Thursday night, Bryan saw me tuck something into my purse and asked me what it was.  “I can’t talk about it now,” I said, matter-of-factly.  “This is deserving of an Edgar round table.”

Every Friday night, a group of friends gather at a local Mexican dive to listen to Edgar.  Edgar has no last name.  Just like Madonna, with a lot less boning. (I was referring to the corsets, but I imagine ANYONE does a lot less boning than Madonna.)(Sorry, Edgar.) Edgar is an aging mexican (?.. Spanish?) singer who does covers spanning the ages.  He also does sound effects.  And most importantly, he does not mind a gaggle of two year olds cutting a rug directly in front of his set-up.

So on Friday, I passed this letter around.  As y’all know, we moved recently, so this letter took a long time to get to me, as it was sent to our old address.  It was also addressed to “Sara Brown”.  Which is not quite my name.  Inside was a typed letter, two pictures, and a heartfelt apology about some unknown but horrific tiff many years ago.

This was so incredibly awesome.  It was like reading about Sara Brown of Bizarro world.

Some interesting facts about Sarah Brown:

• She was in the middle of a divorce when the smack-down occurred.
• She was also seeing a much older man.  Not her husband.
• She was living with her mother.
• She was in school, but did not have a job.
• She has a daughter (maybe?) named Victoria.

So this letter goes on and on about how a man came between them, but that man is gone, and the author is now seeing a man .. a dream man!.. who is wonderful.  He is recently divorced with three kids.  They have been dating for five months, but she hasn’t met the kids yet.

.. isn’t that kind of odd?  Five months, no introduction to the kids?

AM I HORRIBLE FOR BEING SNARKY ABOUT SOMEONE’S LIFE THAT I’VE NEVER MET?!

(yes.)

Anyway, so I raise the question to y’all: She includes TONS of contact information in this letter, in which Sarah Brown is supposed to get back with her so they can rekindle their friendship.  She also includes a picture of herself and one of her babeh.  I would’ve thrown the whole thing away, quite honestly, but she threw those Olan Mills in there and now I feel involved.  So do I:

• Contact her and tell her she has the wrong Sarah Brown
• Throw the email away.. it was forwarded anyway, so maybe it DID get lost in the mail
• Contact her and ask her why in the hell she dated a man who spells his name Derik
• Contact her, say Sara Brown passed away, and her last breath was giving forgiveness.  BUT SHE IS DEAD, SO DON’T TRY AND CONTACT HER.
• Also, encourage her to not Google her, as there are 9 million Sarah Browns, several of them much more famous than moi.

So, if someone incorrectly mailed you a heartfelt (typed) letter, complete with shots of herself and her chilrens, what would you do?

So, through two years of marriage and several more of dating (or “putting up with eachother”), I can count on one hand the amount of times Bryan has enjoyed my cooking.

One time was when I made him “Dump Cake”.  Apparently, his mother used to make this, and when he’s sick, it’s my comfort food for him.  The bold flavors and tenacious sweetness of the dish makes him feel normal again.

The other time was last night.  I pretty much have become Betty Crocker, as cooking has turned out to be the only time in my day that I get to concentrate on ONE thing and then have a successful product at the end of it.  So even if I’ve felt like crap, I’ve still made a few things.  And from scratch, I feel the need to say.  I’ve done well.

This week, I made a peach cobbler crisp for dessert.  He was kind of wishy-washy about it.  I mean, he ate it, but he wasn’t ecstatic about it.

Last night, while he drove The Boy around creation searching for a youth jock strap (I’m SOOO not a part of that outting), I threw together some made-from-scratch banana pudding. 

Or, as Nashville calls it, “nanner puddin”.  I think he had a stuffed animal by the same name.  Was that Nashville?  Some guy.  That I knew.  Once.

So, anyway, I made the custard and threw together some meringue, and threw it in the oven.  And when it came out, it was perfect.  The meringue was just brown enough, and it was warm and oozy.  See?

But it looks.. well.. I just knew Bryan wouldn’t like it.  Or try it, even.

But I was tired and laying on the couch when he got home, (OH, AND HE ADMITTED HE HAD GONE TO CHICK-FIL-A FOR A MILKSHAKE.. BASTARDO!) so I made him make me a bowl.  And from the kitchen, this is what I heard:

“Smells good in here, honey.  Wow.  Oh.  Wow, honey, this looks and .. my God, this smells sooooo amazing!  Honey, THIS is what banana pudding should be!  I may have to have some of this!”

Ladies and gentlemen, my husband had a food orgasm over banana pudding last night.

Ta da.

Hey.  I’m Sarah Lena.  I write here.  Some stuff about me that will kill at least two hours of your day, and many, many brain cells:

I am married to my best friend.  He makes me laugh.  A lot.

I had a baby.  I write him newsletters monthly, to track his progress. (And because I’m not as creative as Dooce and can’t come up with anything original on my own.  Sue me.)

I’m also a stepmother to an eight year old tornado of energy little boy.

Weird shit happens to me.  All the time.  Some of it’s funny; some of it not so much.

And to sum it all up, my most popular search terms that bring people here?  Two very distinct set of terms: “fat labias” and “flea bites on babies”.  No, you won’t find either of those things here.  Sorry to disappoint.