I did that thing again where I just disappear from my blog because I lack focus and also go to the beach a lot. I guess we’ll all just have to accept that I’m a big ole flake at the end of summer. Continue reading
I’ve been trying to figure out what I want to tell you all about this beer can chicken for a few days now.
I’m looking at a dime-sized burn on my wrist, feeling like a real-life, serious, cooks-everything-on-the-grill griller.
It’s that time of year when everyone seems to be in the south of France (I mean, what the hell do I need to do to be one of these people?!), gallivanting about in sundresses with a rosé IV stuck in their arm from yacht party to yacht party. (Disclaimer: I work in advertising and it happens to be the Cannes award festival this week…so that’s maybe why you don’t know someone jet-setting off to the French Riviera right now.)
I fell into the abyss of summer.
When your Instagram and SnapChat feeds are full of images of rosé and beach shots from the French Riviera, there is nothing to do but get yourself to a similar locale as soon as possible. So, this past weekend when several of my coworkers were traipsing along the Mediterranean downing pretty pink wines, I returned to LBI for a weekend of bike building, yacht club cocktail hours, and as always, more grilling.