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I'm just going to throw down here. I may be a total food snob, but I lurve me some Chick-fil-A.
My lunch of champions today: Chargrilled chicken sandwich with waffle fries. And I'm thrilled.
That is all.
Craig, feeling guilty for pissing me off due to another day of ignoring the shit around the house that needed to be done, took me out to a lovely dinner at Morimoto this evening. It's funny how I can be bribed into forgiveness with food.
So here's the thing: Morimoto himself was there this evening, flitting around the restaurant. Unfortunately, Craig downed two saki martinis and was starting to get silly by the end of our meal. I was praying that Morimoto would skip our table so Craig didn't embarrass me by emulating the host of Iron Chef. I got lucky. No one wants to hear Craig squeal, "Bang a gong, get it on!" at the top of his lungs, especially me.
The meal was fantastic. The miso soup with clams was delish, and I also had a smoked salmon beggers purse [which make Craig giggle because it was topped with gold leaf, which automatically reminded him of Goldschlagger] and a piece of unagi [eel] sushi and giant clam sushi. I could have eaten a few more pieces of sushi, but then I would have been stuffed to the gills. As is, I am just the right amount of full.
I love it when that happens.
I had retail therapy for my lunch hour today. The running bet around here is that since there really hasn't been much of a Spring, it would just go *BAM* right into Summer with a vengeance. And it has -- it's about 90 degrees outside with 10 billion % humidity.
My hair looks like total ass.
But I did manage to snag a falafel from 17th Street Falafel [vendor cart at the corner of 17th and Market]. Ummmm...falafel, sauerkraut, hot sauce. I could really eat another one.
There's something seriously gratifying about not knowing what you want for lunch and then just randomly coming across a restaurant and then instantly just knowing that you're going to find the perfect thing.
Today was that day for me -- I ended up getting seafood tempura from a little restaurant in the Suburban Station concourse. I think they must put crack in their tempura batter and miso soup because I'm just inhaling my lunch. And it's exactly the thing that I wanted to eat, without me knowing it.
Ummmmmmmmmmmmm....tempura.
Well. This is new: I hate the smell of fruit salad.
Just thought you'd like to know.
I might be a food snob, but I don't think it's too much to fucking ask to wash the greens before you make them into a salad. Nothing ruins a perfectly good salad faster than having to wash the grit out of your teeth after the first bite.
Motherfuckers!
Craig and I had a date last night with Mea and her little man. We dragged them to Il Cantuccio. I wanted tiramisu really badly -- it's a good thing they like italian food.
Here's the thing: I ordered rotini with shrimp and tomatoes in garlic cream sauce. I only finished half of it, and the waitstaff graciously packed it up for me to take home. And then I forgot to take it.
Now, here I am. It's 12:30p and I'm starting to get hungry. I really want the pasta. I keep opening the refrigerator and staring longingly inside, hoping the leftover container will miraculously appear inside. And, of course, nothing that I eat as an alternative will be nearly as satisfying.
And on a side note, Mea and her little man witnessed what has become the secret shame of la casa del go fish -- our masturbating cat. Sassy has this habit of propping herself up in the corner of the couch and, because she's so fat, she has to pull her lower belly up to her mouth to lick there. But her paw constantly slips and it looks like she's licking her belly and masturbating simultaneously. It's like the house of sin around here.
A few weeks ago Alexandra and I got into a conversation about sushi, and I offered to make a video on the finer points of maki preparation. I finally got the thing uploaded.
If you want to see a fun[ny] and informative video by me, check out my latest post at Edible.
I really am a huge smacked ass.
Have I mentioned how much I really like Poptarts? I'm sitting here chowing down on a Strawberry frosted poptart right now. I'd have to say that my favorite, though, is the S'mores poptart.
Ummmm mmmm.
I must have had an inferior childhood. When Ericalynn showed me how to pop a drinking straw just now at lunch I was amazed. Who knew straws did that?
It seems like some sort of cruel and unusual punishment to go to lunch at a restaurant know for it's beer selection and then not be able to have a drink. I should really have my head examined, choosing Monk's. I have a meeting at 2pm that I've got to not be smelling of alcohol for, and Ericalynn is having quite a hellacious day of her own. A cocktail or four would have been a welcome addition to the day.
Of course, who knows what tortures would have awaited our waiter if there was alcohol involved. Ericalynn told him he looked like Simon Cowell and then asked him if she was the next American Idol. By the bottom of a beer maybe he would have looked like Paula Abdul or Randy Jackson!
Great. Great! Now I want nothing more than a nice pint of something dark and malty. Grrrrr....must attend meeting first!
I never realized until a few years ago that scrapple was a regional delicacy. When I mentioned it to my friends on the west coast or in Europe, they thought maybe I was talking about Spam or potted meat of some sort.
Sadly, no. Spam and other canned meats are like the rarest, choicest beef cuts in comparison to scrapple. According to one source, "the average scrapple loaf contains the rectums of 4 swine." Let me just say here and now that if it's just the rectum you have to worry about eating, you're concentrating on the wrong thing.
Being from good farmer stock, many of my relatives make their own scrapple [who can forget when my great uncle brought 640 pounds of homemade scrapple to my grandfather's funeral a few months ago?]. I've seen it made. Want to know the secret ingredient?
Well, first, let me explain what happens to the pig. The hogs get slaughtered and have all the good stuff sawed off and you're left with lips and assholes and various other parts that are no good for anything. All these varied parts are laying around on the slaughterhouse floor, which isn't exactly clean. There are mouse hairs and droppings, bugs, and all manner of other stuff which I'll leave to you to imagine. Now the farmer gets a shovel and scoops all that stuff up and then presses it together with cornmeal to get a gray loaf of scrappley goodness.
It's giving me the heaves just thinking of it.
Heee! I'm going to lunch at Morimoto today!
I've been craving the fresh tofu since the last time I was there. This is sick -- I'm actually starting to salivate the thought of it. Of course, it doesn't take much to set me into a food frenzy. I get excited about macaroni and cheese [homemade, of course].
I have also been dying for jalapeno rellenos from Las Cazuelas and curried mussels from Monk's.
I'm not a big fan of breakfast. Sure, I eat cereal and bagels and scrambled eggs...but only because that is what is available for breakfast. I'd much rather eat sushi, or a cheese sandwich, or spaghetti for breakfast...and I have on occasion [usually the weekends, when I have time to cook for myself in the morning]. Craig thinks that's just bizarre.
"It's morning -- you should eat breakfast food," Craig is fond of telling me.
This morning on the way to work I got a craving for fish. Sure, I could have gotten a bagel with lox [even though there's no decent lox within a ten block radius of work], but I really just wanted a slab of salmon with butter and dill. I mentioned it to Craig and you'd have thought I just announced I wanted to assault random pedestrians with a swinging cat.
See, here's the thing -- it's acceptable to eat breakfast for lunch or dinner, but not the other way around. Why? Who decided that I can only eat breakfast food at breakfast? If I want to chow down on a plate of calamari at 7am, I should be able to do it without fear of retribution from the meal time nazis.
Now where is that tartar sauce?
Everytime I go to Il Cantuccio Guisseppe gets more and more over the top. It's like he's snorting coke in the bathroom and then coming out only to give the specials.
So tonight it was a plate of Il Cantuccio's amazing antipasto [puts those other restaurants who offer antipasto as a couple slices of deli ham with some mozzarella and olives to shame], handmade pasta stuffed with fontina and smothered in shiitake and leeks in cream sauce, and a big honking slice of tiramisu.
To my credit, I refrained from downing any expresso...I thought that would be especially bad in light of the fact that I'm meeting Tracey tomorrow morning for a run. I didn't even have any amaretto that Frankie [Guisseppe's cousin] was passing out for free.
Apparently I'm not the only one who has problems guaging food quantity. So, at the request of more than one person, here is the equation for the perfect amount of sushi rice to make one nori sheet worth of sushi:
It's true. Oh, and a rice steamer/cooker is key. The rice turns out better -- I have no idea why. Plus, I'm lazy.
After years of making way too much rice, I finally figured out exactly how much rice to steam in order to make one sheet of nori worth of maki rolls.
I rock!
To some of you, this may seem like a silly thing. Maybe even an easy thing. However, I come from good farmer stock and we all genetically tend to cook for armies. It took me five years of dating Craig before I managed to pare down my cooking for just the two of us. For a long time I'd just make huge meals and then freeze most of it for leftovers.
Yeah, so tonight I made sushi for myself for dinner -- smoked salmon, cream cheese, leftover kimchi, and carrots. And I made sushi for lunch for myself tomorrow -- smoked salmon with green beans, carrots, kimchi and wasabi.
So I don't care if it's silly to be excited about being able to make a small amount of sushi. I'm still going to party like it's 1999.
