Back to the kitchen!! - that's worth writing about

Rebirth.
On Saturday I felt amazingly good.
Back behind the stove.
Baking.
It had been MONTHS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So what was wrong with me? Why did I deprive myself of something that led to bliss (yes it is indeed a gross overstatement) but that was surprisingly simple?
Because of the overwhelming presence of an unlikely couple if my life: laziness and work.

I know, I know....sounds like one of these writers whimsical minauderie, "look how smart and spiritual I am, hahaha" but this is seriously what it's all about. I have been working wayyyyyy too much since my last posting - first as an improvised waitress in a sports bar downtown (now imagine that. I am still not sure it really happened) then as a translator/fact checker/review researcher/___________ for a successful start-up company which offers daily coupons and whose name I am not allowed to use in my personal media.
Finished in the meantime my explosive nuclear translation (624 pages!!) and took on just for fun the copy editing of a dissertation.
So yeah. Work.

Hence....laziness. My cogito ergo sum? Laboro ergo non sum.  My house is a mess. My house is messier than ever before. And my kitchen - very lonely. Crying tears of congealed grease, coughing clouds of dust and cat hair, waiting to be rescued from so many fatal ailments that I can't possibly list them all and still expect a little bit of respect from my readers.
The "cuisine" was a no-woman land for months.
The thought of slaving behind the stove was more than I could fathom stomaching, and I let the deed in other hands - familiar or not.
Let's put it that way: deadly sins walk hand in hand. Laziness is best buddies with gluttony and my waist line expended a bit too much.
No, I am not running to the salad bar when I am left to my devices.

7 pounds was the price of my I-am-not-a-Superwoman-or-a-type-A-individual.
I have the deepest respect for all the people out there who just do it all: work, house chores, children - with a smile. How?!? I mean - HOW?!?!?

All I want to do when I come home is crash on the sofa, watch TV and gobble down whatever is put in front of me. My hubby did a more than decent job to sustain my wish? fantasy? of being a cast member of "Mad Men" and welcomed me more than once with a tumbler of whiskey while he was busy fixing dinner but enough is enough and all of a sudden  I decided last week to take matters into my own hands.

First step of the "I-am-claiming-back-my-belonging-to-the-cooking-world": bake a pie.
Inspiration: cooking shows (remember the 'watch TV' line? I guess I still had a little housewife in me even during my toughest part of my 'rebellion').
Real life motivation: Hoosier Mama Pies. Not that I necessarily wanted to emulate them, but godammit...pies are expensive bought that way!
Idea: mango tartin Tatin.
Recipe: found on Melissa's.
End result:

You'll notice the artistic effort (daffodils) ruined by the home-made trivet...

Notes:
1. I used 4 mangoes instead of the three called for in the recipe, and still - it wasn't enough. You need a LOT of fruit to make a Tatin works.
2. I made the dough according to the recipe but it wasn't really to my liking. Despite the stick of butter it wasn't.....buttery enough? Yes, I'll risk it. Didn't really do it for me. I think I would prefer a puff pastry (store bought of course); don't forget to brush it with egg-wash. I did.
3. The caramel somehow didn't set....like at all. So imagine the mess when I turned my pan over on my plate.........yeah....sticky caramel is not your counter top/sink/floor best friend, believe me. Wait more than 2 minutes. Make less caramel. Use more fruit. I don't know what you are supposed to do. But this, as is, doesn't work.

Still good though but has to be eaten warm.
If you really want to be a fat cow and not the graceful doe that you are striving to be - add some home-made whipped cream (whip heavy cream in a very cold container placed for a few minutes in the freezer, it works wonders) or any type of ice-cream.

Return to the kitchen.
Stay tuned.

Ode to Dust (dedicated to all bunnies out there)

Previously published on theSmartlychicago.com
(Mom, please, DO NOT read this. I know you won’t but don’t try to find a translator who would tell you all about my take on dust. It would give you the chills and deprive you of sleep for many weeks.)

Dust…for the first 18 or so years of my life, you were like a myth to me. I mean, I knew of you, read your name printed in books and magazines, heard about you on TV and the radio but rarely – if ever – saw you. Never got the chance. You were The Enemy in a house kept spotless thanks to a housewife solely dedicated to immaculate cleanliness. I mean –  a cleaning freak. Like, nuts. For real. Daily vacuuming, cleaning of the stove and the kitchen and, worse yet, scrubbing the bathtub after every single shower. Not a single drop of water allowed in the bathroom please.  That would be so out of place.

