Poor Tim. He not only had to sit through Julie & Julia with me last week, but then, had to make her Boeuf Bourguignon.

'Twas divine.

He said that when he went to our local liquor store to get the Burgundy needed for the recipe, all he could find were expensive bottles.

Tim (to clerk): Do you have any inexpensive bottles of Burgundy I can use in a recipe?

Clerk (snorting): Boeuf Bourguingnon?

Tim (sheepishly): Yeah. My wife just rented that movie.

Clerk: Follow me. I'll show you what I use.

Tim and Clerk (in unison, complete with eye rolls): Women.

If you're wondering how come I'm just getting around to this movie now, I explained in a previous post why I don't go to movies. Let's just say it's been awhile.

And, by the way, I did take a picture of this fabulous dish while it was still in the pot, but after an inordinate amount of time on the phone with tech support (there are no four-year-olds in the neighborhood to ask), I apparently need a new thingy to put in the doohickey of my camera before I can post any pictures.

Glad that's all cleared up.

When these Reno ladies decided to start a book club three years ago, they weren't kidding around. While the requirements for entry in my own book club often appear to be based solely on a love of food and drink, for this one, you're actually expected to read. What a concept!

From Bottom left: Stephanie, Joan's pooch, Kathy, Christy, Joan
Top Left: Sue, Deb, Marisa, Anita, Jocelyn

And, it's quite a diverse group. Here's what Jocelyn had to say about the Ladies:

Jocelyn: coordinator/ social butterfly and baby of the group
Christy: the bean counter and fellow baby of the group
Stephanie: well-read, informed, senior staffer
Kathy: party/event planning by day, best backyard summer hostess by night
Deb: book worm and collector of chickens (that would be real, live chickens)
Marisa: Burning Man fan and cake decorator/artist
Anita: smart, worldly
Joan: voracious reader and quirky, good fun
Sue: been all over the map, realtor to the stars and jokester

I only found all this out after Jocelyn emailed me afterwards, or I certainly would have been asking them more questions than I did. (Starting with: Collector of chickens? Like that Lucy episode?)

Ladies (and Joan's pooch - nice profile!) thanks again, so much, for choosing Queen of the Road. (I wish I could figure out how to upload that picture of the baby with one of my signed bookplates platered on him/her. Priceless!)

Ever see those Oprahs where women who think they know their bra sizes get sized and find out they really don't?

How in the world can a woman not know her own bra size? I always thought that was so idiotic.

Well, I'm an idiot. (As if you didn't know that already.) But, turns out there's more than one idiot in our house.

You know how men always think they can discern a woman's bra size? (Oh please, oh please: Tell me I'm not the only woman married to one of those.) Well, Tim is not immune to priding himself on that score. Maybe it's a physics thing.

In any event, when I went to my local Nordstrom for a bra last weekend, it was specifically to get sized. I knew what I'd been wearing for years wasn't quite right, but I certainly had no idea how wrong it was.

Meet June, the Bra Whisperer (that really is what they call her). She measured me, listened to my preference for styles, then went in search of the perfect slings and hammocks to meet my needs. But, before she left the dressing room, I had to know. I'd been wearing a 34C for decades.

"What size am I?" I asked.

"You're a 34 triple" she replied.

"Triple what?"

"D."

"DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD???????????" (Well, OK. Actually DDD.) I was shocked. Just like those idiots on Oprah.

June gave me an uncomfortable smile, as if she was used to women being horrified when they found out their true sizes. I guess she wasn't use to me.

"Triple D!" I did a little dance with my thumbs up. "Way to go!!!!" (Look, I was totally flat-chested until my second year of college. Some things just stick.)

When I got home, I proudly informed Tim of my new Triple status. He was just as shocked as I. Unfortunately, he simply refuses to admit he was wrong and goes around muttering about "bra inflation." (I guess that's better than refering to June as "The Boob Wrangler.")

My new bras are so comfortable (including my new exercise one), Tim wants to know if this will induce me to get dressed more frequently. I'm pleased, therefore, to announce he remains the sole idiot in the house.

On March 11th, all Nordstrom lingerie deparments will be hosting Nordstrom Fits America. If you buy a bra, proceeds go to breast cancer research. They're taking appointments now. So, get fit, ladies! (Just don't tell your men. I'm not sure they can handle the information quite as well as we can.)

Don't worry. I would NEVER post a recipe on this blog that has no alcohol in it.

Several of you have asked for the recipe I mention at the end of QUEEN OF THE ROAD that's my fave thing Tim cooks.

So, here it is, hot of the presses. (He made it for Valentine's.) You can figure out how to do the green beans that accompanied it yourselves, can't you? I mean, even I probably could. But, don't worry, it won't be any time soon. As Tim says: he's become the wife he's always wanted.)

