Only You Know Best

People like to give me crap about hardly ever writing on my blog. I agree with them. People also like to give me crap for not knowing geography. I laugh with them. I manage to be a good sport most of the time, but like Barbara Streisand and Donna Summers belted out in the empowering (and annoyingly catchy) duet in the late 1970s, enough is enough. I don't let people push me around. Consider this post my rebuttal.

So, I don't mean to brag, but this past weekend I ate "the best taco in America." Sounds like a big deal, right? I visited at a little place in San Antonio called Taco Taco Cafe. San Antonio is the seventh largest city in the U.S. and located in the state of Texas. Did you catch that accurate statement of geography? POINT ONE. Anyway, about the taco... Bon Appetit dubbed it as such in 2007... and although I didn't catch the episode, Guy Fieri apparently flipped out over it on the Food Network's Drive-ins, Diners, and Dives. While I spent my hard-earned per diem in this so-called, up-and-coming foodie city of San Antonio on blackened Texas redfish with grits and other mediocre Tex Mex, Taco Taco was the highlight of the trip. Sadly I didn't stay long enough to enjoy some good ol', artery-cloggin' Texas barbecue. Maybe next time I'm in Texas, I will - but I'll make sure it's Austin. (When I do visit, I will be prepared to argue how we Portlanders keep our city weirder than them.)

At Taco Taco, we joined the enthusiastic crowd and stood in line for at least a half-hour. As we waited and chatted with some locals, we were visited by the sweet older Greek woman behind the establishment (if you don't trust a Greek making Mexican, think again.) For a few minutes, she escaped what I imagine to be a very hot, cramped kitchen where she makes all the tortillas by hand - considering how many people roll through the place every day, that is a LOT of tortillas - to meet the patrons. It was a very nice touch - and I almost felt like I was meeting a celebrity. I told her we were from Portland and because Oregon isn't exactly known for its Mexican food, we were especially excited. Once we finally snagged a table, I ordered what I had been instructed to order by the reviews: a Taco El Norteño. It's a large grilled flour tortilla and folded in half, and filled with grilled chicken, onions, and green peppers, refried pinto beans, melted cheese and avocado. Perhaps it was a little heavy on the beans (but only because I'm not a big refried fan), a little skimpy on the avocado and cheese, but still very satisfying. If I could do it again, I would have also tried one of their award-winning breakfast tacos. So, you're probably wondering: would I really call a Taco Taco taco the best taco in America? Eh, maybe (although it is quite fun to say "taco" four times in one sentence). How about the best tortilla in America? It would definitely in the running!

After returning to the Northwest after my few days in Texas, I happened to drink the best cider. Ever. Because I am lucky enough to know someone with an apple press, I got to observe (and occasionally assist) in the making of fresh cider. Throwing whole apples, pomegranates, and grapes into the large wooden contraption had my mind flashing the woodchipper scene in Fargo (I much prefer fruit to human flesh), the fruits were broken down and pressed into the sweetest, most delicious tasting cider my mouth had ever experienced. What a remarkable and surprisingly simple process it was to make the nectar of the gods. Turns out nothing captures the essence of an apple quite like fresh apple cider off the press. Nothing.

Whew! The "best" taco and the best (NO quotations) cider in one weekend? Now there's something to blog about. POINT TWO.

And with that, Your Honor, the defense rests.

Under Pressure

A morning without coffee is like....the Pacific Northwest without rain. Oh, that was bad. I've never been good at analogies. I think I'm better at saying what I mean, plain and simple, such as: I want coffee. I need coffee. Without coffee, my standard level of functioning plummets. There's no way I would have survived through law school without it.

As I have mentioned at least once before on clatter, I am a proud former Peet's Coffee barista (picture me throwing up my Peetnik for Life gang sign). I like to think with such credentials to my name, I have a decent palate when it comes to coffee. You may recall that I once praised Starbucks Via instant coffee, but please note that instant coffee is typically, for lack of a better cliché, not my cup of tea. I like the good, strong stuff - not the watered-down kind you might find at your parents' church or a 24-hour Denny's. If it doesn't make me jittery, I'm not interested.

