I want Ina Garten to adopt me. You know - Ina from the Food Network. Ina the Barefoot Contessa. She of the shingled home on the beach in the Hamptons, with the herb garden and fabulous kitchen. She of the sweet face with smooth white skin dotted with freckles, like chocolate sprinkles on vanilla ice cream. She of the soft voice as rich and warm as molten chocolate lava cake. She of the sleek black hair as silky as icing on a cupcake. Yes, that Ina.
If Ina adopted me, she would give me a beautiful bedroom with windows looking out to the ocean. The bed would have sheets of three million count Egyptian cotton and a thousand squishy pillows. Ina would bring me breakfast in bed - Brioche French Toast with maple-pecan syrup, applewood-smoked bacon and the finest hazelnut coffee, with real cream. We'd have a picnic lunch on the beach with some of those handsome friends she always has over - the ones who look like models for expensive men's clothing catalogs, the ones with chiseled cheek bones, square jaws and surprising dimples. We'd have smoked turkey with honey-sweetened goat cheese on focaccia bread and homemade sweet potato chips and giant chocolate chunk cookies. If Jeffrey is home, for dinner we'll have oven-fried chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and salad, and peach cobbler for dessert. Jeffrey is nice too.
Sigh. Yes, I love Ina, with all my heart. She is sweet and kind and funny and she likes to spoil people, so why not me?