Cheese, Cheese, Cheese!
I got sidetracked at Fairway today. I have been deliberately avoiding the cheese department for the last month or so, but for some reason, today I gave in to its siren call. I am so weak. But I love my cheese!
My haul:
1. Mauri duetto al walnuts, according to the Fairway label--Mauri brand blue gorgonzola and mascarpone cheeses layered together with walnuts. Hoooaaaaahoaoahaoaoammmmmmmmmm. It's like two delicious cheese foods wrestling in your mouth, with walnuts as ref! Throw in some honey and you've got a whole bachelorette party on your tongue, except without any of the nasty clean up or risk of STDs! Should I not have mentioned STDs while discussing delicious cheese foods? Was that a tastebud turn-off? Sorry. Anyway, the gorgonzola wasn't too sharp in this one, and the mascarpone was like, "Hmmmmmmm-mmmmmmmmm." *smack smack, tummy pat, sigh*
2. Murcia Curado/Naked Goat, a firm, mild Spanish goat cheese. This was astonishingly yummy topped with a dribble of honey. Astonishingly.
3. And my perennial favorite, Homboldt Fog chevre. I get this all the time, though, so it's almost not worth reporting. Very tasty, as usual, with and without honey.
Go get some yummy cheese now. You know you want some. Cheeeeeeeese. CheeeeeeeEEEEEeeese. Cheese.
Cars Cars Cars
I went to the NY International Auto Show today.
Hot damn, do I love auto shows. I don't even know why, because I essentially pay someone $12 to let me run around looking at cars I can't afford and won't be able to test drive.
Still, I love auto shows. All the shiny cars! I love shiny things. And the people who visit the shows! All sorts go to those suckers, lemme tell ya. All. Sorts.
Highlights from this show:
The Scion xA, which, while not the hottest or most exciting car on display, would certainly be one I'd consider buying new, since it comes nicely equipped for about three month's pay. It's like the starter boyfried of cars. Good space, the rear seats fold down for transporting large items. I liked it. The xB was definitely roomier, but it's also ugly as donkeyshit unless it's customized and super tricked-out, so forget that one.
The Mini sport onvertible, which would totally be my first husband of cars. I'd love it, despite its rather important, ahem, shortcomings. Like shitty rear legroom. I'm 5'2" and the back looked like hell. This car only seats 3 people if you sling one across the back seat. Witness the legroom with the driver's seat back far enough for an average-height lady:
These puppies start at $25,000 and up. Shown here, fully loaded with all sorts of engine modifications, the floor people said it would be around $37,000.
The car I'd totally cheat on the Mini with, and then marry as my wealthy, older second car-husband would have to be the Maserati Spyder convertible. Hello, lover. Kiss kiss!
Seen enough? No? Here:
I didn't even ask how much this would cost. What the hell's the point? I'll never own one. (I'm hoping here that the whole "Never say never" deal kicks in.)
The Maserati Quattroporte was pretty cute, too. It would be my car husband's hot-yet-distinguished friend, with whom I'd flirt but never cross the line, until that one dinner party where we all get really drunk and fool around with each other's spouses, but everyone would pretend not to remember anything in the morning. Um. Onward.
This Toyota concept personal transport vehicle would be what my cryogenically-frozen-and-then-thawed-in-fifty-years clone would use to get around town.
Generally, my approach to car shows is to look at the things I will drool over (BMW 645 Ci coupe and Z4 3.0i) and then only look at things I'd consider buying (Toyota Matrix, Corolla, Prius, VW Beetle, which also has shitty legroom in back) so I skipped several makes--pretty much all the American brands.
I hit every floor, though, even the SUV/van/pick-up floor, and I'd never consider those monsters.
Man, I love cars. I'm not saying something so simple as a car could equal happiness, but if I win the Audi TT I bought the raffle ticket for, I won't be crying.
Mmmmmm, Saag. Your colon might thank you.
Your esophagus might want to kick your ass, but more than likely, the rest of your digestive tract will be all, "Thanks for the fiber!"
Bitch-in-Kitch V: Saag
Sid: After two weeks of intensive behavior modification therapy, I feel Loaf has improved his attitude enough to present this one on his own. Loaf, take it away.
Loaf: Namaste, my friends! This week, the lovely and gracious Miss Sid and I would like to present you with our recipe for Vegan Saag. We do hope you enj-
*phone rings in background, Sid checks caller ID*
Sid: Oh, crap. Loaf, I have to take this in the other room. It looks like you've got everything under control, here, anyway.
*Sid exits*
*Loaf, checking to be sure she's gone, looks around, then turns back to the computer with an evil grin*
Loaf: Ha-HA! Wassup, bitches?! Y'all missed me?
We got to hurry the hell up and do tha damn thang, 'cuz I don't know when this heffa's gon' come back, so listen up. This' whatcha need:
*reading recipe notes*
2 tbsp. veggible oil--Got it.
2 tbsp. cumin--Got a assadat.
3 bay leaves--Got it.
1/2 c chopped tomato--Da hell? We ain't got it. So, 1/2 c. Hunts tomato sauce, instead. Bitches.
1 c. chopped onion *checking fridge* Ain't this a blip? This bourgie bitch ain't got no damn onions. She got fitty million shallots, but no damn onions. Sheeeeit. A'ightden, a cup o' damn chopped shallots. Ain't nothin' but siddity onions, no way.
1 clove garlic, minced
2 in. grated fresh ginger-- Sonofabitch. Playin' all big chef an' shit and ain't got no damn grater, neither? I gotta chop this shit myself. Imma mess this bitch up one day, watch.
1 1/2 tbsp. coriander--I think I dated her once.
1 1/2 tsp. garam masala--I definitely dated her, more than once. *starts humming "Magic Stick"*
1 1/2 tsp turmeric--That's my boy! He yellow, but he aight.