I'm having a travel jones. It's not for London or Paris or anything like that. My brain is firmly behind visiting the only place in the world where I can embrace a giant pig and wear a stupid hat and not feel completely bizarre and cheesy. That's right: Disney.
I know that Disney pipes the smell of chocolate out onto Main Street USA so that you visit the Toll House shop [or whatever it's called] and buy something sweet to eat, but I also think they pipe in mind control drugs to break down your cheese-o-meter. How else can you explain why I willingly wore a white hat with a veil and mouse ears while I was in the park?
Craig and I are using my mom's condo in Orlando in October. We figured we'd swing by Epcot...although I know we're going to end up at Magic Kingdom because I consider it a crime to be in Orlando and not ride the Haunted Mansion twelve dozen times. I'm planning some good stuff - Universal Studios, maybe a dolphin swim. I'd love to take a side trip and do a manatee dive.
Cheesy trip, here I come! Woohoo!
Um, yeah. So what does a newly blonde girl like me do on a Friday night? That's right, I cook dinner with my hot husband and finish knitting a sweater. Whoever said blondes have more fun surely knew what they were talking about.
What did I make? While I was dreaming about being a party guest at Christine's fondue party I went the healthy route and marinated chicken thighs in spicy yogurt marinade and the cooked them with couscous and green beans. Yes, I am [to quote Statia] "Martha Stewart's evil twin." Fear me.
Oh, and just so I make myself clear about something: I love the check yourself out registers at grocery stores. I don't have to deal with some bitchy anti-social worker drone with greasy hair and I have entirely too much fun making a spectacle of myself while attempting to scan my rack.
Just a word of warning: if you go into a very small Mexican restaurant and make fun of the language or otherwise make a nuisance of yourself, don't be surprised if the chef spits in your food.
Oh, and don't be surprised when I shove my foot up your ass....sideways.
Statia is coming over for lunch today. Here's the menu:
Of course, if I had a bigger house, you know, one with a dining room, I could have big dinner parties and invite all of you. Maybe I should start raising money for my house fund instead of trolling for Race pledges.
Oh, and speaking of the Race, I'd like to publicly thank Joe from Dissociated Press for laying down some cash money for my run. So thanks again to Joe and Elle for funding my run and supporting boobies everywhere!
It's all about food here for me today. Right now I'm eating my leftovers from a few days ago -- sundried tomato meatloaf and potato-carrot puree.
And I'm thinking about making chicken curry tonight for dinner.
Does anyone other than me obsessively watch the Food Network? The other day the show Unwrapped was all about foods that have "french" in their name but aren't French. I couldn't figure out if they were running the show to point out the stupidity of renaming french fries "freedom fries" when they aren't French to begin with, or if they just wanted to alert the uber-patriot segment of the public to french sounding foods that they didn't have to ban. Personally, I hope it was to point out stupidity.
I mean, how many uber-patriots watch cooking shows, unless it's how to cook possum on a budget?
Somehow go fish got a small mention in a USA Today column. The world is definitely a strange place. So hello to anyone visiting from USA Today!
On an unrelated note, I make kick ass kimchi.
Just so you know.
I ran out yesterday at lunch to Fresh Fields, grabbed some Napa Cabbage and prepared it last night [you know, the salting and pressing portion]. It's got to press for three hours, and I'm the most forgetful person on the planet...so I'm laying in bed last night around midnight when it dawns on me that the goddamn cabbage is still pressing downstairs on the counter.
So I got up and finished the kimchi at midnight. Not that it takes much effort, but Craig was not happy when I came to bed smelling of freshly cut garlic and Thai chile paste.
Someone needs to pay me to make them kimchi. Then I won't have to worry about conveniently not being rehired or rehired at a lower salary, and I can be the Philadelphia Queen of Kimchi! I'll even wear a sash and a tiara.
I think I'm delirious.
On my road to better health and a better body, I've decided to allow myself one meal every week in which I can eat unhealthily. Because I enjoy excellent food so much, living without restaurants, etc., just seems all wrong. Last week was my night of 2 bottles of wine and the snackfest that encompassed the sleepover at Statia's house. Tonight it was spanish food at El Viejo San Juan.
And you just know I lurve me some good tapas!
Craig and I ordered a couple plates of tapas, and for dinner I ate Mofongo Criullo -- crushed green plaintains stuffed with seafood and covered with salsa criolla.
And now I'm stuffed full of food...any happy!
My husband is a picky eater. It's his parents' fault -- they are both, like my own family, spices-are-bad-and-evil-but-plain-meat-and-potatoes-are-good-and-pure type of people. They instilled their deep fear of anything spicy or uncommon in Craig. It's taken me years of stealth therapy to break him [how I managed to escape it unscathed is beyond me].
When I first met Craig he was deeply suspicious of broccoli, asparagus, and most things green. Within a year I turned him into a fan of broccoli, and only last year [this after 7+ years] would he concede that he actually likes asparagus and guacamole. He was afraid of any type of cheese that doesn't come sliced and prepackaged, he preferred boxed macaroni and cheese, and he refused to even so much as go near sour cream or tofu, despite having never even tried them. I have worked hard to overcome all this crazy behavior. He now willingly eats all of that, even though he refuses to admit to anyone but me that he enjoys it.
As far as his parents are concerned, he's the same spice-shy, tofu-offended 'fraidy cat he always was. But I know the truth.
While we were in Paris, Craig turned up his nose at the crepes with Nutella that I was inhaling like good drugs. He looked at me quizzically when I ordered un crepe avec chocolat and the crepe guy pulled out a jar of Nutella.
After my eighth crepe in three days, Craig finally got curious. I guess he figured if it didn't kill me or send me to the hospital it couldn't be all that bad. He had a bite. That was the end of it. Yesterday morning [our first full day back from Paris] he forced me to get out of bed and walk down the grocery store with him so he could buy his very own jar of Nutella. And then he made crepes.
It was only on the way home from the grocery store yesterday that he told me why he was so repulsed by the idea of Nutella before he tried it. He had Nutella and Vegemite confused in his head. Now, Craig has never tried Vegemite but he knows that I believe Vegemite to be the nastiest substance on the planet. And so he was properly grossed out. What I couldn't figure out was why the confusion persisted -- I mean, I was chowing it down, right? Why would I be eating something so nasty?
Despite what it may seem, I don't consider myself to be a food snob. Really, I don't. I eat hot dogs [albeit, only chicken, turkey, or tofu dogs] and even the occasional peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Statia almost fell off her chair the other day when I told her I ate chicken tenders from Burger King at the airport. I do, on occasion, eat crappy food. It's just that I prefer to eat at restaurants where the person taking my order isn't wearing a paper hat. Does that make me a snob?
Aw, who cares? *grin* Pass the cavier and foie gras!
There is something so satisfying about eating sushi after having craved it for a week [I did have a couple of rolls last week at Pod out with Statia, Kathy, and Mr. Sphinx, but I was half hammered and it doesn't count]. And the sushi I have before me is absolutely gorgeous -- a couple pieces of unagi [eel] sushi, four tuna hand rolls, and two veggie temakis.
[Homer Simpson mode] Drool! [/Homer Simpson mode]
As usual, I spent way too much money at Francis Jerome. I ran in there to buy a new compact of pressed powder, and I got suckered again. I normally use Paula Dorf powder, but they were out so I asked for my back up powder, which is Defile. Well, as it so happens they're trying to get rid of all their Defile stuff so it was all 40% off...and who am I to say no to a sale? So I got two compacts. I'm telling you, I need a chaperone when I got in there. But I did manage to restrain myself from purchasing the Tomato perfume from Demeter that I've been wanting.
You should be proud. There should be a national holiday.
Note to self: next time you cook beets be sure to wear gloves and not to wear white.
Oh yeah, I now have a pair of reddish pink splotched socks and tshirt, and my hands are also slightly stained. I'm a moron.
So I'm in the kitchen last night and In the Navy is on. I'm disco-ing around the kitchen, singing at the top of my lungs, when a movement near the window catches my eye. Curses! There are three neighborhood kids clustered at my window, totally pointing and making fun of me. That will teach me to cook with the shades up.
Undeterred by the fact that I am the laughingstock of the neighborhood, I cooked like a champ. I made potato-leek soup, vegetable soup with hot sausage, and hazelnut beet salad with goat cheese. Scrum-didili-umptious!
It was so nice to have the house to myself. As much as I love Craig to death, I'm really much better off living alone. I have this fantasy where Craig and I buy a double house -- he lives in one side and I live in the other. I must have a clean kitchen at all times, and it causes tension between us because Craig won't wipe the counters or clean up his messes. And I refuse to clean up after him. It's a vicious circle of annoyance.
Plus, he refuses to part with gifts. His dad bought us this absolutely hideous glass cat with a tealight candle inside of it. Craig won't throw it out, but doesn't notice for months that I've hidden it in the basement. My sister-in-law made us a frighteningly fugly ceramic basket for Christmas that Craig refuses to toss or store in the basement. Last night I smashed the ceramic basket on the back patio and threw out the ugly glass cat. There's no getting either of them back. I do what I must to get rid of the bad taste in my house.
