I arrived in New Jersey on Friday so that I could celebrate love. Saturday the 13th was our (mine, Jordan’s, the world’s) sixth anniversary. And next Saturday, his friend John Randall and girlypal Karina are getting hitched. Also, I came to New Jersey to experience autumn. There is no autumn in Florida, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar.

Anyway.

For our sixth, Jordan & I went to the Iron Forge Inn in Warwick, New York. This place is a gem of a gemmy gem in the middle of nowhere. You follow long, winding, foggy roads, hoping that the headless horseman won’t get you (because that’s what happens in New York State in autumn). Then you spend an exorbitant amount on amazing food. I ate: artisanal cheeses, wheat beer and onion soup, monkfish, and blueberry cobbler, and drank several glasses of Reisling and something called a “Harvest Cider.” Jordan ate several courses of food, all of which somehow involved beets.

Fancy cheese plate/boyfriend.

Monkfish action shots.

You might notice that I look kind of funny in these pictures. No, I’m not talking about my hair. It’s because I was a woman with a secret. Also, because nerves were sort of making me want to puke, despite the fact that the food was incredibly delicious (but not helped by the generous quantities and overall richness). That’s what love does, especially generous quantities of incredibly rich love. You see, after we got back from the restaurant, I proposed to Jordan.

(He said yes.)

But don’t worry. I promise that phoebeeating.com will not become focused on tiaras or rings (his, of course). Because Jordan loves and understands my love of eating, over my non-love of shiny things.

Proof?

Why, the next day we were concerned with eating sandwiches and taking pictures of me consuming giant cigar-like pickles.

I made hummus for the annual MFA program BBQ in Padgett Powell’s backyard thing. This was my first time ever making hummus–I only resorted to making it because the BBQ was earlier than I initially realized and didn’t have time to go to the grocery store and I had a can of chick peas in my pantry. It was superbly easy to make. Now I can’t quite figure out why I’ve been paying $4.99 a container for it. Here’s the recipe:

In a blender, blend:

• 1 can chickpeas
• 2 crushed garlic cloves
• A few tbsp of olive oil
• A few squirts of lemon juice
• Ground cumin

That’s it. Seriously, what have I been paying for, and why?

In the past year, I’ve learned that poetasters and fictionistas are, consistently, amazing cooks. There’s some sort of confluence of cooking and writing ability, apparently. Here’s me eating some phenomenal red beans and rice and homemade blueberry pie and pumpkin biscuits.

But the truth is, even though all of the food was terrific, I only got really, really excited when someone brought out a bunch of boxes of Good Humor Bars. I have a massive, massive weakness for Strawberry Shortcake Bars. The marketing on the website is right on–they really are artificially flavored pure refreshment. Eating them makes me feel about four-years-old, and reminds me of hanging out at the Warrenbrook Pool and the smell of chlorine and beautiful blissful summer. And also makes the Strawberry Shortcake Theme Song get inextricably stuck in my head. But, with my obsession/regressive tendencies with my childhood and nostalgia in general, that’s a good thing . . . right?

Since this was a communal eating event, I got lots of pictures of other people eating popsicles, too. There’s something great about watching a bunch of thirty-year-olds standing around eating ice cream. Apparently, a lot of my friends are fans of drumsticks, and chose them over my succulent, scrumptious favorite, but since my mother is a drumsticks fan, I won’t hold it against them.

Hey, wait a minute, this is not JamesDavisSniffingFlowers.com!