She was a (more than) willing slave, and we were dragged in with her.

Talk about hell (without brimstone powder or ashes, of course)

But after – Gosh! – 16 years out of the nest I know all about you, my friend. Mi casa è su casa. I am not exactly welcoming you with open arms but the result is quite the same: you are everywhere. What the hell was I thinking while buying dark furniture? That I would be rug in hand every five minutes? Ha! And, sneaky you, you love company and usually don’t come alone to the party: dirt, crumbs, hair, the occasional flowers petals, bits of cake and other scrubs….yeah….I know all of you guys.

But I am not ashamed.

I decided long ago that I lived in a house, not a museum. You and your friends are LIFE. Well, part of it.  Not the most glamorous one, for sure but still evidence that I open my windows, go outside, bake, eat, pet my cats and dog (and yes!! horror - they do lose their hair everywhere), breathe and enjoy. I don’t live in a dump though, and I will always frantically go in “Mom Freak Mode” during the few hours before my guests are supposed to arrive because I want the best for them (and also maybe for them to say that I am quite the house-keeper…um, um…) But I refuse to spend my nights and weekends mopping, sweeping, wiping up, down, across and in-between. Yes, it can be messy. Dirty even sometimes. But guess what? I deal with it. And I haven’t died of septicemia yet. I am a firm believer in germ exposure anyway. The cleaner, the weaker.

Right?

One thing for sure: as soon as I get a steady job, a grown-up one where I earn money every month, I will give some work to someone who needs it, and hire a cleaning lady. And worship her. In the meantime I give myself a break, and so should you. 

So I baked a (surprise) cake...

What do you do when an important birthday is coming up, and you are completely, totally, utterly broke?
You cry your heart out, try to make a decision between panhandling in Wicker Park and asking your husband to rob the bank he's working at but finally come back to your senses to put your best "Pause Gourmande" move forward and offer to bring dessert to the party bien sûr!


Except it was not really a party, because it was not really a birthday celebration.

But that's just semantics.  It doesn't change much to the elaboration process; I just had to drop the candles at the end; fine by me. I am not good at blowing:

I know my girl. She likes good things, fine wines (hello sweet bottles of Pommerol!! I loved you all dearly), boudin (blood sausage), quenelles, raspberries (already covered by dessert #1), chocolate (but not with raspberries) and pistachios. Hates blue cheese and not a fan of liver.
No headaches. They are not great in desserts anyway.


Plan of action: find a chocolate-pistachio cake-ish recipe.
Means: surf the Internet.
Time-line: a week.


I quickly found the winner, on my beloved Chocolate and Zucchini. Really darlings, if you don't know the lovely Clotilde Dusoulier you should. Not that she desperately needs your patronage, her blog is well and running but still...she is quite the reference. And her Gâteau surprise chocolat-pistache was the obvious choice.
Phewwww!!
The hardest part was already behind me.


Or was it?


First obstacle: find pistachio paste
One of the problems with using a French recipe is:
- you have to convert the measurements; I am not good at math. In fact I also hate with a fierce passion the American system which belongs to the 16th century. Found on my butter wrapper: 1 lb = 2 cups ; 1 stick = 1/2 cup = 8 tablespoons; 1 tablespoon=1/2 ounce.
My hair hurts just reading this line. Metric is the only way to go; it's also the work of a collective genius. Just sayin'.

- you are supposed to use ingredients that are impossible to find in the US. Yup, pistachio paste is exactly what I have in mind. I mean, what the hell?!?!? Never even heard of it. To C&Z defense I didn't search the whole city of Chicago to find it. Mea culpa. I should have. Maybe. But I did find a solution.
Saving grace?!?

Accidental Hedonist, after deciding that Fxcuisine was too elaborate for me. I love you Pierre Hermé but damn....you don't make it easy on us, simple mortals. You are just too good to be true.


(side note: if you are planning on making the said 'pistachio paste', A. H. instructions are slightly off....too much water. You don't want a pistachio syrup.)

Second obstacle: find unsalted pistachios

Easily solved: just don't go to the supermarket next door and head on a busy Saturday morning to one of the most crowded parts of town to the Mecca of complete, full, integral and undivided Food (no free advertisement for corporate America on Pause Gourmande, if you'll excuse me).