Last month when I visited my boyfriend in Chicago, he served me one superb cup of coffee in his home. Don't think I'm saying such things because I happen to have warm and fuzzy feelings for the barista; it truly was one of the best homemade cups of coffee I had ever had. Of course as I sipped away, I wondered why it tasted so much better than the coffee I make at home. Was it the Intelligentsia coffee beans he brewed? Or the fluffy milk made from his fancy Bodum frother (I use the $2 one from Ikea)? Could it have been the Burgerville mug he served it in? Or was it the method he used to make the coffee? At first I thought he was merely using technology's latest model of the French press, but I was sorely mistaken. This was no French press. This, my friends, was the AeroPress. He swore by the thing, and I quickly considered whether I should do the same.

I suppose it was only natural after my heavenly coffee experience in Chicago that I would need to attempt it myself. Either out of pure kindness or a gentle hint that the coffee made in my apartment is crap (despite his insistence that it's not), he purchased my very own AeroPress over the weekend. This morning before work, I tried it out for the first time. What better way to make Monday morning a little less painful than a deliciously executed cup o' joe? I read the directions ahead of time, and then I began to take action - grinding the illy beans extra fine, boiling water, figuring out what piece goes where, etc. As I added the ground beans, poured the hot water into the chamber, secured the rubber sealed plunger on top and began to apply the "gentle pressure" indicated on the directions, I suddenly realized I forgot a step. I didn't stir the coffee grounds in the water! That's ok, I thought, I'll just stop applying the pressure, remove the plunger from the chamber and stir before continuing. No problem, right? Wrong. Big mistake. Huge.

Take it from me: you don't want to anger the AeroPress. Do it wrong and it will turn on you. Just consider the science behind the AeroPress. Pressing the plunger inside the chamber creates enough air pressure to transform coffee grounds and water into crazy good espresso. If it takes energy on your part to press down the plunger because of the created pressure, it will take energy to pull the plunger up and out of the chamber because of the tight fit. Except that you really shouldn't be doing that at all, because you'll end up being more forceful with the thing than you should until you release the demons and get burned by the AeroPress - both figuratively and literally. That's right - it happened. In my defense, I never claimed to be anything more than a walking disaster.

Have you seen that commercial where a father and daughter conduct a volcano science experiment in the kitchen that goes awry, but then the mom saves the day with her miracle cleaning product? What happened to me this morning came close to art imitating life. Imagine a mini explosive full of coffee grounds and hot water suddenly detonating in a small Portland apartment in front of an unsuspecting girl. Now imagine the chaos that ensues in the aftermath. There is screaming. There is swearing. There is a white shirt. Why does she need the effects of caffeine in the morning when there's an AeroPress explosion to wake her up with one single jolt?

Once I recovered (well, sorta - my left hand burned from the hot water for at least an hour afterwards and my mom never showed up with her miracle cleaning product), I tried the process again. If there's one thing I'm not, it's a quitter. And I sure am glad I'm not. What came next after following the written instructions perfectly was the smoothiest, most flavorful homemade coffee I've had since that cup in Chicago.

Maybe the AeroPress and I didn't become instant friends, but I can say with a great amount of certainty that we are now. I can't wait to bond with it again tomorrow morning. You better believe I'll never forget to stir again before securing the plunger in the chamber! But I might wear black tomorrow just to be safe.

Give me tapas or give me death!

Me thinks I've forgotten how to write. Um, how does this whole 'blogging' thing work again?

Perhaps I've been less than reliable when it comes to posting. And perhaps you thought that I've had better things to do than sit in front of a computer for the last month and a half. The truth of the matter is...I have. Europeans take the month of August off, so I figured why shouldn't I? It was the least I could do really, in order to fully enjoy the summer and properly prepare for my trip to Spain and Ireland. Dear friends, I am happy to report that I have safely returned from foreign lands after two weeks of wondrous sightseeing, girlfriend bonding, and good eating - with plenty of libations to boot.

