ok, so genetics is really for real

i mean, could he look any more like his momma?

it seems so pretty ...

did anybody else read the kite runner?

es muy fucked up.

you know what else is muy fucked up? the fact that i have slept 36 of the past 48 hours and i still can't feel rested.

stupid cold.

stupid groggyness.

stupid slushy snow.

stupid winter.

did you know that puppets sixty-nine?

well, they do. you perv.

and i'll tell you how i know. saturday was the last frontier of indulgence for me and the Gbang, and it involved puppets and lots, and lots, and lots of food. it was a very long-awaited indulgence, actually. the evening had precisely 30 days of hunger-inducing foreplay, given that we had to make restaurant reservations a month ago. but, more on that another time.

sometime in january i decided that after a year of listening to G talk about how he'd love to see Avenue Q, it was time to take him to the show, with good seats that would allow for maximum scrutiny of those bad idea bears and dirty, boozing, porn-loving puppets. and in return, he made an 11pm reservation for Babbo, perhaps the most delicious and gluttonous of new york city italian restaurants.

sigh. Babbo.

anyways, the evening starts off beautifully, with both of us all dressed up and me with a beautiful fresh bouquet of red and yellow tulips in my apartment. aww. purty flowers. i think i may have admired the flowers too long, though, because we missed a J train at 7:28pm that was apparently the last train for.ev.er. but after last weekend's experience of sitting miserably in a cab on the williamsburg bridge while watching J after J zip by, we decide to stay on the train platform.

at 7:49pm another train pulls around. G is calm. he asks what time the show starts. uh, 8pm. ohhhhhhhhhh. calmness kinda disappears, and we strategize transportation options. screw you, broadway start times. at 7:55pm, we hit essex, pop up out of the train and almost immediately G hails a cab, who, after hearing our plea to get to times square in ten minutes, says, "impossible."

despite his pessimism, the cabbie of wonder makes a valiant effort and zips up First Avenue. First Avenue is the best avenue ever. screw you, Second, Broadway and Fifth. First Avenue is it. we're on 45th and broadway by 8:05pm. we are those people running to the theater. and, mind you, i'm wearing 4-inch stilettos. so maybe i am hop-skip-hopping through a bunch of fat gaping tourists, and G is using his normal stride. screw you, sexy heels and pasty people with 300-lb. toys-r-us bags. anyways, we get to the theater at 8:07pm, and we're not even the last ones there; we watch the first number from the side aisle and then are escorted to our seats. wheeeee!

puppets! porn! big, gay sesame street spoofs! it is a good time. the bush-is-almost-out jokes they made 3 years ago when i first saw the show are still funny.

and then onto dinner in the West Village ... the A, unlike the J, is very well-behaved. screw you, J.

so, i dunno. we've been excited about this meal for a month. i've been to Babbo six or seven times since moving to new york and still pee my pants every time i go. G had never been, but in his excitement read Heat in preparation. given the buildup, the restaurant was bound to miss expectations.

sigh. but it didn't. screw you, expectations.

a glimpse at the evening, in courses:

a cocktail to start: green apple puree bellinis. buzzzz. buzz buzzzzz.
a little amuse bouche while we browse the menu: spicy chick-pea bruschetta

antipasti: warm lamb’s tongue vinaigrette with chanterelles and a 3-minute egg. you split the egg over a pile of lamb's tongue and it kind of oozes in this gorgeous, yellow, creamy deliciousness, but the meat retains some hit of acidity. sigh. if i had drowned in the dish, it would have been a happy death.

antipasti #2: spicy 2-minute calamari, sicilian lifeguard style. i think i love those lifeguards, whoever they are. spicy, tender, also with high choi-drownage-potential. rescue me, lifeguards. or don't. just bring me another plate.

primi: mint love letters with spicy lamb sausage. this is one of Babbo's signature pasta dishes. it's oddly spicy and sweet and redolent of mint, but it has a savory cheesy meaty element, with a hard sheep's cheese grated on top. G didn't love the love letters, though after a bite he couldn't really stop eating them. i loved them. in fact, i hearted them. they loved me back, too. the server told me so.

primi #2: black pepper pappardelle with wild boar ragu. another signature dish. wide ribbons of pasta, with lumps of ragu, and i think, a classic parmigiano reggiano dusting the top. with much restraint, we stopped halfway through the dish so as to have room for the next two courses coming our way. screw you, limited stomach expansion capabilities. tie me up in pappardelle and spank me. sigh.

secondi: whole grilled branzino with roasted cardoons and lemon oregano jam, finished with a touch of extra virgin olive oil and half a lemon. this is my favorite Babbo entree, and the only one that allows me to be at least minorly mobile after the meal. it is a perfect example of a grilled fish, which the servers fillet and plate tableside. at the pinch of service, the maitre'd came out and started filleting my fish, because the servers were busy. overheard as man in very expensive suit peels fish bones from my dinner: "that brings you back, eh?" "yeah. to when i was 15 in jersey." G was quite enamored of the perfect cross-hatch grill marks on the branzino, something made much of in Heat. is it bad manners to suck fish bones in a destination restaurant?

secondi #2: a veal special ... veal chops wrapped in house-cured pancetta and served with some baby cauliflower florets and a delicious, intense fruity but acidic and not-too-sweet sauce on the plate. it was tender baby cow wrapped in premium pig fat. i think i lost G's affections to mario batali that night. he actually ate much of the dish with his eyes closed. screw you, mario batali.

just kidding! just kidding! i take that back, mario. hearts.

i order a chamomile tea to aid digestion, which is desperately needed at this point. G takes one look at a brown rock-sugar stick, meant to be swirled in an espresso or tea, and puts it in his mouth.

dolci: pistachio and chocolate semifreddo. delicious. rich. G said he liked mine better, but that didn't stop him from licking the plate.

dolci #2: saffron panna cotta with fresh and candied blood oranges and blood orange sorbet. this is the dessert to end all desserts. although i loved the thai basil panna cotta in mango soup at Slanted Door in san francisco, it just didn't compare. i think i could have taken the entire scoop of creamy rich deliciousness in one mouthful. as it was i almost resented G from eating some of it. MY panna cotta, damnit! screw you, G!

just kidding! just kidding! i take that back, G. hearts.

and in case that wasn't enough, we finished off the meal with a few mini biscotti and almond puffs. oh. and we also had two quartinos of wine, which were delicious and fantabulous and very reasonably priced, but i cannot for the life of me remember what we drank. i just know that the wines progressed with the meal, and they were good. i was too intoxicated by the food to notice much else ... except perhaps Kathryn Erbe sitting at the table next to us, for dessert and espressos with a PYT that must have been a niece or daughter. neither of them put sugar sticks in their mouth.

so that was that, perhaps the most decadent valentines day date i've ever had, and certainly the last indulgence for many many months. a frenzy of thriftiness seems to be sweeping across new york (really. everyone i know, across the income spectrum, is talking to me about a new budget or concern about dipping into savings or or borrowing against new investments or paying off credit cards or looking for a new job), and it is unfun but ultimately very wise. i'm proud of everyone that's re-examining their bottom line. i was on the bandwagon. i fell off this weekend, in a liquored-up-overly-well-fed-paying-too-much-to-the-theater-institution lump, but i'll climb back on as soon as i digest. one musn't be too active after a big meal, you know.

but baby ... i *am* your love

my sister and AB got last-minute tickets to see my baby last night.

he performed "dick in a box" live.

i am so jealous i could cry. JT, honey, i can see us holding hands, walking on the beach with our toes in the sand, too.