Third obstacle: stay awake
No comment...


Fourth obstacle: read the recipe PROPERLY
And that was definitely the biggest challenge of them all.
Which is scary, a bit embarrassing and worrying for my culinary future. Or not. It might just mean that I am too cool for school AND recipes. In truth it just means that I am a creative wizard and don't need anyone to tell me what to do and how to do it.
Yeah....
I wish.


My main problem was the word HALF. See there are basically two batters in this cake: the chocolate one, and the pistachio one. Easy enough to follow, right? Well....obviously not.
I kept walking between the kitchen counter and the computer to make sure everything was done according to instructions. That's really the sad part. Because I tried. Hard.
Here is how the recipe goes:
"In a food processor, mix together half of the sugar and half of the butter until fluffy. Add in two of the eggs, one at a time, mixing between each. Add in half of the yogurts and all the vanilla extract, mix again. In a medium bowl, combine half of the flour with half of the baking powder, half of the baking soda and all of the cocoa mixture. Add the flour mixture into the food processor and mix again until just combined. Pour the batter into the cake pan, and reserve in the refrigerator".


I mixed half of the sugar with all of the butter, added all the yogurt, combined half of the flower with all of the baking soda, forgetting the baking powder but adding it in extremis to the mix in the pan freshly removed from the fridge.
FML.


Since my pan was way too small I had to make do with a bastardized version of the pistachio component of the dish, already bastardized a first time by my poor home-made rendition of the PP (stands for pistachio paste if you followed anything at all in this post).
That was a pitiful day for your trusted Amélie. I already know I sucked at math but still....I thought my limited abilities were enough to carry me without trouble in the kitchen world....
Not so, my friends.
I will never be a baker extraordinaire.....
I only hope I won't mess up fairy tales when I read them to my kids and talk about The Six Little Pigs, Snow White and the Three and a Half Dwarfs or say that a mermaid is just a big-ass fish....


I let my cake cool down, made a chocolate ganache, iced the cake and even drew a big M - just to make sure that I still had some basic skills (math: F, reading: F, writing: A-)
And you know what? In the end, all was well.

Just like in Fairyland.

The end.

Sex is to French movies what _______ is to American

As an instructor of French I had to lead one-on-one conversations several times a week.
A gruesome task when you have to listen to a 101 student trying to make the distinction between the different nasal sounds "on"/"an"/"in" three hours in a row. Thank God for the "r" diversion in the middle.
It REALLY numbs your brains out, trust me.

But with more advanced students it was of course different (though scarily enough, not that much sometimes. But that's beside the point). We usually talk about French movies they saw the week before as part of their 'exposition to the target culture'. It's a strong belief of language acquisition pedagogy that students learn a lot that way; I guess they can thus see that we belong to the 21st century as well. You wouldn't believe the questions I was asked in 9 years of teaching in the US.....

Anyway - whether it triggers excessive enthusiasm, curious recording or outraged embarrassment - and, frankly, between the two extremes I am not quite sure which one makes me the more uncomfortable as an instructor -the one single element everybody is pointing out is sex. More specifically, nudity.
Yep, you see boobs, butts and sometimes even more.
Ron-ron-ron, oh la la!!! Mon Dieu!

See - when a man and a woman actually have sex (you know...it happens...especially in movies where things are incredibly accelerated and revolve around drama) the woman doesn't keep her bra on; that would pretty stupid of her actually given the fact that it's a major erogenous part of her body, and she supposedly put herself in that situation to get pleasure out of it. And seriously, who gets out of bed wrapped up around sheets? WHO?!?!? Did they all join the "Never nudes" along with Tobias Fünke in Hollywood or what?

But wait, I have even more shocking: actors walk butt-naked not only in mainstream movies but also in TV shows and  - supreme horror - commercials. On TV and on billboards. Believe it or not - women take their clothes off in the shower and you do see their nipples while they are rubbing Dove, Nivea and what not in their skin.
Crazy, I know.
These Frenchies....
I am the first to admit though that sometimes it is a tad too much; having a naked lady on her kitchen floor caressing a bottle of olive oil is not totally necessary (unless you want to use the oil in question for purposes that are not strictly culinary, and that is another question; cf. Last Tango in Paris for similar misappropriate usages of alimentary products).