Weeks before I left for my trip, I read somewhere that the food in Spain is some of the most delicious in the world, and it is considered one of the most underrepresented cuisines in the United States. You can only imagine how reading something like that would get me excited and evoke hype like clatter has never seen before. Throughout our trip, my travelmates suggested on several occasions that I should 'clatter' this, or 'clatter' that...and I agreed. I came across plenty to write about on the ol' blog. The thing is...I should have taken notes. I suffer from short term memory problems, you see. How could I be so irresponsible?! Luckily, sometimes the best things in life, like extra special food memories, won't soon be forgotten.

If there's one food I would guess that the Spaniards love the most, it's got to be jamon. Jamon, jamon, jamon - it's everywhere! Shop after shop, jamon (the Spanish version of ham) would hang from the ceilings, in window displays, and smell, well, like a good hunk o' pig. Good luck finding a menu that doesn't have it in some form or another. I also learned the extent in which Spaniards like to ease very slowly into their day. In a typical day, they might drink espresso or a cafe con leche (mmm) until noon, lunch at 14:30, siesta from 15:30 to 17:30, snack on churros, and then eat dinner at 21:00 or 22:00. Those Spanish folks - they are creatures of the night! Not until well after the sun goes down do they truly come alive. It took a number of days, but eventually we got into the Spanish lifestyle.

Because we only had a couple of nights in Madrid (one of which we were jetlagged and worthless to the world), it seemed that in some ways our Spanish trip didn't truly begin until we arrived in San Sebastian. San Sebastian is a beach town located in the northeastern border of Spain and France. It is part of the Basque Country - which has been dubbed a culinary capital. In San Sebastian, the night is all about txikiteo (don't ask me to pronounce that). That is, tapas bar hopping. While my dear Rick Steves, my pseudo-boyfriend on this trip (sorry, Gabe), explicitly explained in his guidebook (that I carried around like a bible) how the tapas phenomenon works in Basque Country, we failed to listen to him the first night. After that warm Mediterranean sun set, we found that the narrow streets of San Sebastian woke up from its siesta and became bustling with people. Every drinking hole and little restaurant we passed was filled with colorful small dishes and little sandwiches around the bar area. No joke - all of them! The problem was, we didn't know what to do.

We quickly learned that unless you know the language (and I mean Basque, not Spanish), you may have some trouble without the help of fellow English speakers to tell you what to do (Irish and Canadian folks we met helped us out) and sexy Rick, of course. San Sebastian is not the best place to eat as an American tourist unless you know the procedure - but as we learned, once you figure it out, it can pay off immensely. Our first night we hadn't done our homework and found ourselves much too timid to go into any of the bars. We were lame, I admit, but to us, the whole tapas bar hopping thing was very intimidating. (Was this a new kind of Spanish Inquisition - the type that forces you to eat tapas or starve to death?) By our second night in San Sebastian, however, we gave ourselves a pep talk, learned the lingo, and threw ourselves in the ring. In case you're curious, here are the quick steps to succeed in txikiteo for four American girls:

1) After walking into a bar, ask the bartender for "quattro platos, por favor." Until you ask for a plate, he'll only stare at you like you've walked into his home without knocking. Once the bartender knows you're interesting in eating, he'll become alive and happy.

2) Once you're given a plate, pick and choose which little sandwiches and Spanish delicacies (often on sticks) you would like to try. This was the part where clatter got excited! There are plenty of mysterious dishes to choose from (and some that you'll see at every single bar) and I found myself overwhelmed, but I tried my best to be adventurous. Sometimes it's best not to know what you're eating.

3) Order a drink. We stuck with either "quattro cana" (draft beer) or "quattro sidra" (cider) because that's all we knew how to say. The usual beer on tap, San Miguel, is not very good - but it's cold and perfect to wash down any mystery tapas that don't agree with the taste buds.