Yes, it was sneaky and not very nice. But I would rather live with the bad karma than see that crap in the house every single day of my life.
Apparently Christy's new boytoy really is connected to the mob. He came right out and told her. I guess that sort of takes that question off the table.
It's the fact that she still is half considering taking money from him and dating him that absolutely kills me. It's as if Christy has just gone totally outer limits, to rip off a line from an '80s classic.
Phil [a friend of Christy's] and I have always said we'd co-orchestrate Christy's wedding. It would be a nightmare -- large men in sharkskin suits carrying guns; loud women in red lipstick, high hair, and spangled gowns; the necessary italian food traditions -- and, without a doubt, the chicken dance and all bizillion versions of the electric slide. And we wouldn't be able to say no, for fear his connections would kill us. Maybe even a mob hit during the reception.
I keep hoping Christy wakes up!
So last night Christy and I went to the Khyber. Or, really, we tried to go the Khyber. Somehow we couldn't get in because the place was packed. Of course, it didn't help that Christy didn't show up to my house until 11:30pm.
So instead of seeing a band, we ended up at Cafe Monticello at Third and Market. Despite the fact that it was very late, they were still serving food. The food was good -- I had a portobello mushroom in cream sauce with crab. Unfortunately it made me sick as a dog when I got home.
It was rough day for restaurants.
Oh, and Happy National Sanctity for Life Day. Barf.
Let me take this opportunity to say this to Bush and his administration: kiss my ass.
What is the expression -- something about getting back on the horse?
After my harrowing morning of roaches and Chinese food, I made the decision that I had to have some really good restaurant food before the stigma of eating food not prepared by me set in and I'd never eat again.
So I shook off the Ho Sai Gai funk [yes, the one in the Port Richmond Plaza, Heather!] and Craig took me to lunch at Las Cazuelas, a fabulous Mexican restaurant down the street from my house where I met Statia for the first time. I'm happy to say that no roaches or other assorted vermin were in evidence. And I'm always happy to get to speak Spanish to native speakers who don't laugh at me for my feeble attempts, so that made me cheer up a bit too.
And people wonder why I hate the pigeon lady so much.
Upon the advice of several people re: my last post, I've decided to contact the Health Dept. It's curious that so many people associate the lack of hygiene with ethnic cooking. I've worked in enough restaurants to know that all restaurants have cleanliness issues. If I let it get to me I'd never eat in another restaurant again. But I choose to ignore it and enjoy myself. It's only when that grossness presents itself to me legs-up that I can't live in my own little fantasy world anymore.
Tonight I'm going out with Christy. I'm anticipating a highly entertaining evening of making fun of her. She's lucky we'll be at the Khyber and the band will be too loud for me to do much more than point and laugh like a lunatic.
A couple of weeks ago she called me up all nervous. One of the father's of her dance students wanted to take her out. My "bad idea" radar perked up. I said, "Well, that's probably not a great idea. I mean, he's a lot older than you, has a kid not that much younger than you, has been divorced twice, and when you go out with him and it doesn't work out you're going to have to face the weirdness of seeing him and his daughter weekly."
Christy's response: "Yeah, you're right. But he's rich."
I knew right then that she wouldn't listen to reason. Christy is blinded by dollar signs.
So she calls me this afternoon to firm up plans for later, and she says, "I have a story for you. You're not going to be happy."
I snickered. "Who'd you fuck?" She has a history of very bad choices.
"No one," she said. "I went out with that guy. He blew an outrageous amount of money. All told, he spent two grand last night."
My mind went blank. Who spends $2K on a first date? "Uh, what does he do for a living?" I asked.
"He owns a restaurant and about 15 other business. He also offered to give me $600 that I owe for my trip, and said that if I married him I'd never have to worry about money again."
That's when my "mafia" flag went up. I'm more than a little concerned about the way this could all turn out. If he lived in South Philly I'd be even more concerned, but he lives in Bucks County. She says she isn't even remotely attracted to him, which would be good except that she said the same thing about her last boyfriend and that last for a few months until he broke up with her.
This is going to be bad. So I'm going to make fun of her until she cracks.
This morning I made myself a bowl of leftover rice noodles with pork and shrimp from my favorite Chinese restaurant, Ho Sai Gai. That particular dish has made a fabulous breakfast for me on many an occasion. This morning when I got to the bottom of my bowl I noticed a weird little brown peice of something that looked like a fat grain of wild rice. I nudged it with a chopstick and flipped it over. Fucking legs!
I screamed at the top of my lungs and dropped the bowl. Craig came running into the room, thinking I was being murdered. I told him to pick up the bowl and take a look. Craig turned green and set about the business of throwing out all the leftover Chinese food in the house and tearing up the menu. Meanwhile, I am holding my stomach wondering if I can make myself throw up.
A roach! A roach in my fucking food! At the bottom of the bowl no less! I'm thoroughly disgusted. We have gotten take out delivered from Ho Sai Gai almost weekly since we moved here just over two years ago. Now I'm wondering how much extra protein I've actually consumed. I probably have some sort of roach-carried plague.
This is not the best way to start a weekend. I hope it's not an omen.
I am thrilled to say that I am back in Philadelphia, land of the fourth highest number of obese people in the U.S., home of Brotherly Love. Ahhhhhh!
The remainder of my trip was relatively uneventful. My mom and Ed took us out to eat Saturday night. Normally this would not be note-worthy, since they usually drag us along to their favorite pizza joint. But this place was Special. People they know said it was really nice and the food was excellent. And then I knew why we weren't just heading over to the pizza place.
The last time they came to visit Craig and I in Philadelphia we took them to eat at our favorite restaurant, and they really liked it and were a little disturbed that we wouldn't let them see how much the bill was. The thing is that I knew they would freak out -- the bill was a little over $100 and that seems like a small fortune for dinner if there's no place to eat around you except for McDonald's. So I knew that this was their way of trying to get us back for taking them out.
So we walk into this place and it's almost completely empty in the middle of what should have been their busy dinner hours on a Saturday night, which always makes me nervous. The big draw to this place is that they have a big glassed in cage with half a dozen huge tropical birds in it. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate birds? And I really don't like loud birds. Craig loves birds, so he was interested. So we sit down in a booth and the menu arrives, along with a waitress who reminds me of Flo. There's no pink uniform, but she's got that gum/cud-chewing, down home way about her [including permed frizzy hair that was likely going to end up in my food]. Both my mom and Ed order chef salads, which come with lettuce gleaned from the all you can eat salad buffet across the room and little rolled up peices of lunchmeat. Uh huh. And Craig ordered a crab cake sandwich, which he later told me had the consistency of a brillo pad and he had to hide most of it underneath his burnt pile of fries. I got seafood linguine, which wasn't horrible but tasted vaguely of lemon Pledge. I am an accomplished liar, so my mom and Ed thought the food was delightful and I had received such a huge portion of food that I ate most of it but you just couldn't tell.
The true test of a hick restaurant are what beer they have on tap. And at this place: Bud, Bud Light, and Coors Light. Surprisingly, they did have Yuengling Lager on tap, but there was no beer anywhere on the premises that was any darker than mid-amber. Oh, and a glass of beer was 50 cents. Not that that's a bad thing, but still.
I can deal with bad food at a restaurant. It happens -- not every restaurant we try is excellent. But what made the evening fairly unbearable were two things:
Going to visit my mother's house in the winter is hard to take -- it's so cold you can't escape the house. And the house is noisy. My stepfather is a former EMT who insists on keeping his dispatch scanner on and at top volume at all times. Morning, noon, and night that stupid scanner spits out static and inane chatter about the latest football game, or who's been arrested for DUI, or whatever. I just don't get it -- neither one of them pays any attention at all to world news, but boy howdy if my stepfather doesn't know that Ambulance #10 took a run to the local nursing home to pick up a dead body, his very world will shatter.
It's a shame -- both my mother and stepfather are such nice people. And I know that the lifestyle I've chosen for myself wouldn't suit them, and doesn't suit a lot of people. Country living really does appeal to more people than living in the city, and maybe there is some hidden merit to listening to a police/ambulance scanner 24-7. I just couldn't wait to escape Berwick, and it seems strange to me that anyone wouldn't want to.
I'm so happy that our visits are infrequent.
Brooke's baby shower is today and I, being the total cheese whore that I am, was put in charge of getting the cheese tray. So I called DiBruno's cheese shop and ordered up a nice cheese platter with crackers and olives, etc.
I forgot that DiBruno's is about six blocks away, cheese is fucking heavy, and it was supposed to windier than hell out today. I get there and they present me with this massive cheese platter and a bag of water crackers, melba toast, and fresh bread. But no olives. So I had to hike over to their other store [secretly trying to come up with a way for me to get all of it back to work without killing myself or destroying the platter] for a pound of kalamata olives and some marinated mushrooms [because I was there, and I can't resist].