To sum it all and put it quite simply: the Janet Jackson 'incident' would have generated a big laugh, some sarcastic comments and that's about it.
I would say it's rather healthy. But I am obviously biased.

The traditional opposition between slow-paced, dialog heavy and psychology oriented French movies and their more action based American counterparts is this one: sex vs. violence.
I do not agree.
To be fair let's keep it very 'concrete'.
To me the US equivalent of (gratuitous) body exposure is vomiting.
Throwing up.
Puking.
And I find it quite disturbing, to be honest with you.

It's one of my Russian colleagues that brought up the subject for the first time in 2001. And since then I have been watching closely and she was totally right. For some reason TV and film producers think it's appropriate (funny? instructive? telling?) to show people getting sick. When people are drunk (OK), scared (maybe), exhausted (really?), even happy (yes, sometimes - I promise) or for no reason at allthey throw up. Not only that but they do it in close-up shots -you could almost tell what they had for lunch if you really wanted to - and with the corresponding soundtrack.
It grosses me out so much.
I mean - why?!?
I am not sure about what it says on a culture shocked by its own nudity but fascinated by its perpetual upset stomach....if you have any answer for me, please share them with me.

I feel like I am missing something here.
Excuse my French and my blunt honesty but personally, I'd take fucking over puking any day.

Cinna-not-bon

Here we are once again: Fall has finally arrived. Please let your coolness relieve us of a suffocating summer, but don't yield to Old Man Winter too soon. Amen.

This - by the way - is one of the only concessions I will make to weather comments. I just don't get it. Why do people feel the perpetual need to talk, worse, COMPLAIN about the alteration of atmospheric conditions (fancy, huh?)?!?Dudes, seriously, nothing is going to change because of your rants. We are already trying hard enough with all the crap we produce. So do us all a favor, just accept the sky as it is and just shut up already. Or hook up with The Weather Channel guys, Tom Skilling, Ginger Zee and Amy Freeze (sic).
Leave. Us. Alone.

Fall.....there is much to say and write about it. But to make it quick, let's just say that this morning was just the pure illustration of what it can be at its best.
Like - Norman Rockwell picture perfect. If there was such a thing. (Since there is not, we'll have to do with this on the right and not complain about it. The fact that we are not really going to talk about pumpkins is totally irrelevant here.)


Blue sky. A flock of geese. Fresh breeze. Football practice in the park. Hats on toddlers (which I call champignons, or mushrooms, for that very reason...big hat on small bodies? Yeah? Got it?).
AppleFest in Lincoln Square.
I mean, does it scream Fall or what?!?!?
It was crowded; I don't know if people have an insatiable appetite for the forbidden fruit but they surely act like it. My assumption: they are starving for all the goodies that go with it: apple butter, pies, tarts, turnovers...ya know...the good stuff (my theory is that biting repeatedly in the actual fruit, chewing its flesh, swallowing while trying not to smear juice all over the place is way too much work. Much easier to gulp down a slice of pie, right?). And of course brats, sauerkraut and potato salad because OktoberFest is around the corner, we are in Lincoln Square and let's keep priorities straight: we all need a side of protein with our fruit.
So - prepared food everywhere, and here and there, some fresh apples for the bravest souls.

I have to admit that I don't care very much for apples but I do love a good tart (and you know it). Yup, a t-a-r-t and not a p-i-e which doesn't belong to my childhood pantheon of all good things, thankyouverymuch.
Remember Miss American Pie? Guess what the key word is?
But when in Rome....so I learned to eat pie. Sure. Why not. Not bad. But one of the things that really bugs me about them is cinnamon. More often than not a slice of apple pie tastes just like cinnamon. Which I like. As a spice. In small dosage.
But not as a main ingredient.

So I am asking you here and now: what's up with America and its obsession over cinnamon?!?
Seriously?

Finding it in apple pastries is one thing; they are, after all, complimentary flavors. Even MY grandmother was using it, and hers before that. But when every single piece of cake, muffin, or scone tastes like cinnamon - not to mention coffee, buns, cereal, bread, gum, candles, and toothpaste* - I say STOP.
Really guys.
Hold on a minute.