4) After you're done eating and drinking, figure out how many tapas you had so you can pay. If you want to be really fancy, ask the bartender "Zenbat da?", which apparently means "How much?" I could never manage to say it without sounding Asian, so I never actually attempted the phrase while hopping. Nevertheless, zenbat da (with or without the question mark) became our favorite phrase to use in any situation throughout our trip. The more we used it, the funnier it became. We apologize to all the Basque speakers out there for butchering their language.

5) Repeat steps 1 through 4 at the next bar. And the next. And the next. When you're full (and/or drunk), you are allowed to stop.

Once clatter put a txikiteo feather in its hat, we were off to Barcelona. After getting a recommendation from one of my travelmate's friends who is studying in Madrid, we made our way to Cerveceria Catalana for dinner one night. We ordered all sorts of tapas - portions just big enough to split four ways for one or two bites. Boiled prawns, pork tenderloin, grilled asparagus, fried squid rings with tons of freshly squeezed lemon juice, warm escalivada (roasted eggplant and red peppers) with goat cheese, toasted bread with crushed tomatoes and olive oil, grilled cutterfish....ahhhhhh. With a chilled bottle of cava, the meal was SO good. Between bites, I couldn't help but exclaim, with wide eyes and expressive hands, "This is foodie heaven." Because honestly, it really was. I believe it was at that moment that I felt enlightened as to why the Spaniards are brilliant with their tapas: a bite or two of the best quality food is really all you need to satisfy your palate. Hands down, our evening at Catalana was the best food experience during our trip - and it might even be a clatter Top Five best food moment of all time. Bold statement, I know, but that's how serious I am!

We learned that while tapas can be delicious, sometimes it's nice to have a REAL, full portioned meal. You know, the eat-until-you-are-so-stuffed-you-need-a-gurney-to-wheel-you-out-of-the-restaurant kind. We didn't find that in Spain (the same cannot be said for Ireland), and it is no surprise that the Spaniards are thin and trim. After experiencing the Spanish built-in portion control plus walking all day long for a week straight, I've been thinking a lot about writing a book called American Girls in Spain Don't Get Fat. That's never been done before, right?

Thirsty? Drink a Mr. Newman.

With those striking baby blues and stellar acting chops, Paul Newman was and continues to be even after his death in 2008, by most movie buffs’ standards, one of the Hollywood greats. For me, the best part about Paul Newman is not his brilliant performance in The Color of Money, his handsome appearance (even as an older man, he still had it), or that he was married to his wife for 50 years. Nope – I just like his limeade.

Ever since the man in the green hat and bow tie - not to be mistaken for the Man with the Yellow Hat - caught my eye last week in the grocery store, I couldn’t help but grab a carton while simultaneously envisioning a beautiful and wonderfully thirst-quenching future with him. While the limeade is quite good on its own, I dreamt (which, in case you weren't aware, is the only word in the English language that ends in "mt") of something with a little more depth...and, well, with a little booze.

When I was a kid, I loved Dairy Queen. (Yes, I still do.) Besides the cherry-dipped cone and the “full meal deal,” one of my favorite items on the menu growing up was the Mr. Misty. Lest you forget, the Mr. Misty is a slushy ice drink made with artificial fruit flavors and high fructose corn syrup. An ideal treat for a hot summer day, the Mr. Misty came in a variety of flavors, but I remember particularly enjoying the lemon-lime. Not that I spend much time at Dairy Queen these days, but when I have found myself inside its doors, I have not seen the Mr. Misty on the menu (trust me, I’ve looked). I just assumed that DQ had taken a turn for the worse and nixed it from their menu, but it turns out the Mr. Misty is still offered, but under the guise of the "Arctic Blast". I would like to take this time and space to publicly denounce this name change. Arctic Blast? Wasn't that one of Portland's local news station's title for the winter storm that dumped two millimeters of snow? I don't care what anyone says, the Mr. Misty will always remain the Mr. Misty in my heart.

