I am a real estate agent who caters to clients, as they say, “in entertainment.” This means that I move fussy, busy people from Hollywood to New York, and that my clients expect, even demand, me to be a cross between Ari Gold and Betty Crocker. It also means that I’m providing ancillary services on a ludicrously high level: I have FedExed leases to the set of an Oliver Stone movie, hung drapes for a client who was on the other coast doing Leno, and made homemade chicken soup for a panicked Broadway star with the sniffles.

I found the soup particularly challenging. Chocolate chip cookies are one of my standards, quick and easy enough to make while conducting a bidding war via bluetooth. Soup, on the other hand, takes hours, and is practically guaranteed to taste like dishwater if you don’t layer the flavors in. Adding some canned chicken broth speeds the process, but go too far, and you’re apt to erase the “homemade” essence that you’ve spent hours crafting.

My mom went to San Francisco to visit my brother last week, and she brought home some amaaaazing fresh pasta that she got in the Ferry Building. When I get my hands on really nice pasta, I like to do something simple with it, usually just olive oil and parmesan.

Last night, I decided to step outside of my comfort zone and try a brown butter sage sauce…and it came out beautifully!

I didn’t really get this recipe from any one place, I’ve just read about how to make it many times. It’s simple; just brown the butter and add the sage!

It seems a little scary, because everyone’s like, “Don’t burn the butter!!!” As long as you keep your flame low, you should be fine….and if you do burn it, it’s just a few tablespoons of butter and you can start over!

On Sundays, we stroll over to the farmers’ market along Columbus Avenue. It starts around the Museum of Natural History and meanders south a few blocks. The farmers set their stalls up on the sidewalk with their trucks parked along the avenue behind them.

It’s nice. All the healthy people are out shopping. I thought I’d pick up something fresh and farmy for dinner – maybe some turkey burgers from the turkey guy, some greens from the greens guy, some mushrooms from the mushroom guy – that kind of thing. Guy, by the way, being an all-encompassing term meaning human.

There are girl guys at the market, as well. The greens person had some bins on the table filled with various micro-greens that looked, frankly, fantastic. I asked for a taste of the sunflower and he fished out a single little sprout with his tongs and dropped it in my hand – delicious, as fresh as spring, succulent and sassy. I stuffed a couple of handfuls into a bag and a couple handfuls of the micro-buckwheat into another and handed them to the guy to weigh.

“That’ll be twenty-seven dollars.”

If you want to entertain high on the hog and go hog wild then – in fact – why not go hog wild and pig out high on the hog!

Seems elementary!

The only other declaration that generates as much gleeful excitement as “T*O*G*A!“ is “B*B*Q!” – especially if you bring in the best meats from the great BBQ states of Texas, Tennessee and the Carolinas! And, that is exactly what we did for a season farewell dinner last week in Palm Beach.

Our Menu:

For appetizers we had pulled pork sliders, brie and mango quesadillas, and Virginia stone milled grits “martinis” with Charleston style shrimp and Andouille Sausage.

Our buffet consisted of Blackened Catfish; Florida style BBQ chicken; BBQ Brisket of Beef flown in from Railhead BBQ located in Fort Worth, Texas; BBQ Tennessee pulled pork and ribs, flown in from Corky’s in Memphis, Tennessee; sweet potato fries, home made black eyed peas, grapefruit and avocado salad with poppy seed dressing, Jalapeno cornbread and biscuits. Whew!

They say that being a mom is the hardest job in the world.

I don't doubt it.

My dad always said that children were like small drunk adults. They walk around with little regard for their safety, they say stupid things, and they vomit. I am probably not going to have them. And I'm going to be real: I don't want to get fat. I don't want my body to change into something I don't recognize. But most importantly, I don't have the patience to be a mom. I have no idea how my mom put up with me. I would sabotage grade school Christmas shows by dressing as Michael Jackson. I would argue about everything, especially regarding bike safety (I didn't care that my helmet was a Barbie licensed helmet damnit.) I wouldn't eat anything she cooked.

In short, I was an asshole.