1 tsp. hot curry powder
2 frozen blocks of spinach, thawed
1 head cauliflower--Does the bitch own stock or some shit? Can we have a damn dish without cauliflower in it?
1 15.5 oz. can chickpeas
3/4 stick of butter--and
1/4 cup milk--I know earlier I said vegan, but that shit is nasty, so to hell with that. She need to be glad I ain't put no hamhocks up in this bitch.
Salt to taste and shit.
First, fry the onions, garlic, bay leaves, 1/3 of the cumin and all the ginger up in the oil. You know, saute that shit. Oh, no, wait. Boil the hell out of the cauliflower first, and cut off the stem and shit, and drain the water out when it's done. Then fry that other shit. In separate pans, bitches, separate pans.
Put the butter, thawed spinach, tomato sauce, and all the other spices in the pan with the onion--I mean shallot--shit. Saute it like a muhfuggah.
When that shit start smellin' all good and shit, dump it all in the big pot with the cauliflower and stir it up. Add the chickpeas. Stir that up. Toss in some milk and like, 1/8 of a cup of water so that shit gets a sauce and don't burn. Cover that bitch, turn the heat down real low, and simmer it for, like, a half hour, during which time, feel free to get krunk as a muhfuggah. You should. Cuz ain't no meat in this bitch, and if you krunk when you eat it, you might not notice. I said might.
*Sid returns, peeks in the pot, sniffs the air appreciatively, and smiles*
Sid: Wow, Loaf, that smells great! Everything work out okay?
Loaf: Oh, everything went just fine. I had to make a few last minute substitutions, but the dish is more than satisfactory. I was just finishing up the directions with our friends.
As I was saying, friends, this is a wonderfully nutritious dish filled with fiber, protein and iron. I'd suggest serving it with the rice of your choice, and following it up with a hot, tasty cup of chai. Bon appetit!
Sid: Great job, Loaf!
Loaf: Thanks!
Bitches.
Basis for recipe found here.
Brain farts.
1. Dear C/Katherine of Synergy,
Thank you for being the first Synergy employee, in the nearly six months I've been a member, to actually take steps to correct the little computer glitch that gets me stopped every two weeks. Everyone else just said, oh, sorry, we'll take care of it, don't worry. You know, every two weeks. No one ever did. Until you. It only took you, like, a minute and a half, too. That was cool. You don't know what that meant to me. For the first time in my life, I felt appreciated, I felt safe. Okay, you know, hyperbole, but still. I dug that shit. Keep up the good work.
2. That Aquafresh Extreme Clean toothpaste is really quite good. So foamy, so freshening. I like.
3. "Mansquito!" is still stuck in my head. You know, I even came up with a song for that new Sci-Fi channel movie Aftershock ("Earthquake," to the tune of Kelis' "Milkshake," natch) in an attempt to dislodge it, but it wasn't as catchy as Mansquito.
I have a problem.
In my defense, they were on sale.
You know you want some.
Online Puma store
Tempt me with your footwear gems
Rainbow of desire
Anjan and Speedcat,
Teku, Roma, Liga suede
Repli Cat, adored
Has anyone seen this movie?
I haven't, but the title just screams class, don't you think?
I must see it. And then I must meet the writers, and bow to them, and pledge fealty, in hopes that they will share their witchdoctor hoodoo secrets, you know, whatever it was that could possibly have gotten a screenplay for a film called Mansquito not only not shat upon, but read, and then produced, and named Mansquito. I must believe this is the screenwriters original title. It is just absolutely, completely, and totally implausible that Mansquito was the winner in a group of potential titles.
You know I have to see this movie. I have to. I want to see it so badly I burn. Maybe it's more of an itch.
Here is a little ditty I composed on the spot, a sort of Mansquito soundtrack, an homage to Mansquito, if you will:
[Sing in best heavy metal-inspired, car commercial jingle-singer voice, please, thank you]
Mansquito!
Infectin' your 'hood!
Mansquito!
Suckin' your blood!
Mansquito!
You are his food! (Yes, I know, but pronounce it "fud." It's much more amusing that way.)
Mansquito!
He's misunderstood!
Mansquito!
So bad that he's goooooooOOOOOOOOOOOooooooood!
Jee-golly. This is my life. Making up songs like this is, sadly, perhaps my greatest talent. I can make 'em up real fast, though.
Help.
I just saw The Passion of the Christ
A few things:
1. Why did they make Jim Caviezel's eyes that freaky digitally altered brown rather than giving him brown contacts like they did for Madonna in Evita? I was weirded out by his occasionally orange eyes. And was it just me, or did they give him a prosthetic nose tip?
2. Rather than getting that eyebrowless lady to play Satan, couldn't they have gotten Jonathan Rhys Myers? He's equally androgynous, and unless he's the guy in that upcoming network Elvis movie, I think he might have been free.
3. I am declaring a moratorium on gratuitous use of the name of Jesus Christ, in all permutations, no matter how amusingly creative they are when they come to mind, for as long as possible, which would be, until I forget I've declared said moratorium.
4. What does Mel Gibson have against little people?
That is all. Happy Easter, if you celebrate it! And if you don't well, there are still the post-holiday chocolate sales to look forward to. Come Monday, you'll be in the brown! Er.
No title, Just Clickety-clicks
I returned to NYC to find snow (boo) and my Lush package. As the reture trip had taken 3 hours longer than I expected, resulting in three hours worth of extra travel-induced tantrumage, the Lush package was so welcome.
It came with free gifts! So I took a bath with my free bon bomb bath bomb, which smelled like lemonilicious candy, and then slayed my backside and legs with Buffy. Then I followed that up with moisture from the soft coeur massage bar, which smelled like heaven.
And now? Now babies envy my ass. It's softness, anyway. Not so much it's volume and composition. I am sold on Lush. Thanks to Hilari for the tip!