I understand; it tastes good, has a sweet, woody fragrance and these sticks look pretty cool in a jar. Of course you want to benefit from its antioxidant proprieties and make it lower your blood pressure. I get that. Is it really 'romance enhancing' though? Naughty you....you wouldn't get very far with me using your "Cinnamon Flavor Breath Spray", I can already tell you as much. Even if it's seen on TV.

You should really let it be. Chill out. Take a minute, and remember - in silence - that merchants, traders and your great-great-great-great grandpa died - no less! - far away from home, on the Spice Road to bring you back a whole bunch of other spices. Choice. Ginger, saffron, five-spice, cardamom, nutmeg, cumin, pepper, paprika.....
Check them out.
They are in little jars as well.

And please, don't make toothpicks or floss out of them.


*I haven't checked (just 'cause) but I am pretty sure there are some cinnamon-flavored condoms out there......right?

Bed Stories

Last week Reuben and I went for a little getaway in Door County. We badly needed it; our summer had been pretty awful. As well as our spring. And winter. Oh well. It happens. I am placing all my bets on 2011 to be the year of permanent, never-ending and glorious bliss.
Blindingly bright.
I already have my sunglasses on.Anyway - we made reservations in smaller hotels. Nothing fancy this time, just a bed and a shower, you know. Wooden cabins, outdated picture frames, quilts and lacy window treatments. Country-style. Cheesy much? Oh yeah!
Everything was good and well until we settled down for the night after a long day of riding in:
- the car for close to 6 hours
- a smelly ferry on a very choppy Lake Michigan
- and a couple of ancient bikes we used to tour the island (Washington) we were at. On. Whatever. We did in the wind and under the rain.that's what counts.

The bed was squeaky, very bouncy (powerful springs, lemme tell you!!) but also...............very small.
Full-sized small.
Bummer.So now for most of the world a full-sized bed is NOT small. It is just perfectly normal. And in any case, a big upgrade from one's twin from childhood. I happily shared one of these for years without questioning, feeling squeezed, uncomfortable or claustrophobic.
I never fell off of the boat either. Even by 'rocky' waters (insert stupid grin here).

But everything went awry 4 years ago when Reuben decided that he was tired to deal with dwarf-size furniture and pulled an American move on me.
He bought a KING size bed.
Oh boy. Oh man. Oh God.
That was the end of the world as I knew it.
At least it was not Californian.

The thing is just huge. HUGE. Ever heard of ménage à trois? I am sure this bed was created for that particular naughty purpose. I jokingly say to all my friends who are considering taking the ultimate step that going from queen to king is just asking for divorce. Seriously - how do you keep the intimacy alive when there is an ocean of pillows, cotton sheets or - way worse - fleece sheets (ahhhhhhhhhhh!!) between the two of you?!? Add to the equation a cat or two, a demanding dog and a wife who likes to sleep at the edge of the bed, and there you have it: a marriage in peril.
Just kidding kids.
Or am I?

At first I was not a big fan. I was cold, felt lonely and abandoned by my bed partner. I missed feeling his hairy legs on mine, his respiration on my neck and his vicious kicks in the middle of the night. But I quickly realized that it was indeed......nice. Incredibly so. I could almost sleep in a diagonal without bothering anyone. Sweee-eeet!
Our Ikea bed is not the best nor the most comfortable in the world but I grew really fond of it. It takes most of the room in a little chambre but what the hell?!? This is, after all, a BED-room. Right?
The only thing that still bothers me a lot about my XL-size bed, American fashion: the price tag of the sheets. But every luxury has its price.

So that night we laid down, turned off the lights and closed our eyes. Trying to get away from each other. Bodies way too close.
He got up - on my sleepy suggestion - in the middle of the night to go on the sofa.

That says it all.

I hope we'll never have to move back to Europe.
We'll be screwed. In the bad sense of the word.

No Pain, No Gain

I already talked about my coming to running: how it came as a surprise since I always dreaded it and therefore loathed it. How thanks to my friend Erin I got into it, signed up for 5Ks and decided to kick up a few notches. How I learned to enjoy it, excitement and soreness alike and how it allowed me to stay sane in moments of disarray.

Three days ago I ran my first half-marathon.
13.1 miles. 21.1 kilometers.I was exhilarating.
And painful. Of course. Actually much more than I had anticipated. I had gone through my summer training without noticeable trouble and was not prepared to have my lower back killing me (not so) softly the way it did on race day. It started almost right away, mile 2. I was 3 minutes under my 11:27/mile pace, my breathing was right, the weather was perfect and then I felt it: a dull ache in my loins worsened by every stump on the ground. I tried to change my form, straightened up, arched my back - to no avail.
I knew then that the 13 miles were going to be even longer than they already were.

