On February 26, I was perfectly content to stay home and work in my pajamas as a snowstorm semi-raged outside, transforming my view of an unkempt backyard-turned-weed graveyard into a winter wonderland.

And then around lunchtime, Kathy asked me if I wanted to eat lunch at Peter Luger. And I said, "Yes." How did Kathy get me to willingly transform from "groggy, sleep-wear 'boppy" to "mildly more functional, real world 'boppy" in the midst of a snowstorm on such short notice? Because, as a fellow Serious Eats contributor, she proposed that we go on a work-related mission. (Also, I like eating with her.)

The mission: to get a hot fudge sundae and a burger. It's called "research." Man, the things we do for you. Not that I expended much effort to get to Peter Luger; it's about 20 minutes from my apartment in Bed-Stuy on the B44 bus. It's the agony of an overstuffed belly that I had to endure. Lipid-based agony.

Last Saturday I made chocolate chip cookies using the Ad Hoc recipe to bring to Dahlia's birthday party. As I'm not exactly a maven in the kitchen, I generally only bake cookies (or make any sort of dessert) for special occasions, not for the purpose of fulfilling my incessant craving for chocolate chip cookies. When I'm awake, I want cookies. When I'm asleep, I want cookies. When I'm dead my disembodied soul will want cookies. (That gives me an idea for a picture book: Robyn Wants Cookies. Each page would be me in a different situation thinking about cookies. "In the deepest part of the ocean, Robyn wants cookies / In the eye of a tornado, Robyn wants cookies / In a town made of Jell-O, Robyn munches on a cherry-favored lamp post, and still wants cookies.")

Incessant. Yes. Chocolate chip cookies are my favorite dessert. Even more so than macarons. A warm chocolate chip cookie out of the oven, with the gooey chocolate bits, crispiness around the edge, and barely cooked middle, is...everything that is good in the world of cookies. Luckily, they're super easy to make and hard to mess up, if my experience is any indication.

I mean, I didn't write it very well. Maybe some other time. If any non-Americans are curious about tipping practices over here though, this feature on Trip Advisor is a good start.

Sorry for the non-food-related post, but this is the easiest way for me to reach a buttload of people at once. THANK YOU FOR READING! For without you, I am nothiiiiinnggg.

First off, I'm not a big fan of shoes. Most of them don't fit me well because my feet are wider than average, and although I primarily buy shoes for comfort, not fashion (no high heels, please), I don't want shoes that, while comfortable, look like crap. My shoe collection consists of sneakers from Camper (my most oft-worn shoes), flip flops I bought at a Gap outlet mall over three years ago, Birkenstocks from three years ago, red flats from Camper that don't fit well because I should've bought a 38 instead of a 37 (although even if I got a 38, I suspect they would still be too tight), black flats from Clarks that are thankfully comfortable that I bought...I don't know how long ago, super warm fuzzy boots that are great when it's super cold and were adequate for walking in the snow until one of the soles wore away, and yellow flats made of plastic that I bought last summer for fun but are impractical because my feet are just a smidge too wide for them.

Fun, semi-formal shoes just don't work for me. And I'm okay with that because there are very few I'd ever want.

EXCEPT! In an instance of super rare desires, for some reason I really want this one pair of boots (or booties, rather; photos after this paragraph) in a specific design, and I feel like they must exist in my size. Whether or not they would be comfortable, I don't know...because I haven't found them yet. I randomly passed a vintage store last week that had the boots I pictured in my mind, but they were a size 7 and I'm a 7.5 to 8.

If left to my natural sleep cycle, I could sleep until 1 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon without a problem. (Sleep is the best. I know there's that saying, "I'll sleep when I'm dead," but dude, I want to sleep now because it feels awesome. Not sleeping will just shorten my lifespan, or make me go insane.) But if Adelyn hadn't made me haul my lumpy self out of bed at 10 a.m. last Sunday to meet up at 88 Palace for dim sum, I would've wasted a great deal of what ended up being a funner-than-average Sunday. So. Sometimes waking up before noon can be a good thing.