With childhood nostalgia on the brain lately, I've been on a throwback beverage kick. My coworkers may make fun of me for sipping on Capri Suns in my office, but I know they're just jealous. (They'd be even more jealous to know that by night, my Capri Suns have flirted with the likes of vodka). While I've already got my sights set on whipping up a batch of Orange Julius (+ rum) one day soon, with this limeade in my possession, I knew this was my opportunity to de-virginize (is that too vulgar for a family-friendly blog?) Newman’s Own limeade with NO high fructose corn syrup(!) into a fantastical, Mr. Misty-inspired summer cocktail.

Crushed ice, limeade, frozen raspberries, and a wee little bit of Grey Goose vodka. Mmmmmmm. Deliciously refreshing and undeniably playful, the Mr. Newman goes down smooth and fast. GENERAL SURGEON'S WARNING: This beverage puts you at high risk for major brain freeze. Throwing out a fist as you cry a frustrated "Newman!" may also occur.

Keeping Up with Currant Events

Hello there, stranger. Have you missed me?

Last week a friend of mine called me to make sure I was ok because there had been no word on clatter for over a month. With the best fruits and vegetables of the year at the forefront, summer should be the time of year when I can’t stop thinking and writing about food. The truth of the matter is my mind has been far, far away from blogging. I’ve been busy cranking out way too much legal jargon on a daily basis in attempt to sound like a smart lawyer and keep my boss off my back. (What a brain sucker.) More interestingly though, I’ve also been occupied doing my best Meg Ryan impression (during her cute, pre-lip injection phase) by starring in my own real-life romantic comedy.

I could go into painstaking detail of the rom-com’s premise and take you through the movie, scene-by-scene. I could make you laugh, make you cry, make you laugh and cry at the same time, gag at the film's cheesiness, and then 10 minutes later, tug at your heartstrings at its very sweetness. But I’ll spare you the spoilers (plus I don’t yet know how it ends). I’d much rather have you blow your well-earned money on a $12 ticket and $5 bag of Twizzlers when the movie comes to a theatre near you. Until then, I’ll give you a clip to tide you over.

One summer afternoon, the girl accompanies the boy to his parents’ house to pick berries. While she quietly curses the drizzle and 67 degree weather in the middle of July, the girl cannot help but marvel at his parents’ beautiful home and yard (truly one that could appear in a Nancy Meyers’ movie). After his mother greets the girl with the warmest of welcomes and shows her an embarrassing/downright adorable first grade photo of the boy wearing a bright orange sweatshirt with a clip-on tie (and the girl reflects on the fact that this photo was taken merely one year before she beat him in the spelling bee), they get to picking.

They could have spent all day picking and filled an entire freezer with fruit, the bounty of raspberries, blueberries, and red currants more than one household could ever handle. Most of the blueberry bushes needed more time and some warmer weather before reaching their full potential, so the girl and boy focus mostly on picking the raspberries and currants. As she picked (much more efficiently than the boy, mind you), the culinary-inclined protagonist could not help but remain deep in thought about what she could do with fresh red currants. A day later, she was still thinking about it…

Best to my knowledge and failing memory in my 29 years, I don’t believe I had ever tasted a fresh red currant before yesterday. Tart with an absence of that certain sweetness most people expect from a berry, fresh currants are often made into jam. I had only had dried currants in scones before, so you can imagine my excitement at the thought of experimenting, eating, and (hopefully) extolling the virtues of a rather unfamiliar summer berry.

I decided to do what I like to do best: keep things easy and simple, but still try to look and sound fancy enough that people will be really impressed with my accomplishment. Is there a better way to fake fancy in cooking than to use a French word? I think not. With an unopened half gallon of Tillamook vanilla bean ice cream in my freezer, my decision came quickly: I would make red currant coulis. Coulis (pronounced COO-LEE) is the French’s way of describing a thick sauce made of pureed fruit or vegetables. From what I can tell, coulis is basically a compote, except that a sieve is used to remove the seeds.

