I AM Iron Chef

Wahoooooooooooooo, Werewolves of London.

OK. Now I'm cranked. I have a leg of lamb bigger than the Jack Russell. I have three heads of garlic, two clumps of thyme and another of rosemary. There's a couple pounds of the tiniest little red potatoes I could find, and they are sitting, patiently waiting to have a slender strip of their skins peeled off their middles and be rolled in the finest olive oil, have pink salt ground onto them and be shoved into a really hot oven to roast. There are huevos haminados sitting in a blue bowl in the refrigerator. I have my pale green salad recipe printed out and ready to roll. Pears, olives, artichoke hearts, lime juice and cilantro, a little heart of palm and a vinaigrette dressing.

Having gotten my heart going with about 4 cups of coffee, I am now ready to take on the task of inserting slivers of garlic in a lovely grid over the entire leg of lamb. It will then be nestled into a bed of rosemary and thyme and roasted until pink in the middle. Call that rare, call it medium, call it whatever you like, but it'll be rich and redolent of garlic and still juicy.

There are two bunches of asparagus, fresh from the fields of somewhere: Guatemala? California? Peru? that will be steamed until tender. We will throw ping pong balls at each other for the plague of hail. There will be little plastic flies strewn across the table for the plague of the same name. We will don sunglasses for darkness. We will drink, and laugh, and repeat that until the sponge cake makes its appearance at the end of the night.

I am ready to celebrate.