Also, have you checked out what happened on Day Two of the Chi-town adventure? You should. If you have some time to kill or whatever.
They knew. They looked at me and they knew.
Note: I went back and retook the test using stereotypically "black" answers and, as Berry pointed out, it said some offensive shit, so I've de-linked the test from this post.
Clickety-click here, mofos!
If all you see is the travel tips, well, I'm still transcribing notes, okay? Give a sister a minute.
Heidi Klum and Seal are expecting a baby.
Apparently, she already has one with some Italian, born just last year.
I am so behind the celebrity times. I didn't know she had a kid, that she'd broken up with the Italian, or that Seal had split from his last big blonde ladyfriend, Tatjana Patitz. Crikey.
I was trying to figure out if Seal had had kids with TP, but I couldn't find anything about it, so I guess not. It's pretty much irrelevant, considering that the sex lives of these people bear absolutely no weight on my own life in general, but you know, sometimes I get snoopy.
Anyway, in poking around this story that I saw somewhere online, I found HK's website, and discovered she's a goddamn empire unto herself. Jeezus and lox on a bagel, the heffa has a line of shoes, jewelery, and fucking candy, of all things. Oh, I left out the stamps. She's on stamps in Grenada. WTF? WTHRMF?
I am so hating on her right now, all up front and in the open. Can you imagine having a whole world based on your pretty? Being able to sleep around with various rich and arty types, get knocked up whenever you feel like it? And still look like fucking Heidi Klum at the end of the day?
That's messed up. The injustice!
Just kidding. I think HK seems like a really nice lady, not a cell throwing, PA bitch-slapping type, so she deserves all her goodness. Also, she seems quite smart if you check out her little website bio. She incorporated herself back in '96, before she even got famous. That's foresight, man. And does anybody but me think she looks like the *cough* other *cough* white Lena Horne? Look here and here. Hmmmm, maybenot.
She's one busy lady. And with a wedding to plan and another munchkin on the way, she's about to get busier. HK, if you need a PA or whatever, look a sister up. I got skills!*
Tomorrow, I hit Chicago at 9 am. Yippee skippee!
*debatable
Apparently, not a face you can trust.
I wonder why?
*surprise, doe eyes*
*blink, blink*
Ever get into a situation...
...where you know you're being manipulated, and you hate it, but there's nothing you can do to stop it, at least not right away?
I hate that shit. I really, really, really hate it. If you want to seriously piss me off--in a way that incites my true, seething disgust--which I assure you is far quieter, more disturbing and less dramatic than any goofy rant I'd ever post here--try to control me, but do so poor a job of it that I know what you're doing.
Then it's on.*
Bitches.**
*That just reminded me of the scene in Be Cool where the Rock does a "monologue" from Bring it On. A monolgue in which he does both Gabrielle Union's and the other girl's--the little old-looking blonde girl with the funny teeth, the Dunst girl's parts. Which makes me slightly less pissed and more amused.
**Sorry. Will makes it sound so fun!
Amel Larrieux
At the Blue Note (131 W3rd St) until Sunday, performances at 8 and 10:30 p.m.
Cover is $20 for the bar, $35 for tables.
PSA over.
You know what I just looooooooooove?
I just looooooove when there's a new person working the desk at my gym. Today there was a new person working the desk at my gym, and we had the most fun conversation about my membership.
See, I signed up for a special membership with Synergy that allows me to work out at any location. Theoretically. In theory, my membership, and the little swipey membership card they gave me, should be good at all the Synergy locations around New York and New Jersey until February of next year. And yet. And yet, for some reason, whenever I swipe my little card at the location I choose to use, which is different from the location at which I joined, I come up in their system as a member with an expired membership. A membership that expired last November. Which is completely impossible, because I didn't even join until the end of October, if you'll recall, and they don't even offer memberships that short, seriously.
I have gone over the details of the problem, repeatedly, with Every. Single. Staffperson. At that damned gym. I even gave them a copy of my contract, for their records, so they could put a little note in their system that says something along the lines of "Membership not expired, contract on file." Thirty-six little tappy-taps on the keyboard. That would be all it would take to clear this up for good.
But has anyone done that?
Apparently, no. No, they haven't. So I had the conversation again, today. How refreshing. I haven't been stopped and harrassed for at least three weeks, now. It used to happen every two.
Just for kicks, some of the staff, who have been witness to conversations I've had with other staff about this very problem, some of them like to stop me again, anyway, arms crossed and prepared for battle and/or forcible ejection, as if they've never seen me at their gym before.
It's not a large gym, people.
I go at least three days a week, unless something is very wrong with me.
They should know me by now.
And yet.
And yet, every few weeks, like clockwork, someone new comes on staff or someone who's been on staff since I joined conveniently forgets who I am and says,
"Um, excuse me, do you know your membership is expired?"
And then I pause, and center myself, and put on my happy face, and politely explain to them that, no, it isn't expired, I've just paid for the fancy membership, and for some reason, your computers refuse to recognize that fact, and I've had this conversation several times already and you have my contract on file, and could you please. Please. Please. This time just putafuckingnoteonyourrecordssoIdon'thavetotalkaboutthisagain, bitches, please!
Ahem.
Which is why I used "theoretically" way up there in that second paragraph. The extra hunnid it cost me for this "use-any-Synergy" perkie-perk, however, was not theoretical. In fact, had I waited a few more weeks to join, I could have paid about $200 less for my membership than I did when I signed. Which makes me wonder:
If I have paid at least a hundred dollars more for the same shit as these other people rolling in and out of this bitch, shouldn't you try, just a little bit harder, to ensure I never have to deal with this bullshit again? Wouldn't you? Dontcha think?
And yet.
I am not a substance abuser.
So I want you to think really carefully about how my day has been going when I tell you that:
I woke up in need of a massage.
By noon, I needed a cigarette or 20.