Our plan was to grab dim sum with Diana and a few of Adelyn's friends before checking out the Chinese New Year parade on Mott Street. Unfortunately, Diana fell sick the night before and didn't feel up to a dim sum lunch, and most of Adelyn's friends were only half-conscious by the time we were sitting at 88 Palace. Dim sum is best eaten by large groups—extended Chinese families and the like—definitely not by a party of two considering that many dishes come with three or more pieces. Luckily, Adelyn's friend Omar eventually showed up to help us eat. A rundown of the dishes:

Pork buns.

Roast pork steamed buns: Super soft, fluffy steamed bread filled with sweet, fatty roast pork chunks. Although it's not a favorite of mine, it feels like one of those dim sum staples you have to get.

Admittedly, I like that I finally understand what my Lost-watching friends have been talking about all these years, but it comes at a price. I'm pretty much sleepy all the time, and considering it's nearly 1:30 a.m., I'm going to try to blaze through this entry so I can go to bed before 3 a.m. The food porn is the most engaging part anyway, right? That "prose" stuff just gets in the way.

But before you waggle your finger at me (as much as I deserve it), let me just say that I didn't watch any Lost this weekend; I just happened to be busy during pretty much all my waking hours. Not that I was doing anything crazy—ye know, mostly eating. I just finished season 4 of Lost and I don't want to watch any more episodes until I pump out more posts. BLOG FIRST, LOST LATER.

OKAY I CAN DO THIS...here's a post about a meal I ate three weeks ago.

Orange and fluorescent green, together at last.

When I lived in Taipei from 1996 to 1998, I was an ignorant, America-loving tweenage lump of chubb who ignored the local Taiwanese cuisine, instead opting to grab seemingly half of my sustenance at the McDonald's around the corner from my apartment where no Chinese-speaking skills were needed. I almost always ordered the same thing—a McChicken Sandwich Value Meal and a Filet-O-Fish sandwich (don't ask me how I managed to eat that much food; maybe the intense humidity made me sweat out the calories)—but I could've eaten so much better! If only I knew! If onlyyyy! Oh how I rattle my fists in anger.

Thankfully, living in New York City affords me the opportunity to grasp at the meager strings that connect me to my heritage through the magic of food. So, with the help of my friend and former Taipei American School classmate Jamie and four of her friends, I got to stuff myself at The Island of Taiwan Restaurant in Brooklyn (upon Danny's recommendation) with some dishes I probably never ate in Taiwan.

"Man, ramen's good."

"Mmm. ...Crap I can't breathe, I better swallow."

Aaaaand that's what it sounds like in my head. I estimate that my brain is 95% Jell-O-like goo made of underachieving neurons where profundity is unable to thrive. (But that last 5%? Oh man, it's like a party with beach balls and a motherfuggin' cotton candy machine!!!)

So, back to the internal dialogue. While eating my bowl of black sesame miso ramen ($10.50) at Ramen Setagaya last Thursday, I had this atypical revelation of, "Man, [insert type of dish I'm eating] is really tasty. Yeah!" Usually, I eat contently, not blown away nor disappointed by what I'm eating (and more than usually, I insufficiently chew too much food far too quickly, the result being odoriferous burps for the rest of the day that I will announce to whomever is unfortunately within my zone of vocal reach). But this time I was like, "This ramen is so hitting some sort of spot that only springy noodles in an umami-laden broth can hit."

For those who aren't familiar with Chinatowns in New York City, here's a quick little lesson: There are three major ones, in Manhattan, Brooklyn (Sunset Park), and Queens (Flushing), with more on the way because daaamn, there are a lot of Chinese people. Out of those three Chinatowns, the one I've been to the least is the Brooklyn one.

But I'm slowly building my Sunset Park repertoire of "places my stomach has ravaged." Two weeks ago I ate at East Harbor Seafood Palace with Diana, Olia, Chichi, Adelyn, and Greg upon Diana's recommendation. The restaurant was crowded at noon on a Sunday, and we had to wait about half an hour for our number to be called. In Cantonese. Maybe they'll call your number out in English if you don't know Chinese, but I'm not sure. Thankfully, Diana and Adelyn know their Cantonese numbers, while I...um...can do one to ten in Mandarin, crappily at best.