'I'll take a cab!' I think to myself. I'm a genious. But I have no actual cash on me, and there isn't an ATM machine anywhere close. Curses, foiled again!
So I need you to picture this: 5'2" girl in a beige coat with a huge main of fur, stomping down a Philadelphia sidewalk with a gargantuan cheese tray and two bags of other foodstuff hanging off one arm. Fighting the wind, red hair blowing in her face, fighting with the lid of the cheesetray which has suddenly come loose.
For six long-ass blocks.
My arms feel like they're going to fall off my body. And, to top it all off, my hair now looks like ass because I was sweating and it's like a wind tunnel outside. What kind off hostess can I be when my hair looks like Ed Grimley?
And all to celebrate the coming of a baby. I hate babies! And today's adventure doesn't endear them to me any more. Urgh.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
Is it wrong that it's not even noon yet and I'm drinking? I'm on my second glass of wine. Why? Because I should have slipped Craig some sleeping pills.
I merrily went along my way this morning, making pies and chopping stuff for the stuffing. He woke up somewhere in the midst of my prepwork and asked if he could help.
I should know better.
So I told him to set the oven to 325 degrees for the pies and put butter underneath the skin of the turkey. He's seen me do this a dozen times at least. You carefully pry up the skin from the turkey breast and slip the butter chunks underneath the skin. Easy, right? I turn around to saute some mushrooms and the dipshit is cutting holes in the skin and inserting the butter. I said, "What are you doing? If you do it that way the butter won't stay underneath the skin, it'll just dribble out the holes you've made." He just looked at me, "Well that's the way I did it last year."
See, the problem in that logic is that we were in London last year for Thanksgiving. There was no cooking of the turkey in the go fish household last year. I just rolled my eyes, and asked him to please do it my way.
Then I turned around to check on my pies and noticed that the oven was set to 375 degrees. Luckily the pies had only been in for 10 minutes at that point so I caught that and fixed it, and put some tinfoil over top of the pie so it wouldn't brown as fast.
Now he's giving me attitude because I called him on being stupid for both things. Sometimes I really wish I were single.
But then again I'm around Christy for any amount of time and am glad I'm not -- otherwise, I'd have to hang out with her more often. Christy was in NYC last week for dance rehearsals. She came home last night, and Craig, Christy, Eric, and I went out to dinner at Las Cazuelas. She is sick as a dog, but was determined to go clubbing last night. Apparently she has never had to the flu while on a plane. And the plane trip to Africa is about 20 hours in total. It does no good to explain to her how miserable she's going to be.
Dumbass.
On a more pleasant note, if any of you are in Philadelphia and get the chance to stop by the Ritz Hotel, please do!! The cocoa sommalier experience was unbelievable!
The cocoa sommalier stands at this station. In front he has ingredients. You can have your cocoa made with milk chocolate, bittersweet chocolate, white chocolate, dark chocolate, or hazelnut chocolate. And I'm talking chocolate bits, not flavored powder. Then you decide if you want you cocoa made with milk or half and half. Then you decide if you want a shot of alcohol in the cocoa. Then you decide if you want marshmallow cream or whipped cream. Then you decide on toppings -- chocolate shavings, fresh fruit, chopped nuts, cinnamon or cinnamon sticks. And then the sommalier makes the cocoa from scratch in a big saucepan.
The set up is couches and bit comfy chairs clustered around a table. The waitstaff brings a plate of cookies. I had a milk chocolate and half and half cocoa with a shot raspberry vodka, topped with whipped cream, fresh raspberries and chocolate shavings. Holy crap. It was one of the best things I've ever had. I think I gained 20 pounds.
If I make it through today Craig and I are going for cocoa this weekend.
I was sorely disappointed last night when Statia came to pick me up for our date with Kathy and Erica Lynn minus the pink crash helmet she promised and sans Action Figure Jesus. But Statia chauffered me in her monsterous SUV over to Dante & Luigi's and I just had to pray that neither the pink crash helmet or AFJ would be needed.
Now granted, AFJ probably would have been great to have around later in the night when Statia's car was ticketed by a brave metermaid who had words with Dante & Luigi's crack valet staff. For $5 valet parking, what can one expect? But I truly think if Statia has busted out the AFJ it would have scared the shit out of those good Catholic mafia dons in training who run the valet service. That'll teach them to park illegally in South Philly -- AFJ doesn't like illegal parkers.
South Philly is always fun at any time of year, but in the near Winter the streets become wind tunnels, which caught Erica Lynn and I unaware as we traversed the guido-filled streets on a field trip to the ATM machine, a mere five blocks away. The Italian Market area is eerily quiet at night -- no sounds of the Bagman yelling "Whoneedsabagnow? Yaneedbagnow? I'mthebagman. Yemeni!" We should have shaken the AFJ at those damn valet parkers and made them drive us to the ATM. Bastards!
Despite my obvious disappointment with an AFJ-less evening and the smacked ass valet parkers [I should have asked for their email addresses and sent them Statia's new smacked ass button], we had a very fun night! It's never a bad thing when the pasta and alcohol are flowing and we order so much food we can't fit it all on the table. It's a good thing they seated us near the fireplace -- that extra mantle space sure came in handy!
And of course, I have sucked Kathy and Statia into my web of knitting madness. With Statia requesting to be taught to knit and Kathy agreeing that a knitting party is in order, I feel my goal of converting everyone I know into knitting fools is almost complete. Do not resist -- resistance is futile. Erica Lynn is the only one who seems to be putting up a fight. Victory wil be mine, Erica Lynn, oh yes, you will become a knitter. *maniacal laughter*
Seriously though, thanks to Statia for carting my ass over to South Philly, and thanks to Kathy, Statia, and Erica Lynn for having dinner with me! Next time we're going to Il Cantuccio so we can bribe Guisseppe into giving up the tiramisu recipe. I know I can count on the three of you to flash a little cleavage to get the party started! Heh.
Today I decided I better fucking knit myself some mittens since we're looking at frozen tundra type of weather this week here in Philly. So I just finished my first one and I will start the other in a few minutes. And it's pie baking day in the go fish household. Some of you wanted the recipes, so here you go:
Apple Cranberry Pie
Peach Blackberry Pie
Mushroom Stuffing
Enjoy!
Oh, and if you want to see my new and improved hair or pictures of Philly Girls Night Out, Statia has some hee-larious photos!
Find a good recipe for cream cheese pie crust or buy a regular refrigerated pie crust that comes with two rounds [for top and bottom layer].
1 ¾ lbs baking apples [that’s about 4 med apples], peeled, cored and sliced ¼ inch thick
1 Tbsp lemon juice
¾ cup granulated sugar
¼ cup [packed] light brown sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
1/8 tsp salt
4 tsp unsalted butter
2 ½ Tbsp cornstarch
2 cups fresh cranberries
Roll out crusts for pie. Place one round in bottom of 9 inch pie pan; refrigerate for 30 minutes. Sit other round aside.
In large mixing bowl combine apples, lemon juice, sugars, cinnamon, and salt and toss to mix. Let the whole thing sit on a counter for 30 minutes [at room temp].
Transfer mixture to a colander suspended over a bowl to capture the liquid. The mixture should yield at least 6 Tbsp of liquid.
In a small saucepan over med-high heat, boil down the liquid, with the butter, to about ¼ cup. Swirl the liquid but don’t stir it. Transfer apple mix to a bowl and toss with cornstarch until all the cornstarch has disappeared. Pour the reduced liquid over the apples. Add the cranberries and toss well.
Transfer the apple/cranberry mix to the pie shell that has been refrigerated. Moisten edges of pie crust with water and then place the top pie crust over top of the pie. Press down on the edges and use a fork or a pinch of your fingers to seal the edges. Cover the pie loosely with saran wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour before baking.
Preheat oven to 425 degrees for at least 20 minutes before baking. Set oven rack to lowest level. Cut a small hole [the size of a quarter] out of the middle of your top pie crust. Sit pie on a cookie sheet and then place pie into oven. Bake for 50-60 minutes.
Find a good recipe for cream cheese pie crust or buy a regular refrigerated pie crust that comes with two rounds [for top and bottom layer].
2 lbs peaches [6-7 medium], peeled, pitted and sliced.
1 or 2 containers of blackberries
1 Tbsp lemon juice
½ cup + 1 Tbsp sugar
Salt
4 tsp cornstarch
½ tsp almond extract
Roll out crusts for pie. Place one round in bottom of 9 inch pie pan; refrigerate for 30 minutes. Sit other round aside.
Place peaches in a large mixing bowl and sprinkle with lemon juice. Add sugar and a pinch of salt and toss to mix. Sit the bowl on a counter at room temp. for 30 minutes.
