Let’s get this over with: My name is Nick, and I’m a girl. OK, OK, technically I’m a “woman.” Either way, I’m female. My name is not Nicki, Nikki, Darling Nikki, Nik, Nic, Nikita or Meg (more than once I’ve introduced myself to someone in a crowded, noisy bar and they’ve spent the evening calling me Meg). Yes, Nick is short for “Nicole” but no one calls me that, except for my grandmother, and she’s dead (coincidentally, I might add). And official, governmental types, like the IRS, who want to get money out of me, but I try to avoid them whenever possible.
In the past few years I’ve settled down from what was once a somewhat debauched lifestyle and become a wife, mother, urban chicken farmer, foodie and crabby middle-aged bitch with ailments–not necessarily in that order. I love Diet Coke, tattoos, knitting, grammar, rabble-rousing, angry female singer-songwriters, wine and Lawrence Welk. In other words, just a normal chick.
I have a long-suffering husband, two prodigal children, three cats, three chickens, a number of imaginary friends and even more imaginary enemies.
Not gonna censor myself, ’cause that’s sooo not what I’m about, but I am going to blog primarily about cooking and food. Or not. We’ll see what happens. Come along for the ride, won’t you?