Om-a-nom-nom.

FOOD PORN TIME.

"You wanna split three slices?" asked Greg when we were at Two Boots in the West Village on Wednesday night.

"I was going to eat two. I always eat two. You're not that hungry?"

"Not really. Colin and Jason are splitting three slices too."

"WHAT? But. Buh." I hesitated for a moment. I didn't really want to outeat three dudes (not that it would've mattered if they were girls) who were probably all more fit than I am, nor make Greg eat more pizza than he wanted just because I couldn't sacrifice half a slice. I AM A TEAM PLAYER. AND I WILL PLAY ON THE 1.5 SLICE TEAM.

And so we did split three slices, although I also bought a chocolate chip cookie and made us share an order of garlic knots to supplement what I thought would be an insufficient amount of pizza.

But to be honest, 1.5 slices is enough; I just always overshoot how much food I need and repeatedly suffer the gastro-intestinal consequences. The first slice goes down about as easily as a whole fish down a pelican's throat. The second slice is when things slow down. But I can eat the whole thing—stomachs expand and organs shift. To a point.

This morning on the way to lunch, I unintentionally passed the Brooklyn Flea at One Hanson Place, a fortuitous encounter since I had been meaning to visit it for weeks. I paused in front of the building for about five seconds, thinking, "Do I continue to the subway or get a cupcake?"

When in doubt, choose "cupcake."

I headed straight towards Kumquat Cupcakery's table in the basement. First bite of the day: mini chocolate-caramel cupcake nubbin. Mmmm. I prefer mini cupcakes over regular sized cupcakes for two reasons: mini cupcakes provide just the right amount of cake and frosting to satisfy my sweet tooth, unlike regular cupcakes, which I usually tire of by the last bite; and bakers who specialize in mini cupcakes (such as Nine Cakes and Cake Lab, in addition to Kumquat) seem to have higher standards for their two-bite desserts than those who make regular-sized cupcakes because they have to pack more awesomeness in a smaller package.

Anyway. Good breakfast.

Stop & Shop doesn't need any stinkin' windows.

Last month when I visited my mom and brother in New Jersey for Christmas, we took a trip to a local Stop & Shop because there's only so much you can do late at night in Bergen County.

...And it was also for nostalgia's sake. While growing up in Franklin Lakes, the Stop & Shop in Wyckoff was the supermarket my family shopped at the most. It was also where I got my first "real" job in 2003 near the end of senior year when I figured I may as well attempt to make a few bucks before going to college. What role did I aim for? Bagger, aka "the easiest job you could possibly get at a supermarket." I wasn't aiming to make a lot of money, just something that wasn't from my parents. $6.50 an hour for methodically placing food in plastic and paper bags didn't seem all that bad. (I hated bagging large bottles of soda though; too goddamn bulky. Cereal boxes were quite nice.)

I'm probably one of the few employees in the history of Stop & Shop who found bagging a fascinating window into the eating habits of mostly white, upper-middle class America; it was pretty different from the diet imposed by my Chinese health conscious mom. That I was taking an anthropology class at the time and was on a raw food diet probably contributed to that fascination, though. (I remember taking tabs on the customers who bought fruits and vegetables and those who didn't. Because that's what you do when everything you eat is raw.) But baggies of luncheon meats and gallon jugs of milk can only captivate a 17-year-old with a short attention span for so long—a few months, in my case. I can't remember what I did in the period between end-of-work and beginning-of-school, but it probably involved sleeping excessively and eating loads of fruit. After I stopped working there, going back to buy groceries felt awkward.

FOOOOOD.

So...fast forward about six years. The Stop & Shop I used to work in is no more; the strip mall it once resided in got a full makeover. While the location is the same, the new building is larger—think "Walmart-esque"—and the design is friendlier and more welcoming. I rub my eyes and, through slack-jawed mouth, utter something profound, like, "Whoaaaaa." If you're accustomed to the tight aisles of New York City's supermarkets, you would too.

This supermarket probably isn't anything special to most people—hell, maybe most new Stop & Shops look like this. But all I could think is, "This place is fuggin' huge." I happily cruised the mostly empty aisles with my brother. Here are some things I thought were worth photographing.