Transfer mixture to a colander suspended over a bowl to capture the liquid. The mixture should yield almost a cup of liquid. In a small saucepan over med-high heat, boil down the liquid to about 1/3 cup. Swirl the liquid but don’t stir it. Transfer peaches to a bowl and toss with cornstarch and almond extract until all the cornstarch has disappeared. Pour the reduced liquid over the peaches. Add the blackberries and toss well.
Transfer the peach/blackberry mix to the pie shell that has been refrigerated. Moisten edges of pie crust with water and then place the top pie crust over top of the pie. Press down on the edges and use a fork or a pinch of your fingers to seal the edges. Cover the pie loosely with saran wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour before baking.
Preheat oven to 425 degrees for at least 20 minutes before baking. Set oven rack to lowest level. Sit pie on a cookie sheet and then place pie into oven. Bake for 40-50 minutes.
4 Tbsp butter
1 medium onion, peeled and diced
2 ribs celery, strings removed and cubed
20 oz. button mushrooms, stems trimmed and caps thinly sliced
1 tsp thyme leaves [or ½ tsp. dried thyme]
2 Tbsp sage leaves [or ½ tsp dried sage]
2 Tbsp minced fresh Italian parsley [flat leaf]
8 cups bread cubes, freshly toasted
½ cup heavy cream
2 eggs
salt and pepper
Melt butter in skillet over medium heat. Add celery and onion; saute until onion/celery are translucent [about 10 minutes]. Remove onion and celery from skillet with slotted spoon into a very large mixing bowl. Add mushrooms to skillet and cook 5-8 minutes [mushrooms should turn limp and start to give off liquid]. Pour entire contents of skillet into bowl with onion and celery.
Add herbs, salt and pepper [to taste] to large mixing bowl and mix well with vegetables. Add bread cubes and mix well again.
In a small bowl, whisk together cream and eggs. Pour over stuffing mixture and mix until thoroughly blended.
This is enough stuffing to stuff a large turkey. So stuff the turkey and cook according to turkey roasting directions. If you have extra stuffing or you don’t want to cook it inside the bird, transfer stuffing to a large glass pan and bake about 25 minutes at 350 degrees, basting well with chicken broth every 10 minutes.
Should yield 6-8 servings.
The hair is fixed. Kind of. Well, it's red, anyway.
I don't know if the hair is just too red, or if I'm not used to it, or if it's a really weird color. I have to go outside today with a mirror and really check it out. Nothing can be done about it until tomorrow anyway. I guess I think it just looks weird because my hair is pretty much all one color because I stripped all the color out and reapplied. But even Craig agrees that it looks better than it did.
I'd bitch about something review related, but I just don't have energy this morning. I can't stress this enough -- if you submit your site for a review, have the balls to deal with what's said about you or your site like an adult. Don't whine about it and read things into the review. Ugh. That is all.
It's shopping for Thanksgiving today. I make a full on Thanksgiving dinner for just Craig and myself. Yep, it's the two of us and a 20 pound turkey. And my famous stuffing, which I might just post a recipe for later.
One of the strangest thing about Thanksgiving is Craig's preoccupation with canned cranberry sauce. I prefer a nice homemade cranberry sauce with walnuts, but Craig refuses to eat cranberry sauce unless the ridges from the sides of the can and the date from the bottom of the can are clearly visible on the cranberry sauce. He's so bizarre.
We're also having peach blackberry pie [which I will make tomorrow], homemade rolls, glazed carrots, garlic mashed potatoes, and gravy. And maybe green beans. We'll be having leftovers for about a year. Sometimes I feel like Bubba Gump when I'm naming off all the different ways to make leftover turkey.
Last night Christy, Craig, and I went to see Punch Drunk Love. The fact that it was raining and raw outside should have tipped me off to stay home, but I was determined to see the movie.
By the time we got to the Ritz 5 theater the three of us looked like drowned rats. You know, because umbrellas were of no help. Not to mention that we got sprayed with gutter water from a passing speeding car. Y-e-e-e-s-s-s-s-s-s-s! It was exactly the way I wanted to spend the next 90 minutes - wet and smelling of gutter water.
Buoyed by a strange euphoria no doubt brought on by acid rain having soaked into my skin, we decided afterwards to hit a restaurant. We went to Viejo San Juan, a new tapas restaurant on Girard Avenue. I never thought in a million years that we'd need a reservation -- it's in the middle of the ghetto practically. But I'm a dumbass obviously -- we ended up waiting for 30 minutes for a table and then the kitchen was so backed up we had to wait over an hour for tapas.
But you know, the food was kick ass. I'm a sucker for good tapas -- mussells in marinara, clams in garlic broth, shrimp and chorizo, shrimp and scallops, pork and plantains, and mini enchiladas. We completely inhaled all of it within about five second of the food actually arriving at our table. Of course, we had been sucking on a pitcher of sangria for an hour with no food....so it might just have been the munchies.
On the way out the door I was attempting to put my umbrella up, missed a step and fell on my face in the middle of the sidewalk. Yeah, so that was good too. No, I didn't hurt myself -- all the sangria had made me pliant.
Ugh.
I have just returned from lunch at Las Cazuelas with Statia. And it has been confirmed that I should really maybe get a clue before I start giving out driving directions. Now true, most of this was not my fault, but poor Statia ended up in fucking New Jersey.
That's right: New Jersey...the garden state. Home of the jug handle.
Luckily Statia is a stunt driver, not afraid to run over little old blue-haired ladies in their Oldsmobiles, and was able to finally make it to Girard Avenue without getting carjacked.
All the while I was sitting in the restaurant with a Mexican coffee, feeling worse and worse that she was in the sixth level of hell on her way to meet me for lunch. Guilt is a terrible thing to waste. I was terribly relieved when she walked in the door!
And she is so funny and nice! I will be amazed if she makes it home without breaking into a caffeine and sugar induced coma -- two cups of Mexican coffee with extra sugar and cream will do that to a person. Of course, she is now in possession of one of my knitted hats -- I'm sure the power of the knitted masterpiece will protect her.
Sure.
Since this was my first meeting of a fellow blogger, I was slightly nervous. What if Statia turned out to be an axe-murderer? What if she slipped roophies into my coffee, robbed me, and left me for the cooks at the mexican restaurant to have their evil way with me? What if she really secretly liked Martha Stewart? Statia turned out to be really cool though, so I'm looking forward to the next blogger-related outing.
Oh yeah, and I look forward to running up my cell phone bill for the cause of Porn for Kids, Inc.
I have the day off today! Woohoo! I wanted to take yesterday off from work too, but since I had a Spanish test last night it seemed silly to stay home just to come back in. Our anniversary dinner last night at Il Canituccio was spectacular, as usual. I was a little worried about pumpkin ravioli, but it was unbelievably good! Regular pasta ravioli stuffed with pumpkin puree in a gorgeous porcini mushroom, nutmeg, and cream sauce. Not to mention their scrumptious antipasto, sickeningly good bread and roasted garlic spread, and the almost-better-than-sex tiramisu. If you ever come to Philadelphia I highly recommend a visit to Il Cantuccio!
So today I am at home with Craig. I know the winners of the silly hat blogaversary contest will be thrilled to know that I plan to mail out the hats today! And just in time -- it's getting cold out there! My mom is getting snow in the Poconos later -- yikes!
Great Britain has recently released their list of the ten "most irritating" people. I thought I should give it a shot, considering there are sooooo many completely annoying people around.
It was kind of hard to narrow it down to just ten people.
1. Eminem
2. Sean Combs
3. Pam Anderson Lee
4. Jerry Falwell
5. George W. Bush
6. John Ashcroft
7. Christina Aguilera
8. Brittney Spears
9. Justin Timberlake
10. Vin Diesel
My actual list could probably contain as many as 150 people. But I will spare you that! Heh.
I love chocolate creme brulee.
True, you could serve me dog crap wrapped in a beautiful layer of chocolate ganache and I'd probably love that too. But truly, chocolate creme brulee is my favorite dessert. It is pure fabulousness to break the crispy layer of burnt sugar with a cool spoon and let it sink into the warm chocolate silkiness below. Eating creme brulee is [or should be] a somewhat sensual experience.
You might be able to imagine my disappointment, then, when the horrible waitperson served my chocolate creme brulee cold. Just kind of plunked it down in front of me on the table. I think I even heard the plate spin a little before it settled dow in front of me.
It was like a bad dream I could not escape.
Normally the service and food at The Rose Tattoo is very good. Today it was as if pod people replaced the waitstaff and chef. The wild mushroom risotto was not good at all -- it almost had the consistency of oatmeal and tasted just about the same. The service was wretched.
Had I had a digital camera, there would be photos of the experience. Oh wait, I just ordered one. And it's the mini handheld kind. I'm going to have a spycam. I'm going to slink around wearing black spandex and a ski mask.
The world is coming to an end.
