock-solid granola bar that's been in my pocket for a month and sip my decaf coffee from McDonald's, longingly eying the array of exorbitant diamond jewelry.



Then, after gratuitously depressing myself, I'll eventually snap out of it, go home, and cook my friends a fab meal for under $15. Don't believe me? Wait and see. I give new meaning to the words "stock" and "market" (of course, you do realize I'm referring to the chicken stock I purchased from the supermarket...)

New York Power Trip

Here I am, just in case you thought I fell off a cliff like some wicked witch in a Disney film, never to be heard from again. Actually, I just moved into my first apartment and have been sitting on my hardwood floor, nervously munching on Kashi crackers and sucking on sugar-free Fudgesicles while waiting for the rest of my furniture...and my high speed Internet connection.

In the meantime, I've been scouring Manhattan for a part-time office job to help pay my $150 organic food bill, and not to mention, my rent. Two days ago, I headed to Midtown for (dun dun dun...) an interview.

After a five-minute interrogation by a security guard who practically made me late for my appointment, I ran to the elevator. In a fifteen second gasp from the first to the seventeenth floor, I tried to pull a Clark Kent, but my transformation to Supervamp didn't happen in a flash; I kicked off my running sneakers and socks, wiggled my icy feet into my black stilettos, slid into the corner and smacked the ground like Jill in that damn nursery rhyme. Of course, instead of tumbling down a hill onto some schmuck named Jack, I landed on my grungy, wet pair of Nike Shox. Even better.

Nobody saw my derriere hit the floor--except, probably, the somnolent watchmen, at that point wide awake and in stitches, watching me from fuzzy, black-and-white screens somewhere in that gargantuan Seventh Avenue building. In three seconds, I got up, dusted the street crumbs off my butt, re-applied my lip gloss and strutted to the office. I felt more powerful than ever (now if only I get that job...).

The empowered feeling fizzled when I got home and tripped--again--over the pair of red shoes I'd previously flung near my door.


Holly

"Resolution Solution"

Put down the leftover fruitcake. Get rid of those snowman-shaped sugar cookies that are, by now, hard enough to give you a snaggle tooth like Lloyd (Jim Carrey) in Dumb and Dumber. 

Take a two-minute break from whatever you're doing. Get on the floor and try the following workout. It will help kick-start your metabolism and boost your mood ASAP.

Enjoy, baby. And kick some butt, will you?

;) H

Long Year, Shortcake

Sometimes, the worst feeling in the world isn't whether you'll be able to squeeze into your slinkiest party dress, but that you won't be able to get out of it. After all the New Years Eve nibbles at my sister's party, I was almost certain that I'd get stuck--and that everyone would know me as that girl in the jungle print dress--until 2010.

You see, I needed a little something to soak up all the alcohol. When I peeked into my sister's fridge, I had a hunch that the blank cardboard box on the top rack contained a celebratory cake. I felt like Britney Spears in the Curious perfume commercial; I put a finger to my lips and asked myself, "Do you dare?" I imagined all the world's nutritionists running toward me in slow motion, shouting, "Nooooo! Waaaait! Donnnnnn't!" in warped voices. 

The imp on my shoulder said, "Hell yes." I obeyed the latter.

Maia, my friend's cousin, fled to the scene. Until this point, she'd been mixing orange soda with chardonnay (she swears it's dreamy). All I had to do was look at her twinkling eyes to know that she was equally intrigued. The suspense of the mystery dessert was making her crazy.

The second I lifted the lid, I nearly heard the Alleluia choir's hymn of joy. I, the girl with the wild hair and jungle dress, was ready to snatch my prey. I furtively cut a slice of the triple-layered, butter-yellow sponge cake with its wheel of fresh strawberries and turrets of whipped cream. And then Maia and I attacked it, leaving streaks of frosting on the black glass plate. 

 

Unlike most cake I've had, this one didn't sink in my stomach like the heft of a cathedral hymn. It was more like a light piano tune that made me want to dance around the room in a frilly yellow dress. Each velvety bite with its cool, white whipped topping reminded me of the cake you'd serve on the cusp of summertime or at a sixteenth birthday party--flirty, fun, and on the verge of seduction.

It was my last lick of 2008, celebrating my successes and absolving all the absent-minded messes I've made. This was one sweet acquaintance that will never be "forgot." 

P.S. By some divine intervention, I managed to break free from the dress, throw on my sweats, swap stilettos with sneakers and run (I mean RUN) to the gym the next morning.

Welcome, 2009! 

;-p  Holly