I recently recommended the burger at Veselka to a friend as a good burger in the East Village. Unfortunately, after eating it he didn't feel the same way.

My first reaction: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

My second reaction after allowing my blood pressure to normalize: I can't be giving people crappy burger recs. I'll have to try it again.

Left without dinner plans last Sunday night, I went to Veselka to give it a go. In conclusion: Still good. Really good.

But before I go on, I should note that I'm not sure if the burger had succeeded merely on gustatory merits or if the mélange of unrelated demoralizing happenings coupled with low expectations had something to do with it. Maybe it was the gloomy, wet weather; maybe it was the unexpected MTA WTF-ery (aka subway rerouting); maybe it was the attempt to find a dining companion and coming up empty handed; maybe it was the lunch comprised mostly of pretzels and clementines (although that didn't make me sad, just hungry).

Or maybe I just got lucky and ended up with just the right patty at just the right doneness in just the right bun. That's how it felt.

Szechuan Gourmet.

I have no good reason for not having been to Szechuan Gourmet more often considering how close it is to my office on 27th Street and that I usually slobber at the thought of Sichuan food (I'm going to stick to "Sichuan" to refer to the cuisine even though the restaurant uses "Szechuan"). But 39th Street between 5th and 6th avenues feels like a zone of nothingness, furthermore, a zone in the opposite direction of my apartment. So I forget it's there and continue to point my merry band of eaters to Grand Sichuan or Famous Sichuan instead.

It took Tina's organizational skills to bring Liza, Ben, Colin, and I together for dinner at Szechuan Gourmet. In conclusion, I MUST GO BACK! Oh wait, I can't conclude yet; you should probably look at what I ate first.

Spicy cucumber salad.

Spicy cucumber salad ($5.95): Crispy cucumber chunks = very good delivery system for spicy sauce.

Yup, there's food.

"Are we...um...getting food?" I asked.

Diana, Greg, Adelyn, Jessica, and I were at Nom Wah, officially Chinatown's first dim sum parlor (open since 1920) according to the sign on their window, unofficially Chinatown's least occupied restaurant according to the meager clientele last Sunday night. And that's counting the two tables of old men in the back of the restaurant who were playing mahjong.

Our friendly waiter/chef/one-man-band had greeted us when we entered the restaurant and brought us a massive metal pot filled to the brim with scalding hot tea, but disappeared into the kitchen for a long enough time to make us wonder, "Does this place actually serve food?" And yes, you would wonder too, considering Nom Wah doesn't bother with menus, and we were the only people there who had the intention of eating. They serve you dim sum based on the number of people in your party. After Adelyn went to the kitchen to investigate the situation, she returned with a positive report.

"He's making food! He's back there with a huge steamer."

Salad. Yum.

How to vastly improve a salad: add a fried egg.

Hell, many things would be improved by adding a fried egg. Piece of toast too boring? BOOYA—plop on a fried egg. That bowl of ramen looking lonely? KAPOW—fried egg to the rescue! Your plate looking empty? ...Because there's nothing on it? I know what would make that better—oh hell, IT'S A FRIED EGG.

The salad ($10) I ate during brunch with Greg, Kathryn, and Dan at Diner featured mustard greens mixed with pickled shallots, thinly sliced jerusalem artichoke, and bacon nubs tossed in a potent vinaigrette (perhaps a little too much of it, but I didn't mind) all topped with a bulbous fried egg, thankfully well salted and peppered.

Unfortunately, since I ate this about a month ago and they change most of their menu every day, the salad they're currently serving won't be exactly the same—but I'm sure it's awesome. I can still remember how good my salad during my first visit to Diner in 2008 was, and it was totally different from the one I ate last month aside from also having something pickled. Hell, it was awesome even sans fried egg. A memorable salad that's unique and well balanced is hard to come by. I don't know where else to get one. (Admittedly, I haven't been looking, nor have I tried to make one myself. I'd like to delve more into the subject of how a really good salad can fill me with joy of a higher quality than that derived from a really good slab-o-pork, but I need to eat more good salads. God knows I've eaten enough pork.)