Battlestar, engage!

Entering the blogosphere. This is uncharted territory for me; I feel hubristic and expansive, extending thought tentacles into cyberspace. I doubt anyone will read my blog, but it still makes possible that secret fantasy of every diarist that the diary will be discovered, read, and found exhilarating. And the cyberspace aspect, well, that's just the cherry on the cake--not only am I, Little Chef, an emissary of words (my pronouns and adverbs alien beings, probing the universe), but a tiny Major Adama commanding my ship through unknown and dangerous territories.

Will I find Earth? Perhaps the metaphor should end here before I dissolve into unadulterated dorkiness and lose sight of the blog's primary aim, which is to discuss cooking and my opinion on sundry matters. I've just finished baking a chocolate cake and am waiting for it to cool so that I can eat a big, delicious slice with a glass of milk and watch Battlestar Gallactica.

I know you're thinking that I'm an overweight "sorry I'm just weird like that" woman, of indiscriminate age, with a Final Fantasy account and an overly educated C.V. (and probably stringy, yellowish hair), but I'm not (overweight, agey, gamey, or stringy--the overeducated C.V. applies). The chocolate cake is actually part of my plan to acquire breasts before my summer wedding. Yes, breasts! Beautiful, pale globes that will quiver in faux-maidenly anticipation of my nuptials.

Which is exactly why I need this blog. No one really wants to hear about my quivering orbs, nor will they likely materialize no matter how much chocolate cake I eat by August. Besides, I'm too health-conscious to really eat two breasts worth of cake. I work in a warehouse (surprise number two! why is a self-professed overly educated individual working in a warehouse? well, because life is ridiculous), go to the gym, and am generally very fidgety. And each fidget costs calories.

But how those calories can be regained! The possibilities for recovering calories are sumptuous; spicy, creamy, aromatic, fuggy, astringent, green and sweet, each calorie is a precious jewel mined in my kitchen and turned into finery. On my good days I am a glittering Cleopatra (or Diana Troy) of the Kitchen! And on the bad I feed my future in-laws cake without leavening and saute ground turkey with the absorbent paper still attached.

True stories. Ugly dinners.

But every captain loses battles; Cylons and those weird wrinkly-nosed creatures from Star Trek are just the interspace versions of fallen souffles and runny quiches. They will be vanquished eventually, and until then, it's a hell of a ride.

Hold onto the seat of your pants, reader. This is Little Chef, blasting off.