I have nothing against being vegetarian. There are a thousand good reasons for being one. However, people who say they are vegetarians for reasons of animal rights but wear leather are hypocrites. And they're stupid.
Let me tell you the story of last night. Craig and I went to a restaurant called Marrakesh. It's a Morrocan family-style dinner served by guys in M.C. Hammer pants, 7 courses, you eat with your hands, sit on the floor, blah blah blah. Somewhere into our first course, this huge band of University of Pennsylvania freshman being led by a sophomore or two comes traipsing into the room where we are. The reason I know that they were from UPenn is they mentioned it, loudly, in every other sentence.
At any rate, Marrakesh is not somewhere you go if you are a vegetarian. Let me list the courses: 1-salads [bread with babaganoush, marinated carrot salad and tomato/cucumber salad], 2 - bisteeya [phyllo dough wrapped around a concoction of eggs, cinnamon, and chicken], 3 - lemon chicken with olives, 4 - lamb with honey and almonds, 5 - vegetable couscous, 6 - fruit, 7- mint tea and baklavah. The bulk of the food is not meant for a vegetarian. As soon as the bisteeya came out two or three of the girls started up with "Hey, we're vegetarians, do you have anything for us to eat?" Heh.
Craig and I always do this when we go out -- we make fun of the other diners. Since this group was so obviously asking to be made fun of, it wasn't hard. So we started to check out the vegetarians. Now we heard both of them say that they were vegetarians due to animal rights issues. Both of them were wearing leather shoes and a carrying leather handbags. They obviously weren't pleather. They were stupid vegetarians.
Craig and I have been coming to Marrakesh for years. You can count on certain reactions from first timers. Like when the bisteeya comes out. It's hot -- like steaming lava hot. And since the lava-like insides are encased in phyllo, it doesn't cool off. Every single person at the table immediately tried to pull off a piece of the bisteeya and yelled "Ouch, my fingers!" at just about the same time. And anyone who has been there before just laughs and laughs at their pain.
The funniest part, though, is when they were ordering their drinks. Now you know not one of them was actually old enough to legally drink and you could tell they were all nervous they might get carded. People were trying to order daquiris and apple martinis and shit like that. You can't get that at Marrakesh -- you get the house wine, a couple of standard, not too fancy mixed drinks, or Coors Light in a can.
I don't ever remember being that dumb when I was a freshman.
Here's a tip when eating black bean garlic snails at a Chinese restaurant: suck the snail out of the shell.
Craig and I went to our favorite Chinese restaurant last night in Chinatown, Joe's Peking Duck House [925 Race Street]. My favorite thing on the menu is black bean garlic snails. The waiter looked at me like I was nuts: "You do know they're the small kind of snail, right?"
If you've never seen a plate of black bean garlic snails, it can be kind of a disgusting thing. The shells are the size of a penny and they're covered in thick black bean paste. The nice waiters bring little bamboo spears to pry the little snails out of their shell, but it can be difficult to get them out -- they like to hide!
So our waiter gave me a tip that I had not heard before -- you can literally suck them out. It worked much better than spearing them with the little stick, so thanks nice waiter guy!
Of course, I ended up literally covered in black bean sauce. It wasn't pretty at all. Luckily the waiter gave me wet naps.
After dinner we walked over to South Street to the Brick Playhouse for another Fringe Show. It was sketch comedy by a troupe called The Dive. Those guys are fucking nuts.
Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to live in Philadelphia. I've lived here for 12 years now and I have never grown tired of it. But sometimes I take it for granted. I grew up in a very rural town where there was nothing fun to do, you had to drive everywhere, and the place is just depressing. Living in Philly, I never have to drive anywhere and I can do fun things every night of my life if I want to. There are tons of theatres, the Orchestra, the Ballet, comedy houses, events like the Fringe Festival, live music, tons of food. I'm lucky.
I started thinking about it last night. On the way to South Street from Chinatown, we walked past the Liberty Bell and down 5th Street past Independence Hall, and the 17th Century Gardens. The streets were kind of quiet even though it was only 9pm. It was so peaceful, and really nice to just walk past the houses and the stores, holding hands with Craig. I love New York and San Francisco, but Philadelphia has this feel to it -- like Benjamin Franklin is just around the corner, or one day you're going to bump into Edgar Allan Poe.
So it's been established that I'm a total literature nerd, right? I'm the dork who gets the obscure jokes about The Metamorphosis or The Yellow Wallpaper. Today I saw something that made my geeky, book-loving heart leap for joy: a performance by the Headlong Dance Company called Britney's Inferno.
Imagine Britney's journey of discovery, rise to the "top," and predictable descent to the bottom told in a sort of allegorical dance piece a la Dante's Inferno. Bwa hahahaha! It was some of the best contemporary commentary performance art I've seen in quite some time. The show was complete with a segment about Britney learning her choreography ["OK, now what do we see in the reflecting pool? A mean angry dog. Shoo the dog away! Shoo the dog away!"]; Britney realizing that she's yesterday's news, marking herself up for plastic surgery and wrapping herself in plastic; and a chorus of dancers interspersing spastic ADD dance moves with Backstreet Boys choreography to N*Sync music. It was brilliant! Behold the power of the hair! So sayeth the dancers: "She's a complete lame loser who sings sucky music."
Can I get an Amen?
After the show Renee and I stopped at Bluezette where my spinach salad was comped because the dumbass waitress forgot to put the order in. But the peach cobbler was pretty excellent. Doesn't it always seem to come back to dessert with me?
Philly's Olde City neighborhood has become somewhat of an expired scene. And what I mean by that is there's a bunch of people running around who want so hard to be cool that it's obvious they are wannabes. Case in point: an obviously almost 40 year old woman with a completely fake body and face parading around in a denim jumpsuit that laces up the front from the crotch. Give it a rest: no one knows who you are and no one cares.
You can tell a neighborhood has gone beyond it's peak days when midwestern tourists start snapping pictures of you while you're eating. Move it along, nothing to see here.
I swear, the next haus frau in walking shorts who comes near me gets attitude.
I'm taking my last personal day of the Summer. While I'm delighted to be at home on a Friday, it's sad that Summer is almost over. Oh, and I'm slightly hungover.
Last night I met up with Christy and our friend Sharon, who recently moved back to the mainland after living in Hawaii for a few years. We missed her. It was a touching reunion.
Let me tell you a little story about Sharon, just to set the tone of the night. Sharon is insane. Certifiably so, actually. Christy's family calls her Sharon Manson. When we were in college there was this big episode. Sharon was obsessed with some former boyfriend of hers. He did something that offended her, and Sharon and got all drunk and stoned one night as a result. She was a mess. But she decided that she had to find this guy, so she jumped into her car and sped off in pursuit.
So Christy gets a call from our friend Ann, who has attempted to stop Sharon and is now hysterical. Christy and Ann go out looking for Sharon, and I stay at the house in case she calls. Three hours later they return, sans Sharon, but with a really funny story.
Apparently, Sharon was spotted a 7-11. When Ann and Christy approached her, Sharon took off and tried to get back in her car. This big soap opera type of thing ensued during which Ann tried to reason with Sharon, and then tried to get into her car. And then Sharon backed out of the parking lot, with Ann clinging desperately to the door being dragged through the lot.
I guess you have to know Ann to think this is funny. Everything was fine in the end, but Sharon is a total drama queen.
Last night was no exception. She almost threw a temper tantrum at the restaurant because the chef wouldn't burn her turna. She pitched a fit at the liquor store because they didn't carry her favorite brand of wine. She fell asleep during the Phrenic Dance Company concert we were at and started to snore. These are trying times.
Speaking of the restaurant, I now have a new restaurant to highly recommend. There's a small little place in the Fairmount neighborhood of Philly called Figs. The food is very very good, but dessert is lacking [and we all know how I feel about dessert!]. Figs is meditteranean-ish. They have a beet and haricot vert salad that is unbelievable. I don't even really like beets very much, but this salad was perfect. The beets weren't mushy, the goat cheese was yummy, and the beans were delicious. I could definitely stand to have some more of that right this very instant. Oh, and I had a nice halibut entree. But I'm all about the beet salad.
The dance company we saw last night was excellent. Phrenic is headed by several former dancers from the Pennsylvania Ballet, and it's basically modern ballet on pointe. The show was gorgeous! See them if you can!
We took our intern out for lunch today because he is leaving us to go back to school in Atlanta. We went to a restaurant called Twenty21. Their waiters all wear the standard all black uniform, but our waitperson was the antithesis of what I think of as a waitperson at a hip restaurant.
Either it was Elvis tribute week or it is some weird corporate mandate, but all their waiters have long sideburns. Our waiter, Blaine, was about 60 pounds overweight [on a side note: being overweight is fine if you aren't a slovenly pig, which this guy definitely was] and his sideburns looked mascara-d on. As he was telling us all about the specials, he annoyed all of us by telling us all about the omegas and the oils and whatnot in the salmon, and then lisped his way through the ordering process during which he was really pushy about salads and soups and appetizers. Finally he left us the hell alone. Really alone. Not a good service professional, was our Blaine.