By 2:30 I was dreaming of a fifth of whiskey.
By 4:30 I was trying to figure out which of my ritzy neighbors in my ritzy building pays the rent by slinging ritzy grade A narcotics.
By 6:30 I had blacked out the previous two hours and had retreated, in my mind, to my happy place.
It's ten-'til-eight, I've got another four hours in my day, and I'm thinking the only thing that can help me now is my very own blankie and matching drool cup, you know, for after my electroshock therapy--the treatment I'm given at the asylum I'm sent to after I black out and the voices convince me to kill the whores. Or whatever.
Little rant. Just a little, teeny, tiny, itty-bitty rant. Swear.
Listen, my fellow gym-goers. I understand you need to store stuff. Hell, I often find myself stashing things like coat and bag into one of the handy lockers our gym provides in the changing room. And what a good idea those are! Lockers, free to all! Keep your things safely and securely stored while you work out! But, you know, the key to this system--no pun intended--is a lock.
You see, a lock not only keeps your possessions safe from unscrupulous types who'd otherwise pilfer or violate your things, no; a lock also acts as an indicator to all comers that the locker they are looking at is taken. Occupado. Verboten. And that's a good thing.
See, when I go to the gym and eyeball the changing area, I scan, quickly, for a locker in which to keep my things. A locker without a lock. But sometimes, there are lots of people at the gym, and free lockers are scarce. Then I'll spot one that is lock-free--joy! A locker for me to use for the next hour!
But when I open it, sometimes I find other people's stuff in it. Even though there was no lock or outward indication of the fact that it was taken. This has two effects:
1. I feel dirty and ashamed, as though I've just walked in on someone in an unlocked bathroom. (And speaking of that--if you are in a public bathroom and I knock, let me the fuck know there is someone in there, because if you ignore me and remain silent, I will assume the bathroom is empty, okay? Then I will try to enter, and god help us both if you've also forgotten to lock the door. So don't have the goddamned nerve to look pissy when you come out as though I tried to invade your privacy, bitches.) Because, you know, I'm a highly empathetic person and I feel embarrassed on behalf of the exposed.
2. I get really, really pissed off. Getting a lock is not a challenge akin to tracking down the Holy fucking Grail. There is a Duane Reade on every block in this town. Duane Reades sell locks. And even in this city, you can get a lock for, like, three dollars. I've forgotten my lock before. Do you know what I did? I went next door to Duane Reade to buy one. Not complicated. And yet, almost every time I go to the gym, I find unlocked lockers with shoes and bags and other things inside. Every time I open a locker that is not properly secured, I swear, I'm tempted to remove the contents and hide them or throw them on the floor just to teach the locker offender a lesson, dammit. But I don't, because I try to be a considerate person. It's almost as irritating a leaving your shit in a laundromat dryer for four hours on a Sunday afternoon, while you run errands. Hello! Other people have shit to do here, and we're all following the rules!
Anyway, that's all. Just try to follow the rules of locker usage. It's common courtesy. Bitches.
Oh, and check out that Andres dude linked under "Loves." Is it just me, or is he hilarious?
Haiku Tuesday!
Don't look so surprised.
What, did you hope I'd forget?
Not a chance, my friend.
-------
Splenda, art thou real?
Shock me with your sweet, sweet taste
Yet, no calories.
-------
Spring, she comes at whim
This year, bitch best hurry up
I have heels to flaunt.
-------
Listen, crushy-types
Shit, or get off of the pot.
Too late! Missed your chance.*
-------
Brothers, if you're plump
Border-beard around your face
Won't make it look thin.
-------
Oh god, Li'l Kim
Out-Jackson the man himself
Too late to turn back
-------
My ode to The Rock:
I lie prostrate at your feet
Prettier than Vin
-------
Now, was that so bad?
No more haikus 'til next week
blogging from Chi-town.
*Not directed at anyone in particular. Repeat, not directed at anyone in particular! Observation only! So don't ask, 'kay?
TMI Monday
If you aren't interested in ass-related incidents, there's a list of blog alternatives to the right, under "Loves." Go now.
You are forewarned.
So, I'm all set for Chicago, which has me whistling a happy tune and counting the days until takeoff (7). I'll be flying out and meeting TDMM for general merry-making, rabble-rousing and debauchery in the Windy City, travelogue TK. If you're going to embarrass yourself, do it out of town, I always say. Okay, I never say that, but it screams sagacity, knowhatImean?
Anyway, as neither of us has even a hint of a plan, we were brainstorming when TDMM suggested a spa visit. I did some research, and we discussed the cons. You know, it's expensive, not all that much fun, and I'll be damned if the first someone who sees my bare ass in a long time is going to be someone I pay, dammit.
So we drop the spa idea. This is where we get to TMI (okay, maybe we're already there). Apparently, something about the conversation stuck with me. Last night, I had the most traumatic dream. You know the kind of nightmare where you dream of some injury or disfigurement, feel it really intensely in the dream-state, and have to check yourself out when you wake up, just to be sure? Yes? Last night I dreamt I went to a spa for a treatment, only to discover I had the most hideous ass ever. Ever. It had weird scaly patches and scabs and dangling, fleshy tumorous bits that looked like old man-sac. You know, or what I'd imagine old man-sac would look like, had I ever seen one. Eeeeeeeew. Eeeeeeeeew.
Now, I'm not claiming to have a great ass, because I don't even have a good ass, and generally, that doesn't bother me too much. I certainly don't obsess over it's naked appearance, since nobody but me has looked at it in longer than I care to recount. But this dream really disturbed me. It was hideous! Now I'm all concerned about my naked ass! Do I really need one more item to add to my grooming routine, the routine that no one is around to appreciate? No. And yet, I was exfoliating like a muhfuggah a minute ago. Seriously. I've now developed a whole vanilla-scented buff-and-polish regimen, Mr. Miyagi-style. I am stepping up my ass game, and there is no one in this forest to hear the sound. Or, er, something. Whatever. Stupid dream.