Pecan-Crusted Salmon in a Spinach Cream Sauce (adapted from Atkins Best Recipes)

Sauce:
2 cups packed fresh spinach
1/3 cup white wine
1 large shallot
1 cup cream

Salmon:
1/2 cup pecans (about 2 ounces)
1/2 cup Bisquick
1/2 tsp dried basil
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
2 Tbsp butter, melted
2 (8-ounce) salmon fillets

Mix spinach, wine and shallots in a small saucepan. Cook over medium heat 3 minutes. Cool slightly: puree sauce in blender until fairly smooth. Return to saucepan to heat; add salt and pepper to taste.

Heat over to 350. In a food processor, pulse pecans, bake mix, basil, salt and peer until nuts are nicely chopped. Trransfer to a bowl and mix in butter.

Grease a large baking sheet. Place salmon on sheet. Spread fillets evernly with pecan mix. Bake 15 minutes or until cooked through. Serve on sauce.

Then, serve to sauced.... er, beaming sweetie.

I'm not the most mechanical gal in the world. (Not news to you, I know.) So yesterday, when I got an undeniable, irresistable craving for Sushi for lunch, even though there was still some ice on the road, I had to go.

Fortunately, the Sushi place is only 5 minutes from our house (15 minutes if you walk - I guess) and the roads were largely clear.

Unfortunately, that didn't stop my little, old, '99 Saab from becoming possessed.

When I parked at the restaurant, I took the key out, but the radio stayed on. Huh? Same thing happened when I got home. I'm so unobservent, concrete (and after all, did take physics for non-majors) I just assumed "Hey! Look at that! Car radios stay on, even without any juice! I wonder why I never noticed before!"

When Tim came home hours later, I told him of my wonderous discovery. He promptly ran out the door. (No, I hadn't left the radio on. Even I know not to do that.)

PN explained that since the Saab's ignition was on a column on the floor, sometimes when it's cold outside, the act of pushing down the key to start it, acutally keeps the button down, so even when the key is removed, the thingy itself is still down, electricity still flowing, battery still draining.

Or, something like that.

Anyway, thought that might be useful information for any of you living in cold weather with a similar set up in your cars. Consider this a Public Service Announcement: Your car is not possessed! And, radios don't stay on on their own. (But, wouldn't it be cool if they did?)

Look, I love The Who.

In fact, Tim and I saw them in Denver, what... 15 years ago? They were fabulous. Roger Daltrey with his open, button-down shirt, was totally ripped. And, he flung that mic around so you believed it.

Tonight, not so much.

I dunno. Something about a 65 year-old singing Teenage Wasteland (yeah, I know it's Baba O'Riley) was just plain creepy (and somehow thought to be more acceptable than a potential wardrobe malfunction. I mean, heaven forbid we see a woman's breast ).

The whole performance would have been OK if there was no picture. But, when he and Pete Townshend did their power arm-above-the-head, rocker stuff, it looked like they were in the nursing home during exercise hour, with an aide exhorting, “Stretch, Mr. Daltry, stretch!” Then when they sang “before we get too old…” Oh, lord. It’s way too late for that, dudes.

At the end, when the lights where flashing “The Who” and Roger was fiddling with his earpiece, it seemed as if the whole thing was subtitled for our benefit, so we could understand his imploring, "the WHO???? The WHAT????”

Unfortunately, I think this proves that unless you're Mick Jagger, or Rod Stewart, the old rocker thing just doesn't fly.

Although it was impressive they were able to stay up so late. "Now be good, Mr. Daltrey. Time for your meds."

Whatever happened to going out on top?

Well, OK. One Nerd in particular. But, the other day, I had the following, thoroughly entertaining interaction with a gaggle of 'em, and then total confirmation (through the Nerd of my own) of why they're so darn fabulous.

Tim was in line at the food court in the mall (we were there for my annual, January, slippy sock discount trek at the Nordstrom Rack) while I tried to grab a table. The place was packed, but I finally saw a group of four, 30ish year-old young men, all in white shirts and pocket protectors, starting to clean up their lunch. I ran over.

Me: Are you leaving? May I grab this table? (Contrary to what you all might think, I tend to be polite.)

Nerd: (And, if you're objecting to my stereotypically identifying these young lads as "nerds," or even using that term, what do you want from me? Just read on.)
Very good! We've noticed it takes an average of 8 seconds for someone to get a table after it's vacated. (See? Told ya. Nerds.)

Me: Well, I've always been an overachiever. (And, yes, they laughed.)

So, here's why I love nerds - especially mine: What is the smartest thing a husband could possibly say when told this story?

Tim: They were probably just trying to hit on you.

Sigh.