Hot damn, I hate winter. It has been a rough couple of weeks in the Trivedi-Grenier household. After living in Australia, we just don’t do winter. It has completely wrecked havoc on our workout schedule (sort of difficult to run a outside when the sidewalks are caked with ice and snow, especially when I am so likely to fall on my ass), we have both been sick more times in the past three months than we were the entire year and a half we lived in Australia, and frankly, I think the snow be makin’ people crazier than a one-armed hooker trying to hail a cab in a blizzard, YOU KNOW. But my husband? He generally rocks. He makes midnight pixy stick runs when I get a craving (and no, I am NOT pregnant. I just happen to enjoy sugary kid candy. Don’t judge. YOU like cheese in can.). He trades dishes with me at a restaurant when the adventurous dish I tried turns out to be crap. He sometimes even orders what I like in anticipation of this event. Cleaner of cat vomit, Leena vomit, cleaner of clothes, sewer of buttons, doer of dishes even when I ask him to cook…sigh. I am one lucky lady. So why the hell do I deserve a husband that actually wants to cook for me after an eight hour day at work/being sick/dealing with Chicago crazies? I have a few ideas. 1. I freaking rock. 2. He freaking rocks. 3. I’m hot. Fair enough. His first attempt was pad thai–from scratch. I set up him with the Chez Pim recipe, but he did everything else himself. And it was freaking DELICIOUS–better than any pad thai I’ve eaten in Chicago, at least. Instead of being cloyingly sweet, it was more a mix of subtle heat, slight sweetness, and intense savoryness. Perfect ratio of chopped peanuts to noodles, and he even threw a few veggies in there, because he knew I had probably eaten nothing but pork dumplings that day.
His most recent attempt was a grilled chicken salad with carrots, avocado, bacon, homemade croutons and homemade ranch dressing. Now, there is a very short list of things that get me all hot and bothered. It includes my husband, bacon, Justin Timberlake and a good ranch dressing. Don’t even get me started about store-bought ranch dressing. All too often, it is sweet, and a sweet ranch dressing is about as natural as a thin Oprah Winfrey. It makes no one happy and it JUST SHOULDN’T EXIST. Ranch was meant to be garlicky and bold! Adam used this recipe because we had the cookbook lying around and it was (sort of) healthy. The ranch dressing was so delicious, if I wasn’t such a classy lady, I might have slathered it on my arm and scraped it off with slices of crispy bacon. And maybe I still did. It wasn’t as thick as store-bought dressing, but it doesn’t need to be. It needs to start a party in my mouth, and that it did. I think Stevie Wonder showed up and Paris Hilton puked in the closet–it was a lovely time. So this post is a thank you to the man who is making my life a little bit easier and a little bit more delicious one meal at a time. I love you, Adam! And I’d like lamb chops next 
~LTG!