Just thought I'd share. Happy Monday!
Be Cool.
Is it wrong to find The Rock even more attractive when he's got a big afro and is wearing a powder-blue suit and sparkly red boots? How about when he's running around in a grass skirt doing Samoan dances, tribal tats on display?
That's what I took from Be Cool. The Rock is so pretty he can wear, do, or be absolutely anything, and I'll still spend all the time I'm watching him thinking, "Damn he's pretty."
See?
Kidding. I also learned Andre Benjamin can be funny as hell in the right role, and that Christina Millian is very cute and a lovely singer, but pop singers and Aerosmith should never mix. Oh, and Vince Vaughn has a couple of very unattractive, misshapen fingers that kept creeping me out whenever I saw them. And Uma Thurman, though odd looking, is extraordinarily beautiful in her own way.
There was a plot, and it was funny, but those are the highlights and important bits, as I see 'em.
Thanks to Will for coming along to see it with me, even after Golden turned out to be too busy to make it. Next time, G, perhaps!
Bitch-in-Kitch Journeys to North Africa
*Loaf, reading from cue card*
We here at Bitch-in-Kitch hope you enjoy our latest endeavor, Moroccan sweet potatoes, as we humbly attempt to bring the smells and tastes of North Africa to your kitchen. Grab yourself a hookah and enjoy."
*Bows as rehearsed, mumbles*
Bitches.
Sid: Goddamit Loaf! I heard that! Apologize!
Loaf: Sorry.
Bitches. Where are all the whores you was talkin' about?
Sid: What? Whores? What the hell are you talking abou--Oh, forget it. Just forget it. You little P.I.T.A.
Bitch-in-Kitch IV: "Moroccan"* spiced sweet potatoes
I was inspired by the "Moroccan-roasted sweet potatoes, with chic peas and walnuts" recipe I found in the Claire's Corner Copia Cookbook, but as usual, I have made a few key changes. Carrots, walnuts, raisins, brown sugar, tofu, out; mushrooms and several additional spices, in.
(Aside--I spent four years in New Haven and only went to the Claire's Corner Copia restaurant twice--once for tea--because I never liked the food, which always seemed a tad too bland for my liking. And yet, here I am bastardizing their recipes on a regular basis. Go figure. This cookbook has some truly great deserts though, I must say, so it's worth buying for that reason alone.)
2 large sweet potatoes
1 small onion
5 or 6 oz. package of white mushrooms
1 15.5 oz. can of chickpeas
2-3 tbsp. olive oil
1 tsp. cumin
1/2 tsp. coriander
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
3-5 tbsp. honey
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
10-15 cloves
5-10 cardamom pods
sea salt and pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 400F.
Wash sweet potatoes. Cut into 1/2 inch thick slices. Quarter the slices. Drain chickpeas.
Slice mushrooms and onion. Put sweet potatoes, mushrooms, chickpeas and onion in large mixing bowl, and douse with olive oil. Mix thoroughly with hands until vegetable mixture is coated. Sprinkle with cumin, coriander, cinnamon, and vanilla extract, and mix again with hands. Drizzle honey over vegetable mixture (3-5 tbsp., to taste depending on how sweet you'd like it) and mix again with hands until evenly coated with honey and spice. Stir in 10-15 cloves and 10 cardamom pods. Sprinkle with sea salt and ground pepper to taste.
Transfer sweet potato mixture to two baking pans (I used 9" round cake pans) or dishes with about 3-4 tbsp. water in the bottom. Cover pans with foil and bake for 20 minutes or until potatoes are tender. Bake uncovered an additional 5 minutes.
I was thrilled with this dish. I've never made anything like this before and I'm not a huge sweet potato fan, but I still like it enough to do another batch in the very near future, and put it on my mental "food-for-entertaining" list. It's really easy to grow bored with vegetarian fair, but this is a dish that's nicely spiced, very interesting to the palate--not too sweet or spicy. Try not to eat the cloves, though (or cardamom, for that matter). They make your tongue go numb. Then your palate will detect nothing for a good five minutes.
I had this unaccompanied, but it would probably go well with a side of grain--couscous or bulgur with spices, nuts and raisins, for instance. Or it could make a nice side to roasted chicken or lamb.
*I used Moroccan loosely, and only because the Claire's cookbook did.
**From now on, all recipes will be cross listed over at Sapidity, without all the hoo-hah and random chatter, so if you'd like to get a recipe without having to read my dumb Loaf jokes and what have you, you can find it here.
What's good?
I tell you what's good today:
1. Omelets with salsa and guacamole!
2. Coffee! Lottofit!
3. Gymming after the coffee and omelet has settled, because I'm crazy hyper, and must burn off energy before being unleashed upon the world!
4. Guns N' Roses, all the time, bitches (oh wait, pre-Axl meltdown, fatness and cornrows)! Especially the songs "You Could Be Mine," "Sympathy for the Devil," and all of bloody Appetite, which I contend is one of the best albums of all time!
5. New Order, "Regret"--the Fire Island remix!
6. "Rearviewmirror," Pearl Jam!
7. Did I mention ridiculous caffeine highs? Almost forgot "!"
8. Vacation time!
9. Fametracker! I found it over at Viv's blog, Introspective Navel Gazing!
10. Sit ups!
11. Cooking "exotic" foods!
12. Going to stores to get things instead of ordering them online!
13. Really, all I had was coffee! But, like, two cups instead of one!
Chicago, Chi-CAH-go, a wonderful town...
Chi-town bloggy friends! I'm thinking of tripping out there around the end of the month. Should I stay in hotels in the Loop or Magnificent Mile area?
Discuss, providing at least three examples and/or illustrations of why I should or should not stay in each area. Post to comments or click here.
