Post One: I get talked into not one, but two New Years Resolutions

Once upon a week ago, I was very intoxicated at a New Years Eve party.  I am usually careful and cautious at events that center around the new year for two very good reasons:  1) Champagne corks are a menace and 2) New Years Resolutions. I gave up on the NYE tradition of making promises I couldn't keep when I realized I didn't have a future in politics.  Why let yourself and everyone else down if you aren't lobbying for a public office?  This year it went awry.  It's my fault.  I let my guard down.

It all started at Rosebud Italian Restaurant in the heart of Little Italy in Chicago with a plate of Lobster Ravioli

In case you aren't familiar with the Chicago Culinary scene, Rosebud is DELICIOUS.  They manage to keep the place classy while still being friendly, only falling prey to the Italian stereotype of a Sinatra shrine.  But that's okay because Sinatra is the best performer who has ever lived. 

Anyway.

During the evening I had a bowl of minestrone,  bruschetta, some absolutely insane cheesecake, and of course the all important bowl of pasta... stuffed with seafood... covered in sauce.  If you have ever wondered why us Italians are so loud, carry ourselves with a lot of bravos, and are right all the time it all boils down to one simple fact:  enough pasta will give you the illusion of superpowers.  For instance:  the illusion that because you have eaten a meal of 80% carbs you can drink champagne and make good decisions at the same time.  Such was my downfall.

The first culprit was a bottle of Pinot Noir.  Innocent enough with dinner and split with three other people.  We made our way back to my apartment, happy and full of pasta (ergo indestructible).  We decided to gear up for our friend's New Year's party by playing an awesome, but dangerous game:

Star Trek:  The Drinking Game

Netflix was kind enough to oblige us with the full Star Trek series.  The one without Kirk, but we watched it anyway.  To give you an idea of the outcome, here were the rules:

Take a drink every time:

1)  Someone says or does something racist that is actually meant to look tolerant.

2)  Someone says or does something sexist that is meant to look tolerant.

3)  Every time Jordi forgets he isn't hosting Reading Rainbow

4)  If the doors to the bridge lead to a different room than they did in the previous scene

5)  Any extended shot of someone looking concerned for way too long

6)  Whenever Patrick Stewart looks annoyed at the appalling performances of the other actors on the show.

Needless to say, we were on top of the world by the time we reached the home of this man:

Owen.  Freaking.  Lowery.

There were balloons, dinosaur decorations, DINOSAUR FINGER PUPPETS, food made of things inside of other things.  And booze.  Lots and lots of booze.  We were all flies in his seductive web of festive streamers.

About an hour until midnight we were all called into the kitchen, which knowing Owen I assumed would be a sing-along.  I am always down for a sing-along, so I got my incapacitated ass into the kitchen ready to sing my heart out to The Unicorn Song (a group favorite).

But I was wrong.  Horribly, horribly wrong.  Owen brought out a bag of what looked like shredded documents and announced that he was giving us all New Years resolutions.  I was trapped... but I didn't realize it.  Why?  Enter...

This jerk.

Champagne gives me an overwhelming feeling of cheer and can do-ness that when mixed with pasta powers is a recipe for bad bad things done with a gigantic drunken grin on my face.

So I stayed in the room.  And to my surprise... no harm done!  My resolution was to buy a cup of coffee for a stranger once a month.  I am a supporter of caffeinated goodwill, so hell yes.

But then midnight came... and many more bottles of champagne... and I stayed in room.  Damnit Champagne Nicki.  Why did you stay in the room.

Enter... KELLYE THE ROOMMATE.

Look at them sly gypsy eyes.  She knew what she was doing.  Oh.  She knew.

I wish I could go more into detail about what followed, but at that point I was doing things like this (dramatic interpretation by pictures of owls I found on google):

Kellye Owl:  

You should totally start a cooking blog as a New Years Resolution.

Nicki Owl:  

OMG I TOTALLY SHOULD!

Not only did I accept this immediately, I was exactly as enthusiastic as the owl above.  I told everyone about it, in detail, and now... thanks to Champagne Nicki (that really really does look a LOT like that ow.)... I have to do it.

What I am proposing...

 I am currently enrolled with a program called Irv and Shelley's Fresh Picks which delivers local, farm-fresh produce TO MY DOOR.  This is both awesome and delicious.  The problem is that I can't identify half of the stuff they give me.  What I will do is once a week invent a recipe (no cheating!) with whatever they give me + whatever happens to be in my house.  If I fail with a recipe I promise not to withhold information, you will know of my shame.  

If I succeed, it goes in the recipe book.  And if you happen to be Kellye the Roommate you have to eat it.