After washing and cooking the currants with sugar and water, I pressed them through a sieve disguised as a cheese grater (not a perfect substitution to cheese CLOTH, but it got me by). Voila! Coulis was born. It’s that easy to be fancy. And now to extol: currant coulis really is a great topping to drizzle on ice cream… preferably to be eaten while watching a romantic comedy. In my expert opinion, the cornier the movie, the better the dessert will taste.

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

The month of June is such a tease. June is like that guy you’re just starting to date. You’re quite certain he likes you and finds you remarkably interesting, and in turn he begins to show you his charm, his warmth, his true colors. You might have a really good day with him, and you can’t help but let your expectations escalate. You think, “Wow, this guy might be something special. I’m so excited to see what lies ahead for us!” But then, perhaps on the very next day (or even as early as the next hour), it seems he is pulling away and turns cold. Naturally, you begin to question whether he’s merely playing you. Just when you decide you should write him off as a flirt and nothing more, he shows up again, shining his rays of light and presenting you with beautiful flowers. I don’t care what girls may say, they always like getting flowers. Especially peonies.

It’s probably bad form to do this on my blog, but I’m much too non-confrontational to do it in person. Please bear with me while I get this off my chest. I’m a little nervous.

June, I feel like you’re messing with me. I like you, but you’re all over the place - you’re hot one minute, you’re cold the next. I'm always wondering which version of you I might get on the phone tonight. (Thank you, Taylor Swift, for that line.) I’m being such a girl right now, overanalyzing the things you do and constantly asking myself whether I’m wearing the appropriate clothing. I know it’s early on (this is only our 11th day together), but why is it that you’ll be sunny and warm towards me, but then suddenly you turn cloudy and chilly? Are you afraid of commitment? I understand the internal struggle you must feel – half of you is in spring and the other half in summer. But it’s cruel to show the summer side of you prematurely and then take it away (not to mention make me put my sweater on and then take it off again 20 times a day). I realize that I can’t ask a lot from you, but why can’t I just get the best of you? I don’t mean to make you jealous, but you should probably know that there are others I have my eye on – namely July, August, and September. I see such potential in you, but your moodiness makes me wonder if I should simple forget you and look forward to a brighter (and warmer) future.

Whew! I feel better. That was good catharsis.

I caught some of June’s coyness today at the Hollywood Farmers Market. Seeing and smelling all the late spring flowers, herbs, strawberries, greens, sweet carrots, etc., etc., etc., made me want it to be summer – like real summer (no flirting, no games) - so bad. I can’t wait for the varieties of tomatoes, raspberries and blackberries, green beans, and so much more. Such as popsicles. And ice cream. Lots of ice cream.

At the market this morning, I picked up luscious rainbow chard, radishes, yellow zucchini, and a bunch of Walla Walla spring salad onions. As I perused Aurora, Oregon’s very own Big B Farms’ display, I spotted something I hadn’t seen before: an odd-looking variety of leek, the actual name of which is completely lost on me at the moment. (Was it leek bulbs?) Here’s a visual instead.



Of course I was intrigued by this specimen, but I wanted more information, so I decided to ask Farmer Big B himself (do realize that I have no idea if this guy is a farmer – let alone the farmer - but he worked behind the table so I figured he must know something). As I inquired, he grabbed three from a bunch, handed them to me, told me to treat and prepare them like asparagus, and report back. We exchanged some nice leek banter, and I walked away with free produce.

June may be fickle and unreliable with its weather, but at least I know I will always enjoy a day at the farmers market….that is, as long as it’s not raining.

Go Ahead, Make My Day

I like to think that I am a fairly humble person, but even so, there are a few accomplishments in my life that I have no qualms in bragging about. As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, any success in the kitchen would fall under this category. Another would be that after driving for 13 years, I’ve never been pulled over by a police officer. Some of you may challenge this by reminding me that I once got pulled over and cited by a cop while riding my bike in college. (For those of you who don’t know this story, just ask. It’s a good one.) To avoid any confusion, I will clarify by stating that I’ve never been pulled over by a police officer while driving a car. I now deeply regret to inform you all that after last Friday evening, I can no longer say that.