Best answer gets a cocktail or two on me. Bribery? Yes. You know I'm kidding about the minimum of three examples bit, right?
The Pacifier
Okay, enough haikus for one week. Here's a review of The Pacifier, the film I just saw, all impromptu-style, after work:
It was-
Um.
There's this scientist and-
Hm. Okay, long story short: Navy SEAL turns babysitter to dead scientist's family while mom is away, whips unruly bunch into shape while whipping the bad guys with nursery toys, finds love and a soft spot for the kids along the way. (Oh, and defeats an evil North Korean nuclear weapons plan. No shit.) Sort of a Kindergarten Cop for the millenium. Except it's not, because Kindergarten Cop was, you know, funny.
It sucked. Like a babe at the teat, it sucked! I mean, okay, maybe not fair, because it really is a family movie and kids might think it's hilarious. I saw all the punchlines coming twelve miles away, and I wasn't impressed then or when they were actually delivered, but your average 7-year-old might really dig it. There is, however, a gratuitous shower and towel scene (for the poor suffering moms and big gay dads forced to watch it with their chilluns) in which I think Vinniebaby might be the nekkidest I've ever seen him on film, which, frankly, is worth at least seven fiddy, aaaaaallllll by itself. Unfortunately, I live in NYC and this movie cost me three dollars more than that. Dammit.
It was so not good. I was actually a little embarrassed to have watched it. I stopped to get a slice after the movie and the ticket stub fell out of my pocket, onto the parlor floor, as I fished around for cash. I snatched that bitch up like it read "Cum Sluts 69" or something.
Sigh. I had to hit the video store in the windyfreezingicy cold to rent Pitch Black and Riddick, too, just to restore my, um, my whatever it is I have for that man.
That's lurve, man. That's real.
I want to see Be Cool. Anybody seen it yet? Anybody want to see it this weekend?
Lunchtime Haikus
Haiku rocks my box
I don't have to eat food now
Words will fill me up
-----
Protein is my friend
I can eat less and feel full
"Cream cheese brownie, please."
-----
Why put leeks in soup?
One would think leeks would be bad
Haiku puns are ill
-----
Garlic bread means gas
You'll start farting in the lift*
Have the soup instead
*"Elevator" is way too long, okay? I mean, you can have seven syllables, max, in a haiku, and elevator has four. Thank god for the English, giving us English expressions when speaking American just won't do.
Beat-downs, synchronicity, haikus, yogurt.
I am rereading Fight Club, because I love it so.
One of the things I love in this book, or about this book, is the character development of the protagonist. The details, man, the details of his character, make him someone I want to know. Besides wanting to get a dog to name it Entourage, which is totally something I would do (I don't say "totally" nearly as much as I write it, but I more than make up for that fact by infusing it with a totally ironic, irritating nasal Northeast-private-college-grad twang) , he writes little fucked up haikus throughout the story in order to "get centered":
"Raindrops on roses
Happy Disney Animals
This makes my parts hurt"
he thinks, while opening a freezer he knows is liable to be filled with frozen po-po testes and bags of human fat stolen from lipo clinics.
Another gem, this one thought up while he's dealing with the woman he believes is jeopardizing his most important relationship:
"A tiger can smile
A snake will say it loves you
Lies make us evil"
Oh hell, here's perhaps my favorite passage from the book, the book which you should all run out and buy right now:
"My boss sends me home because of all the dried blood on my pants, and I am overjoyed. The hole punched through my cheek doesn't ever heal. I'm going to work, and my punched-out eye sockets are two swollen-up black bagels around the little piss holes I have left to see through. Until today, it really pissed me off that I'd become this totally centered Zen Master and nobody had noticed. Still, I'm doing the little FAX thing. I write little HAIKU things and FAX them around to everyone. When I pass people in the hall at work, I get totally ZEN right in everyone's hostile little FACE." (first page of chapter 8, Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk. I'm not playing. Buy this book. There are very few books I read once and want to read again, even when I like them. If you don't feel centered and zen and perspectivificated after reading it, well, you crazy.) Okay, it's not my favorite favorite, but that passage to me is so funny and so insightful...
Wait. I've gotten way the hell off topic. My point here was synchronicity, specifically haiku synchronicity. After reading a bit of the book today, I thought, haikus are a good idea. You know, just like that.
Haikus are a good idea.
I should start my morning journaling off with haikus from now on. (What, you didn't think this was it, did you? Ha! Y'all can't handle alla my issues! Mwahahah-okay, mostly my issues are even more boring than this. Onward.)
And, just for kicks, while I was stuck in a cab, I made up haikus from the east side to the westside through rush hour traffic. It helped to pass the time.
And then, while surfing the blogosphere, I found a nifty quote linking to a blog entry via PurfiktGurl over on--drumroll--Haiku_Girl! (Maybe you should check them both out, because they're both pretty cool, and PG has good taste in underpants. Um, I only saw them in a picture online. Oh, and she wasn't in 'em. Swear.)
Oh, frig. What was the point again? Oh yes. So, from now on, Tuesday is haiku day at Siddity in the City. Until further notice, because that could get old right quick. Feel free to make up your own Tuesday haiku. Post them here, in comments, or email or FAX them around, HAIKUS right in everyone's blog-reading-at-work, non-productive, "hostile little FACE."
Haikus are good. Not necessarily high-art-like-The-Gates good, or wind-in-your-hair good, or favorite-song-on-the-radio good, or even killing-those-two-yogurt-commercial-bitches-by-drowning-them-in-a-tub-of-lukewarm-narsty-artificially-sweetened-yogurt-product good*, but good, nonetheless.
So here is my first Tuesday haiku. I may stop at this, or post more throughout the day.