I used to be a waitress, so I know the effort that goes into being a good waitperson. It's not something I was ever good at, because I just couldn't convince myself that touching the food of others after they were eating it is a good thing. I also have a weird phobia involving crumpled paper, so the used napkins and straw wrappers were just too much for me.
But since I used to be part of a professional waitstaff, I am compelled to pay attention to the service given at restaurants. Tipping is something that I'm fanatical about -- I will never tip below 15%, and under normal circumstances I tip anywhere from 20%-30% [and occasionally more]. It's embarrassing to go out with my mom or my grandparents for dinner because they are some of the worst tippers imaginable.
A few years ago I took my mom and grandmother out to lunch for Mothers Day at a restaurant here in town called The Astral Plane. The bill was somewhere around the neighborhood of $80, which I gladly picked up. My mother insisted on leaving the tip. She left $8, so I had to pretend I forgot something and go back and throw down another $15. My grandparents used to take the whole family out for meals on holidays many years ago, and I shudder to think of the crappy ass tip my grandfather would leave for the poor servers forced to deal with my clan.
People bitch about restaurant's automatically adding gratuity onto food bills, but I think it's perfectly acceptable. How else would a server get a decent tip from tightwads like my grandfather?
Today has been a banner day for me so far. I have been referred to as both "lovely" and "beautiful." Looking at the photo I posted earlier, I'm sure you are thinking that whoever said this to me must have been blind. But when I'm not shiny, doo-ragged, and sweating, I can be a pretty hot babe [you'll just have to trust me on this one].
The guy who was showering me with compliments was none other than my new favorite falafel man [no that isn't code talk for sex monkey]. Christy dragged me over there for lunch, and his falafel is a many splendored thing. So if you're ever at the corner of 20th & JFK in Philadelphia and you want some good falafel love, hit the falafel cart on the corner. Maybe the nice falafel man will call you lovely and beautiful, too!
This evening I will find out just how badly I will end up flunking Logic. Right now I think I have a C in the class. As long as I can continue to bask in the mediocrity, I'll be in good shape. I hate to admit this but I did take along a good luck charm on Monday night when I took the test -- do you remember when I was going on and on about an art journal collaborative I'm doing with my friend Andi that is voodoo-themed? Well, I ordered a bunch of voodoo stuff from a curio company so I had some stuff to work with...and one of the things was this little good luck charm. So if it works and I miraculously aced the test, I'm going to have to change my name to Esmeralda and embrace my inner voodoo.
Have you ever heard of a pickle on a stick? It was all the rage at Knoebel's Grove amusement park on Saturday. If it's really just a pickle, why does it need to be on a stick? Does spearing a pickle with a skewer make it tastier or somehow more festive?
If it's more than a pickle on a stick, what is it? Over the past few years at the Bloomsburg Fair there has been this weird surge in making odd things deep-fried. Like pickles. And Oreos and Snickers...yeah, batter-dipped and deep-fried. I'd like a coronary blockage for one, please. Oh, and yuck!
I've never understood the draw to eating things that just shouldn't be eaten. Don't get me wrong, I'm an adventurous eater -- I like snails and frog legs and sweetbreads and all that stuff. If I've never tried it I won't turn up my nose. Unless it is eating a tequila flavored lollipop with a freeze dried meal worm in the middle of it....or eating pickled slugs. No thanks. I shudder to think what the next big "delicacy" will be at the Bloomsburg Fair. Maybe something like chocolate covered pig snouts...
My lunch at Morimoto was insanely delicious. We shared an order of the rock shrimp tempura and that was spicy and crisp and just fabulous. I had a bowl of miso soup and the nasu shigiyaki, which is eggplant, chicken, and red miso gratin. The tofu in the miso soup was fresh and unbelievably good, and the gratin was heavenly. Believe it or not, I was too stuffed for dessert...but I was dying to try the chocolate fig cake.
I'm normally not that crazy about restaurant decor. But Morimoto was gorgeous -- everything is frosted glass that changes color in a very subtle way and a beautiful ceiling [I know, why would anyone notice the ceiling?]. Even the ladies room was beautiful.
I give Morimoto two thumbs up for sure. I probably would have squealed like a little girl if Morimoto was actually there.
Heeeeeeeeee! The Philadelphia Gay News has an article on the front page today about mullets! The headline reads, "The Mullet: a Hair-do that's a Lifestyle." Bwa hahaha!
Philly chicks are tough, that's all there is to it. If you've been paying attention to all the child abduction stories you know that 7 year old Erica Pratt was abducted two days ago. Yesterday afternoon she gnawed through the duct tape she had been wrapped in, found her way up the cellar stairs, busted through the cellar door, and then busted out the front window of the house to call for help. Girl Power! She should be on a Wheaties box.
If you watch Iron Chef, you might be excited by this -- I get to have lunch today at Morimoto. Since I do watch Iron Chef, I am falling down thrilled about it -- we've been trying to get a reservation for months! I'll have a full report later today.
Instead of obsessing over my Logic homework last night, I watched American Idol. As much as I absolutely can't stand to hear RJ or AJ sing, that trailor trash Ryan Starr has got to go. Way to sing something with lyrics, sweetie! Tamyra sang the hell out of her song though.
Wine of the day: 1999 Conti Contini Sangiovese - really a wonderful red -- not too tannin-y and very blackberry-ish in taste. Yummy!
I should say so, since I drank 4 glasses while I was watching Inside the The Actors Studio with Mike Myers. So I'm [coincidentally, I would say, considering my first post of the day] a little tipsy as I write this, but I would conclude that it was the funniest Actors Studio ever.
One of my very favorite movies of all time is So I Married An Axe Murderer. And I guess you could say that I've got a slight crush on Mike Myers.
And oddly, considering that I'm an English major, Mike Myers is a descendent of William Wordsworth. At this disclosure, Craig turned to me and said, "Who is Wordsworth?"
My jaw hit the ground. Every once in a while Craig will say something to me that absolutely floors me. I can't imagine knowing someone who doesn't know who William Wordsworth is. It makes me want to pull out my Romantic poet anthology and read him a couple dozen poems. It's just bizarre.
Most of my second round of books are finished. I woke up at 8am and got to work -- so now I have two little travel journals with their own luggage [both journals of which I have to actually put art onto, and then I have to find a handle and closure for the second box], 2 albums [the first is completely finished, and the second needs to have the paper cut and then I have to bind it], and I have two piano hinge books [although I have to find 4 more skewers so I can finish binding the second one. The first is finished].
I feel pretty good that most of the real work is done. I just have to mock up some class outlines and supply lists. I think I will charge a $10 supply fee -- and then I can supply boards, spackle, bookbinding thread, etc.
I'm so obsessive-compulsive about all this. It's boring even to me.
I have had a fairly low key weekend, thanks in large part to the huge round of bookbinding that I've been involved with. Craig took me to Las Caszuelas yesterday for dinner and that is the only time I've left the house. I really want to go to the movies today so I can get my Busta love on, but I don't know that it's going to happen. Don't get me wrong -- I don't expect Halloween Resurrection to be good, but I do expect to be entertained by the sheer cheese factor. And then there's Busta.
It's been a news free weekend for me. On some level I feel free from stupidity -- it's nice to be completely ignorant of the foibles of our government every once in a while. However, I feel strangely sure that I have missed some vital information. It's a catch 22.
OK, I've been totally schnookered into getting up early on the perfect Sunday morning to sleep in. I was happily hogging up 3/4 of the bed when I saw Craig look at his watch.
Let me explain something about Craig: he's worse than a 4 year old to wake up. He sits there on the edge of the bed and tries to make me believe that he's so tired the poor dear is going to fall back to sleep just sitting there. It's ridiculous. Oh, and you can't believe anything he says until he is fully awake.
Which is why I can't belief I fell for it when he said it was 11:30 am. I laid there in bed for another 30 minutes obsessing about how much of the day I was wasting, and then I got all crazy about my garden not being watered yet.
So I bounded out of bed with all the enthusiasm too much wine the night before gives you, and ran downstairs...only to discover it was 7:30 am. Dammit!
Of course, I'm one of those people that has some weird genetic farmer thing going on that refuses to let me go back to sleep once I have officially left my bed in the morning. And so here I am, making the most of my morning and feeling kind of cotton-mouthed.
So getting back to the issue of wine....Craig and I went to a new restaurant last night. I was fascinated by the idea of a French restaurant in the middle of South Philly. It's so bizarre -- South Philly is predominantly Italian, with a few pockets of Cambodians and a couple of Irish neighborhoods thrown in for good measure. And so I couldn't imagine that there would be a good French place, and forced Craig to go with me.
