It's popsicle week. I'm coming in just under the wire!

Set-It-and-Forget-It Seneviratne. I’ve earned a few choice nicknames over the course of my life, but I think that one might be the most apt. (Samantha the Panther was probably the least.) See that pot that’s bone dry and smoking because someone put water to boil an hour ago? Who did that? What about those nuts, burnt to an unrecognizable crisp? I like to think that my absentmindedness is charming. But possibly not.

I have to be honest. I haven’t exactly been glowing with holiday spirit this year. Last month we ate Chinese food on Thanksgiving. We don’t have a tree, just the same old plants. There is printer paper all over my desk, but no wrapping paper to be seen. I’ve kept my head buried in work while the tinsel and the lights have been strung up around me.

The whole season might have come and gone if it weren’t for gingerbread. The other day, I got to bake some for Mrs. Patmore. Do you know her?

I spent this last week doing not a whole heck of a lot. I made two trips to the beach with dear friends, a new baby beauty, and a baby in utero. (Not my utero.) I watched another inspiring friend complete her first triathlon. I read books and drank coffee on my couch. I saw the new X-Men (x-tremely boring) by myself and drank my annual cherry coke (delicious). I went to the farmers’ market for the first time this summer (!) and bought a ton of heirloom tomatoes. And I loaded up on more currants. Lots more currants. 

I know what you’re thinking. You probably read the title of this post and shook your head. Maybe you scrolled through the pictures disapprovingly. “My land,” you thought, “this woman is obsessed with custard.” And you know what? You’re absolutely right. It’s shameful. I am. But this week I have an excuse. This week I’m passing the buck. This week I’m blaming three other people. Custard haters, please send your complaints to John Cheever, my husband Gus, and John McPhee.

This week I asked Gus what he thought I should make for the blog. “Chocolate pudding!” Well, I aim to please! Here you go.

Just kidding. It wasn't that easy. I was annoyed at his lack of creativity. The truth is, right when I asked him, we were both coming off a high from this dairy-free quinoa pudding I had just made. I know quinoa pudding may not necessarily get you salivating, but trust me, quinoa pudding is much more delicious than it sounds. Anyway, after that successful pudding, Gus wanted more pudding. (It makes so much sense that we’re married.) And this time he wanted a really good chocolate pudding.

My friends and I rented a run-down, drafty house during our last two years of college. The kitchen was far from perfect. It had dingy linoleum floors covered with a film of salt and mud from our snowy boots and mysterious sticky patches from the last party. Fat carpenter ant carcasses dotted the faded countertops because B, one of my more courageous roommates, was in the habit of smooshing them with her thumb but not in the habit of disposing of the bodies. Thinking about whatever might have lurked in the dank darkness of the cupboards gives me the shivers even now. But, despite all of that, the four of us roommates were into good food and we were always excited to take up a cooking project together.

Can geckos regrow their tails? Absolutely. (And apparently the severed limb keeps moving once disconnected!) How's Jody Sweetin doing? Much better, thank goodness. What did we do before the internet?

The other day I was thinking of one of the songs my brother and I used to sing together. It was about milk, and it was on Sesame Street. "Milk. So good. So warm and white." Seriously catchy stuff. I was curious to hear the real version and it took exactly 2 seconds of searching. You are the best, World Wide Web.

I love this video. Watch a little bit if you have a second:

Sesame Street Milk Song

In the spirit of love and collaboration, my husband Gus has decided to guest post this week. Don't believe a word he says.

xo Sam

Believe me, I am as shocked and pleased by this as you are. I was definitely not expecting my wife Sam to invite me to do this guest post for Valentine’s Day. First of all, I assumed that she already knew how to make hot fudge. I have to admit that I am a bit surprised that she doesn’t, even after graduating from culinary school and so forth, but I am very happy to help her learn. It is so fun to team up as a couple! Love comma cake indeed! 

I recently fell asleep at the movies. I think I've entered a new stage of life. The I’m-perfectly-rested-but-now-I’m-old-so-if-I get-too-comfortable-I’m-going-to-pass-out stage. Strange. I didn’t feel the transition. 

“Where'd God go?” I wasn't having some type of existential crisis, or pondering the meaning of life. No, it was an honest question, and I expected an answer. I was six and a bit confused.

We were attending a Buddhist almsgiving at a friend's house. The prayers had ended and the feasting was about to begin. The priest who had been leading the ceremony had wandered out of the living room and out of my sight, and I wanted to know where he'd gone. I can't remember if I thought his name was God, or if I believed that He himself had decided to make a visit to Connecticut and lead us in prayer. The latter seems more likely. 

Generally speaking, my husband and I aren’t competitive. We’re big supporters of each other. When we jog together, Gus always runs at my pace, encouraging me along without complaint, even if that means he never breaks a sweat. But all of that changes in the kitchen. Near a stove, our ugly side tends to come out. It’s simple. We’re both sure that we’re the stronger cook. (The fact that I cook for a living doesn’t deter Gus one bit. Of course he’s wrong…but I sure do love his confidence. ) This year we decided to rebel against the spirit of generosity and community that usually accompanies the Thanksgiving season and settle the ongoing dispute with a little cookoff. Welcome to Cranberry Challenge 2013. 

Remember when people got fancy for travel? Not early-1900’s-voyages-on-grand-ocean-liners fancy. I'm thinking early-80's fancy. When we were kids, my family would get plenty gussied for a plane ride. I can remember pretty new dresses, shiny patent leather Mary Janes, and nicely brushed hair. Traveling was a pleasure and a privilege and my family dressed the part. Let me tell you, wearing tights on the 14-hour flight (plus layovers!) to Sri Lanka was a serious endeavor. They don't call them tights for nothing. My adult self can recognize the lunacy in the act, but the desire to dress nicely took over any consideration for comfort. I’m surprised that I could actually eat while flying (all that constriction!) but you know that I never missed a meal.

One day, on a visit to Sri Lanka in the 80's, my grandmother and I made a trip to town in a three-wheeler. After buying the spices and vegetables that she needed, grandmother took me to the sweet shop for a treat. I carefully weighed my options and then spent my saved rupees on some foil-wrapped toffees. You’d think I’d invested in golden bricks the way that I treasured them. When we got home, I gave everybody exactly one candy to cherish before I put the rest away for safekeeping. When I say safekeeping what I really mean is tied in a small baggie around my neck. That’s right. Just like some kind of candy-deprived maniac, I wore those toffees securely fastened around my little head. That’s how afraid I was that my precious sweets could be taken from me. Supposedly my mom has a picture of me fast asleep, candies safely secured at the end of a creepy string. Whoa. Whenever I hear this story, at the point at which I am the most ashamed of my ridiculous behavior, my sweet mom always chimes in with the fact that I did share them to begin with. As if that helps my case.

I’m not much of a drinker. Some might call me a cheap date. If you haven’t already guessed I would always prefer to chew my calories. That said, a few weeks ago a sesame-infused vodka crossed my path and I went for it! Alcohol that tastes like food is OK by me.

They say that you shouldn’t go to the grocery store hungry. I understand the logic behind that old adage but isn’t that when buying provisions is the least tedious and the most fun? Every aisle holds so much potential for deliciousness. Plain old broccoli sounds utterly mouth-watering. Bananas feel magical. Bread could make me faint. (Well, that’s always the case.) Hungry supermarket cruising is exactly what credit cards are made for.