Preparing for a weekend trip to the vibrant and bustling city of Kennewick, WA for a birthday celebration, I made a quick stop at Fred Meyer to pick up a few items. As I pulled out of the parking lot and onto NE Glisan to make my way to the freeway, I looked down for a brief (ever so brief!) moment to turn up the volume on my phone and to place it in my middle console. Bringing my focus back to the road then (with hands at ten and two!), I glanced at my rear view mirror. I’m usually pretty quick on the uptake, but there was a good five to ten second delay before I realized that the flashing red and blue lights coming from the motorcycle directly behind me was 1) a cop and 2) that the cop was flashing his lights at ME. Other than an excited utterance or two in the form of an expletive, I remained cool, calm, and collected as I veered right onto the nearest side street, wondering what I could have possibly done wrong. My relaxed demeanor proved to be very short-lived indeed.

Even though at that moment I had never experienced the act of getting pulled over by a cop on the road before, I still figured I knew the drill. After all, I’d seen it a million times before on TV and movies. So why I decided to turn off my car and open my car door rather than roll down the window is anyone’s guess. As the cop approached my car and asked if my driver side window was broken, I stammered as if under interrogation and guilty of some heinous crime, and explained that the window wasn’t broken and I wasn’t sure why I had done that. That’s when I took the time to actually look up at this man in uniform to see what he might ask next. I believe I reacted then in a manner that any girl of similar like and kind might: “Whoa, this cop is kinda…hot.” Bringing myself back to reality, I followed his next instructions and handed him my driver’s license.

As I sat there when he studied it (and likely wondered why I look like a 300-pound terrorist in my picture), my mind began to retain all that material I thought I had forgotten from criminal procedure in law school, e.g. reasonable suspicion, the plain view doctrine, and what constitutes probable cause to search the trunk. Of course it’s not like I was under the influence or possessed illegal substances or had any open containers in the car, but as soon as I started to look around, I began to sweat a little bit. There was the bottle of root beer in the cup holder with the uncanny resemblance to a bottle of beer, and the four bottles of sparkling wine in the backseat, and the bottle of Bacardi rum next to them. The only innocent item in sight appeared to be my box of Good ‘n Plenty. [Insert dumb donut joke here.]

Just as I was about to blurt out, “Officer, this is not as bad as it looks!” he asked for my registration and proof of insurance. Reaching for the glove compartment, I realized how jittery I had become. First I couldn’t find the current insurance information and then I couldn’t locate the current registration, and as papers were spilling out in every which way and I was muttering to myself about how I need to be more organized, I came to terms with the fact that I was a disaster.

Finally I handed the correct documents to Officer Hotness and that’s when I realized I seriously needed to get a grip if I wanted to avoid getting a ticket. The internal pep talk commenced: Allison, stop being a befuddled fool and get it together! You need to get your head in the game. Take a deep breath and channel the inner actress in you. Waterworks, please remain on standby. Batting your eyelashes and turning on the charm should prove to be a less difficult task when your subject is this easy on the eyes.

The cop then began to explain that he had pulled me over because he noticed that I had looked down at something and it appeared that I was texting. (“Officer, I really wasn’t,” I asserted in my sweetest tone possible.) As he droned on about the dangers in texting while driving and the new law now in place and the expense of those tickets, I realized that this might just be a lecture and nothing more. As soon as he said, “I’m actually on my way home now, but…” I knew then that I was home free. No ticket, even without having to use tear or flirting tactics? Victory for me! As he walked back to his bike, I reflected on the biggest surprise of all: I couldn’t believe he made not one comment about my apparent alcohol problem.

So, maybe I can no longer say that I’ve never been pulled over by a cop, BUT I can still brag that I’ve never been pulled over by a cop and gotten a ticket. Don’t think for one second though that I didn’t take anything away from this little experience. Next time, I will be sure to 1) roll down my window; 2) have current registration and proof of insurance readily available; 3) keep all alcoholic beverages in the trunk (just in case); and 4) take a chill pill. Lesson learned, Officer Hotness, lesson learned.