Pif [that's the name of the restaurant, I swear] had the feel of any South Philly restaurant -- which is to say loud and not particularly mood-enhancing. It was a nice place, but I think I may have gotten a sunburn from the superbright lighting. I felt like I was in Gremlins: bright light! bright light!
The food was really excellent, surprisingly. I had breaded frog legs in butter sauce and grouper with spinach in garlic sauce. But the dessert -- heaven!
You know I have a big jones for good dessert. I will write a restaurant off if the dessert is lacking. It's imperative that there's a good selection and that whatever I get is just knee-quakingly good. Pif had a wonderful selection of not only desserts, but cheese! I could have cried with joy, because near and dear to my heart, only second to dessert, is cheese. And to offer cheese plates is like...well, let's just say that I was thrilled to see it.
But yeah, I opted for dessert instead of a last course of cheese. My eyes almost bulged out of my head when I saw they had apricot tart. I love apricots, and I've been upset recently because I haven't been able to find any decent apricots in the stores.
This tart was so good it defies description. The crust was perfection and the apricots were fantastic. I do mean perfect. It took me 30 minutes to eat it because I savored every last crumb. I'm a sick woman.
I chose a good bottle of wine to bring with us too [how I love BYOB's] -- it was an Australian Shiraz. I drank most of the bottle, which is why I'm so dry-mouthed this morning.
I am saddened to learn that Rosemary Clooney died. Such a great woman.
Apparently Newsweek ran a poll to determine the popularity of the "under god" phrasing among Americans. They're trying to tell me that 9 our of 10 Americans want the phrase in the Pledge. What a bunch of horseshit. I could understand if it was 6 or 7 out of 10, but 9 out of 10 is just a little too high for me to believe. What did they do -- go into the most conservative Christian neighborhood they could find to do the polling?
Now I'm pissed off....what I wouldn't do for another slice of that apricot tart.
I'm seriously excited for this year's Fringe Festival. Last year I meant to go to a bunch of different performances and only ended up able to see one. I went with Victoria to see a very cool dance piece after work one night.
The schedule is not up yet of course...it isn't until August but Victoria, Christy, and I are talking about it already. I'll have to make sure I buy myself a new pair of leather pants by then. For some reason I always seem to wear leather pants to see Fringe stuff, but my only pair is too big for me now.
I had a wonderful dream last night. I dreamt that Dobbs reopened in the old Barbary space. I used to hang out at Dobbs every weekend and listen to great bands. The Barbary was a little out of my way so I only went there occasionally.....but now I live in that neighborhood. How I only wish my dream would come true! To sleep, perchance to dream and all that.....
Craig is in a horrible mood today. I hate being around him when he gets like this because he is just bitchy and mean. And he can't understand why I avoid him like the plague. Occasionally I wish we lived in a double townhouse so I could have one side and he could have the other.
I promised Craig that I would make eggplant parmesan tonight. So in honor of it being cool enough today to cook, here is my recipe for eggplant parm (for three servings):
Chopped tomatoes (2 cups)
Minced garlic (1.5 cloves)
Finely chopped onion (1/4 of onion)
Chopped fresh basil (1 Tbsp)
salt and pepper
small eggplants (1.5 lbs)
ricotta cheese (.5 lbs)
shredded mozzarella cheese (.5 cup)
grated parmesan (.5 cup)
1/2 medium egg
Peel the eggplant, and cut into 1/2 inch slices lengthwise. Sprinkle with salt, and layer the slices in a colander to drain, placing a plate and a weight (such as a few cans of tomatoes) on top. Leave to drain for about an hour.
While the eggplant is purging, begin the sauce by heating the oil in a medium saucepan. Add the onions and cook until they are translucent. Add the garlic and cook another minute and then add the tomatoes. Season with the chopped basil and other seasonings, and let simmer for about 40 minutes.
Rinse the eggplant slices and pat dry. Either broil or grill the eggplant, first spraying lightly with the oil spray to prevent sticking. Cook until golden on either side. In a separate bowl, mix together the ricotta, mozzarella and 1/2 cup of parmesan cheese. Add the egg, basil and season to taste. In an 8 X 12 inch baking dish, spread about 1/2 cup of the sauce along the bottom. Add a couple of spoonfuls of water, mixing lightly. Place a layer of the eggplant slices on this sauce, overlapping slightly. Spoon over enough sauce to cover lightly, and then sprinkle with about 1/8 cup of the parmesan cheese. Repeat with another layer of the eggplant slices and the sauce. Spread the ricotta mixture over this, and finish with the last layer of the eggplant and sauce. Sprinkle with the remaining 1/8 cup of parmesan cheese, and bake in a preheated 350-degree oven for about 30 minutes or until bubbly and golden. Let rest 15 minutes before serving.
I can't express how much I love Iron Chef. Everything about it just rocks -- I have a particular love of the commentator because it's so ridiculous. This evening was the lamb battle.....when there was a U.S. verson of the show with Shatner it just sucked. There has to be the dubbed English and the subtitles and the serious with which the show is presented to make it so bizarre and ultimately watchable.
Craig and I rented From Hell this evening. It was not the best movie on earth but visually appealing. What made it interesting was the theory of who Jack the Ripper was, and why he did what he did. To my horror, both my grandfather and Uncle Dale are Freemasons. I've long suspected that it is just sort of a front for some aryan nation type of activity....and neither one of them will talk about what the Freemasons are, so I've been left to speculate. From doing my own research, I understand that Freemasons are a religous fraternal order, one that stresses morality in its members. Of course, knowing what a hypocrite my grandfather is and what a greedy schmuck my uncle is....well, let's just say that I have serious reservations about believing that "morality" is something they stress all that much. And of course, Freemasons have been linked to President Lincoln's assassination, beliefs of Nazi Germany, the murder of Pope John Paul I, establishing the Ku Klux Klan, the Jack the Ripper Murders in England, the JFK assassination conspiracy, and many others. And of course there isn't a lot of evidence to support the connections....
What really cracks me up is the fact that my grandparents are Methodist, but Methodists are historically anti-Freemason. I don't know what the truth is, what Freemasons really stand for......but it's interesting to think about.
We all know that I'm a big wine and cheese whore, right? So in an effort to improve the lives of whores everywhere, I'm now going to post the cheese we had last night.....
Don't you feel lucky?
1. Explorateur [ex-plore-ah-TOOR] - It's a pasteurized French cow's milk cheese...a triple-creme with good availability in the U.S. Christy thought it tasted remotely like cream cheese and didn't like it with bread. She and Eric both loved it when I told them to try it with the strawberries -- it does taste rather decadent that way. You're supposed to serve champagne with it, but I hate champagne.
2. Montasio [mohn-TAH-zee-yoh] - An unpasteurized Italian cow's milk cheese, the availability of which is spotty in the U.S. It's a very good melting cheese, but doesn't have a super distinct taste.
3. Morbier [MORE-bee-yay] - A pasteurized cow's milk cheese with good availability in the U.S. A very good semisoft cheese.
4. Ossau-Iraty [OH-soh-ear-ah-TEE] - A hard to find cheese in the U.S., it's French, unpasteurized, and made from sheep's milk. A wonderful cheese!
5. Delice de Pommard - a hard to find goat cheese crottin coated in ground mustard seed. From the Burgandy region of France.
We also a bit of softer herbed goat cheese.
We had 4 bottles of wine last night -- a South African Pinotage, an Italian Pinot Noir, a Beringer red of some sort, and a bottle of Rosemont Estates Semillon Chardonnay. Christy and Eric brought the bottle of Beringer -- it is not a very good wine.
If you want to check out cheese, may I suggest DiBruno Bros.?
I've been out to lunch 3 times this week - once to Peacock with Christy and Dave; once to Joseph's with the work gang; and today to Sopukathai with the work gang. I can't seem to get a decent slice of dessert. Joseph's was, by the far, the worst -- a slice of apple pie that had stale crust, about 3 dehydrated apples, and super parched granola topping. Does not one at the restaurants taste these desserts?
It seems as if I am the only person at the Thai place today whose dessert was at least semi-edible. Rebecca got this weird pie that was sort of like clear gelatin mixed with banana baby food.
How can it be this hard to get good dessert?
I'm in the mood for chocolate creme brulee over at The Rose Tattoo....although I can guarantee that I'd get over there and they'd have either regular creme brulee or their peach creme brulee (which are both good).
Luckily my cravings will likely be quashed in about an hour -- I have yoga tonight. Nothing makes me less inclined to chow down than spending 90 minutes in the tropics. And, happily, Craig will be picking me up after class so I don't have to worry about sweating all over the back seat of a cab...although my reek is usually secondary to the foulness of the cab (or the cab driver, occasionally). It's so excellent that Craig liked yoga last week - it's nice to have him actually interested in something that I am. I just wish that he'd go more often -- he's pretty wound.