But you know what? Despite the pain, the fatigue and the gradual disappointment that settled in when I found out that I wouldn't meet my goal time I enjoyed every single minute of it. OK, most of it...and now that my body has recovered I am looking forward to the next challenge. To next year. To - maybe - even a bigger challenge.

Running is freaking addictive.

It is hard to explain why because seen from the outside it looks nuts. Boring. Useless. At least it's what I used to think, and I am sure that most people out there would agree with me. Most sports have a purpose, points to score, an opponent to defeat, a task to accomplish. You have tools, partners, a coach, a program, a common goal.
Running is mainly a solitary activity. You don't need much to do it, and you certainly don't need anyone. It is you against a clock that you set however you want, a pair of shoes, your legs and your lungs. And no real direction.
It is simple and pure.


Sunday will forever remain in my memory as one of the very special days of my life. For many reasons.
Accomplishing a goal that you had fixed for yourself months in advance is in itself very satisfying. And I have to say that besides the mundanities of everyday life I hadn't achieved anything in quite a while. Quitting school a few months ago was liberating in many ways but irremediably deprived me from this sense of accomplishment that is so essential to one's life. Dedicating to this program 6 years of my life to the detriment of my physical health, sanity and self-esteem to get nothing concrete out of it wasn't particularly pleasant. It was - and some naught days, still is - painful. Maddening. Frustrating. Despite people's encouraging comments of: "You made the right decision". Other people's decisions are always much easier to validate, aren't they?
So crossing the finish line - ironically enough, just a couple of blocks away from campus - after months of hard dedication gave me an incredible rush of happiness. I raised my arms, yelled "We Did it!!" and would have been ready to hug the first random person to cross my path. Fortunately for both of us Reuben was just behind me; we kissed, exhausted but elated.

Doing this incredible journey with him was an incredible gift. I kept telling him he was crazy, insane, loco, fou, Сумасшедший, 狂人 and the biggest monkey to ever walk on Earth for wanting to run the race with me without proper training. But in reality I am damn impressed by my silly hubby. He did it. Out of love. To support me. He was initially supposed to run by my side the first 3-4 miles - the hardest for me. But he stayed the whole time. Encouraging me all the way. Pushing me. Handing me water and Gatorade. Telling me "you got this!" every time I needed to hear it.
That made all the difference in the world.

I was not alone in my journey. Fellow runners supported me all along; we shared training stories, exchanged tips and routes, suffered through the summer heat. And on Sunday I had 20,000 companions to carry me along the way. I never thought that I would enjoy running among other people, total strangers, the way I did. But for a couple of hours we were all mates. Breathing, sweating, and pounding the asphalt of Lake Shore Drive in unison.All embarked on that same adventure for different reasons and with different expectations, but all of us united by the same objective: cross the line.
And the spectators.
I never anticipated that. Hundreds of them, all along the way. We were all cheered on by families, children, cheerleaders, sign bearers, and rock bands. ROCK BANDS people. I felt like a star. "Did you know that you were my hero?" one sign read. My two favorite? "Run like an angry Kenyan" and "You are all very good at exercise",
LOL assured.
Emotion too.

When I stepped on the red line I had tears of joy in my eyes. I felt overwhelmed. Exhaustion, pride, happiness, disappointment and a little sadness to not have anyone there with us to share this special moment in our lives. I watched with envy other runners being greeted by family and loving friends. They were hugged and congratulated. Acknowledged. Some even had flowers.
We rested for a while on the grass of Jackson Park, stretching, smiling, taking a few pictures, still in awe of our accomplishment. Then we got up to walk back to the car parked on campus. People started to send us congratulation messages on our phones. But the most important ones were missing. My closest friends, my family. I took solace in thinking they didn't understand what that day meant to me. And welcomed all the others who did.
We celebrated with brunch in Wicker Park, and a festive dinner at one of the most wanted restaurants in town. A lot of pork was involved. Pints of beer as well.
When I went to bed that night my legs were not even sore anymore.

I am hungry for more. I heard that runners are kinda crazy like that.
I prefer saying: motivated.