Fight Club book is good
Yoplait bitches should die slow
Better off, the world
*Oh my fuggin' gahd (I am trying to cut back on cussing, okay?) I have wanted to watch those two yogurt-grubbing bitches bite it ever since I saw the first "This is good" commercial. Besides the fact that they are two of the most irritating characters ever invented by Madison Avenue, ever, they are fucking lying. (Dammit. I cussed. Wait...three times!) That yogurt? Not that good. Know what really is good? This yogurt. Divine. Fo' rizzy.
Style Roundup
Sometime last week I picked up the latest issue of Bust, and I just got around to reading it last night. I came away from the experience with two realizations:
1. I am, in some ways, an unbelievable prude. As in, no, Bust, I really, really, really do not want to know what your assistant editor thinks of the glass corkscrew dildos. Or any other sex toys for that matter. Especially since all the reviews seem to be written in the very personal first person. "I really enjoyed when...I had to clench my..." Aw. Eeew. Blech. I don't wanna be thinking about that! And yet, in other ways, I feel like "Me? A prude? Ha!" Not so much (See "ebooks by genre," genres 1, 5, 8 and 9). Cock! See, I wrote "cock!" I can't be a prude if I can write "cock!"
2. Buy Bust for the articles and to support lady-based indie media, love Bust for the advertising back pages! Holy shit, it's a wonderland! Lookie what I found there:
Teeny Tiny purses at Bolsa Bonita. A lot of the bags on this site feature pom-pom trim. Thank god the Teeny Tinies don't. They're actually really cute. Click around the site a bit to find a criminal line-up featuring several of Loaf's male relatives and, even more randomly, squirrels. The small handle bags are cute, too, in a hipsterish sort of way. Just keep it to a minimum. One hipster product per outfit should keep you safe from the trainwreck-tragedy that is hipsterdom. Hipster Cock!
Barware at Barflyglass.com. I'm not crazy about everything there, but I had to order the spider shotty as soon as I saw it. When it arrives, I'll be spending a lot of time in my kitchen trying to concoct a shooter worthy of this glass in terms of both coolness and danger. I'm thinking something ridiculous, like 151 with a float of Chambord...or frigging genuine absinthe, for which I'd need to leave the country...but I need a vacation, anyway.
And speaking of drunken debauchery, The "Friends by choice, drunks by necessity" cards, which I must order to send to all my friends as friendlove letters, at Lush Box. More cool stuff sprinkled around the site. I only wish I could get the cards with customized photos. Of course, I could always just go to Kinkos with pictures of me and my friends, Lush Box be damned...I have to check on their copyright. But give it a look-see. St. Paddy's is fast approaching.
Beauty Plus Power. Yesssss! Yessss! Yesss! All the hot stuff for my plump rump in one place!
Also, there were lots of ads for places to order friends of Victor and Ike. But, you know, I would never list something like that here. This is not that kind of blog. Cock!
I swear, that got funnier every single time I wrote it. There is something so wrong with me. Sorry mama, they all know you tried.
This just in!
Tonight, after work, I am going to watch Monsoon Wedding and lust after the entirety of the 18-35 year old male cast.
Time well spent, my friends, time well spent.
I'm so serious about this. I have screen captures of the guy who plays Umang saved to my laptop hard drive. So much the pretty. I just need to be reminded from time to time that boys so pretty actually exist.
The ladies are real purty, too, but that is not as uncommon in the movies as it is to have so many pretty boys in one place. Craziness. So much the pretty!
Also, X, remember when you asked if I had a type and I said not really? I lied. Big time. Sorry. I have a type. And his name is Jas Arora. Except not in this picture. What the hell was going on there? That was enough to kill the lust altogether. Yeesh. 'Sokay. There's always the guy who plays Rahul!
What's your non-porn lust flick?
This just in again: Nope. No I won't. My coworker got sick and I'll be working tonight. Oh, hell. Suck. So much the suck. Dammit.
Will someone kindly explain to me...
why all of Recipegoldmine.com's pancake recipes FEATURE FUCKING PANCAKE MIX?
Hmmmmm?
If I wanted to make my pancakes with pancake mix, I wouldn't bloody be looking for the bloody arsing recipe for pancakes, would I? Would I? Because pancake mixes usually include step-by-step directions on the back, don't they? And half the time all the tricky bits are included, correct? So all you're really giving us in the way of "pancake" recipes are recipes for toppings and fillings that any mouth-breather with a third grade reading level could probably figure out on his own if he really wanted it badly enough, aren't you? Take this recipe for apple cinnamon pancakes, for example:
Apple Cinnamon Pancakes
1 apple, chopped
1/2 cup Hungry Jack pancake mix
1/3 cup milk
1 teaspoon cinnamon
Mix ingredients together in medium-sized bowl. Pour batter into frying pan, and cook on both sides until golden brown.
Jesus-jumping-Christ, how stupid is that? You think we can't figure out how to get the apples into the pancakes on our own? Is that why you won't tell us how to make pancakes without a mix? You think it's just too hard? Hmmm? Or are you not really the goldmine of recipes you claim to be? Perhaps you should change your URL to Recipegoldmineexceptforpancakerecipeswedon'thaveanyofthosereally.com!
Oh my god, I cannot believe how worked up I've gotten over this.
That is all.
Did you miss me, bitches?
Loaf says, "Loaf is back for Bitch-in-Kitch III: Mo' Soup Fo' Yo Ass."
Sid: God, Loaf. You are such a thug. Will you please drop this gangsta act and just frigging cook already?
Loaf: Step off, bitch, 'cuz you look like you'd make a good-ass roast.
Sid: *snort* Are you threatening me, you little whitebread bitch? I'll slice your ass up.
Loaf: Oh, it's on, dough girl.
A scuffle ensues. Loaf is small, but tough like a week-old bialy, something Sid did not anticipate. She reaches to grab one stubby ankle but Loaf slices her viciously across the thumb pad with a dull bread knife, drawing five or six drops of blood. Sid, stunned and fearful of contracting a yeast infection from her starchy nemesis, draws back in horror. Loaf aims a flying kick for her tracheal area. Fortunately for Sid, Loaf is fresh from a hot session with some yellow bitch he calls Buttah, and the blow slides off with little damage. The deflected blow gives Sid just enough time to flip the lid off an old jam jar and spread a dollop on the counter, a dollop into which she pushes the wily Loaf face first.
Sid: What? What? Whatchu got to say now, bitch? Huh? Huh?
*unintelligble grumbles from the still-squished Loaf*
'Swhat I thought. Now get your little enriched ass back to cooking before I turn you into a project pizza. I got some ketchup and gubbmint cheese fo' yo' ass.
Apologies for the unseemly behavior of my mascot. He's totally unbalanced. I might have to put him on Doughzac. Ha!
Bitch-in-Kitch Episode III: Souper Deluxe
Yes, another soup. This time, it's a low-fat, no-carb chowder!
Sort of. Sort of a chowder, I mean. As I make it, it's definitely low fat and no-carb, or rather, no starchy carbs: it's cream, potato and flour free, thickened only by blended cauliflower. I had wanted to make either the creamy cauliflower soup from Rachel Ray's book 30 Minute Vegetarian Meals, or the New England veggie chowder from the Claire's Cornercopia Cookbook, but I didn't have the right ingredients for either recipe and am not crazy about potato based soups, so I scrapped them both and made something up.
1 lb. baby or bay scallops
1 medium to large head cauliflower
1 small white onion, diced
1 clove minced garlic
3 cups skim milk
1 cup water
2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp. thyme
1 bay leaf
Coarse salt and ground white pepper to taste
In a large pot, boil cleaned and trimmed head of cauliflower until tender. Remove florets and set aside. Discard stem (feel free to remove florets first and then boil them, which is probably quicker).
In 3 quart saucepan, saute onions, garlic and 1/3 to 1/2 of scallops in olive oil until scallops are thoroughly cooked and a small amounf of stock has formed. Remove from heat.
Remove scallops from onion and garlic mixture. Add milk, water and cauliflower florets and blend, using hand blender, until relatively smooth. Return to heat.
Add thyme, bay leaf, cooked scallops and remaining scallops. Simmer over low heat for 10 minutes. Add salt and pepper to taste.
And that's it. Fast and tasty. I think this version might benefit from a spinkling of shavings of hard cheese, like Asiago or Romano, which is what that Rachel Ray suggests in her book. I also think it could do with a splash of white cooking wine, but I didn't have any on hand and that might just counterbalance this soup's many health benefits: Calcium! Protein! Fiber!
I'm pretty happy with the results, but I think I'll tinker with the recipe for next time. Parsley might be nice. And using a cup of vegetable stock instead of plain water might also add a more interesting note to it. And more veggies would undoubtedly be good. I just like the idea of having a sort of pure white soup this time around.
Kansas City Attorney General Phill Kline is trying to force medical clinics to turn over the complete and unedited records (including addresses and psychological profiles) of women who've had late term abortions or abortions while they were under legal age for sexual activity, under the guise of enforcing laws about underage sex. And here's the kicker: the distric court judge (Dick Anderson) ruled he could have them!
What. The. Fuck?
Apparently, Kline was craftily attempting to keep his evil plan a secret, but lawyers for the clinics, upon being faced with the remarkable dickery of the distric judge Dick Anderson, were forced to file an appeal with the state high court. The briefs were obtained by The Witchita Eagle.
Claiming Kline's goal is to stop underage sex is like claiming The Gates were saffron: only a completely blind assmonkey would believe that. This is about finding backdoors to stopping abortion (no pun was intended, but upon reflection, acknowledged.) If he wants to stop underage sex, why not go after records for treatment of STDs, a symptom of underage sex that's probably a little more common than abortions. Oh, right, because current law doesn't allow medical professionals to share medical records, even of children, unless they believe and are able to confirm there has been some form of abuse, and then they are legally obligated to do so. So that would make this abortion records hunt legal how?
I suspect that, were one to be allowed access to the complete and unedited medical files of certain moralitymongering AGs, one would find evidence of various embarrassing STDs, like tertiary stage syphilis, rotting their fucking brains.
Link via Maryann.
Ah, beauty.
Generally, I don't watch television. Tonight, though, I felt like watching the boob tube.
"Model TV" and "Plastic Surgery Beverly Hills." Those are the shows that I watched.
Terrible, terrible, terrible fucking idea. I went from being disturbed by the model show (as when the Victoria's Secret photographer talked about the VS models' 'flaws') to horrified (by the lady who wanted breast implants so large that there wasn't enough flesh on her to stretch over them). Also, I am really skeeved by those operating room clips that show all the gore in a procedure, like what giant boobies look like on the inside. You know, because mine are of fair size and I can't help but think "FUUUUUUUUUUUCK! GIANT BOOBIE INSIDES!" And then I start having sympathy pains and stuff.
Still, I have to wonder. If money and, you know, risk of death weren't a factor, would I have plastic surgery?
Would you?
Also regarding beauty, but totally separate and noninvasive: L'Occitane shea butter lip stains are the best lipbalm ever, totally non-sticky and super smooth, come in three colors and clear, and are only $13 a tin. So you should get some.
Also, if you ever want to curse someone with something chronically irritating, but totally not life-threatening, curse them with nipple itchiness. I'm sure that if I were to experience such a thing, it would be quite a bloody fucking nuisance. If.
Derek Jeter's hot
Even though he kissed Carey
Crazy's not catching
Have you seen this man?
He's the hotness, hot hot hot
Daniel Sunjata
Hello, Vinnie, doll!
You are the male Britney Spears
I'd so let you hit
Marcus Samuelsson
Food or other, you decide
Let us taste your treats
Cube, you sexy bitch!
Why are you now xXx?
Older but still fly
