Tag Archives: recipe corner

Yeah, you right!

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I spent yesterday strolling the garden district (hoping to run into Anne Rice so I can kick her in her fat crotch). So many mansions, each more elaborate than the next. I mean, servants quarters and a mercedes being buffed in the drive kinda fancy. It got pretty hot, so there was nothing else to do but sit on the porch of a great hotel, having fried catfish and mint juleps.

In the evening we went to Mama K-Doe’s, which is a bar and shrine set up for the legend Ernie K-Doe “Emperor of the Universe”, by his wife Antoinette. K-Doe is like the Little Richard of New Orleans. this place is packed with memorabilia- from a life sized dummy of the Emperor himself to his drivers license and cell phone. Then we zipped over to another bar to see the Treme Brass Band. Think Louis Armstrong singing “Gimme My Money Back”. It was really great. Their bass drum player is Uncle Lionel Batiste- he is 71 and very sharp with an eye for the ladies. At intermission he came to my table and offered me his autograph- he drew me a little picture of himself with his drum! Did I already say it was really great? I mean really really great? At one we went to still another bar to see Sun Pie and the Louisiana Sunspots. They played cuban african, blues, and Zydeco music. Really Great! I wolfed down black bean and chicken quesadillas and the accordion sang! (hee, the drummer was from the band War. You know, Why Can’t We Be Friends?) Did I already say it was really great?

Shake it!

-xo

ps. today I am having dinner at Paul Prudhomme’s restaurant. Nothing to do in this heat but have a mint julep and bake on the deck for a while until suppertime. Where I will have a vast quantity of tasty food, whose contents I will detail to you (this being a BLOG and all).

Auf Wiedersehen

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Lambchop is all over the map. I spent this weekend on an island in the Baltic Sea called Usedom. 40km of fine white sand and charming coastal towns and shacks that sell smoked fish stuck in some bread. To die for! Not to die for, was that naked east germany was there- the ugly half. Which really took me out of the mood for swimming. I was too afraid of bumping into some shriveled jolly grandfather cock while doing a backstroke. Instead, I waded and took lovely long walks and just enjoyed the hot sand beneath my feet. I also got to fly over the island in an aeroplane- you know the kind that look like a Cessna but are light enough to push into the garage? Oh, it was simply gorgeous.

This week finds me at the end of heading ’em up and movin’ ’em out! I depart for Boston on Friday the 13th. With enough luggage to shame Marlene Dietrich. Welcome me softly my pretties, I shall be happy to see you.

xo

I am not afraid to try new snack foods

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I have frequent opinions, and I love giving them. It’s even better when I am paid to do so.

See, I was walking through Faneuil Hall, and I saw that a crazy lady up ahead seemed to be stopping people. I was about to scuttle by and avoid her, but I was arrested by her line of questioning: “Do YOU eat yogurt?” Why yes, yes, I do.

“Do YOU want to make $15?” Once I ascertained that it would take about ten minutes and not involve photography or removal of clothing, I could honestly say “Why yes, yes I do. ” Self-interest really is the key to any sales pitch.

So I was ushered up into an office above the F.Y.E., and filled out a short demographic questionaire, on which I lied flagrantly. Then I was taken to a conference room. The table was covered in empty yogurt packages, all different brands. My interogator came in, bearing a tray of dixie cups and little baby plastic spoons. She made me identify the yogurt brands I currently purchase, those being Stonyfield Farm and Colombo. She seemed pleased. Then she hauled out some Stonyfield Farms cups with new packaging. The first one was a chocolate flavor, and it featured wavy grass with some chocolate chips in it, being surveyed by some omnipresent cow head.

I started laughing, because I am exceedingly juvenile. “You must know what that makes me think of,” I said. Oh Lawsy, what a design mis-step. I hemmed and hawed, mentioned that they had better add a dewy sheen to their fruit photography, and I want to see some fruit cross-sections, damn it, and that the ivory plastic looked more hippy-dippy recycled than the white plastic, which is what they are going for, right? Then I had to go through a tedious evaluation of competitor packaging. As a general aside, I will say that those Yoplait whips, custard yogurt infused with air, have got to be the nastiest thing every invented. Carbonated milk curd, mmm.

Finally, on to the taste-testing. And the first flavor was…banana-vanilla. I fucking hate any unnatural approximation of banana. I politely gummed around a spoonful, trying not to gag. “Well, it tastes like some ungodly bastard offspring of a tropical Starburst with an infection. I wouldn’t buy this in ten million years. What were you thinking?”

Next, blackberry. Hurrah, why not. It was pretty good. A little too sweet. I was given water and made great show of cleansing my palate. What fun. “Wait, wait, let me SWISH.” Then I tried some other stuff which was basically flavors they already have reformulated with that franken-fiber, inulin. Whatever. “Will this make me poop a lot?” Enquiring minds want to know!

Finally, “So when do YOU eat yogurt?” Ummm….when I’m crash-dieting? I mean “as a healthy snack to supplement meals.”

Soon I was being hustled out the door, $15 in cash in my sticky paw. I also got a whole bunch of coupons. Whee.

After I spotted this link on Rebecca’s site, I realized I had been a part of the ground-breaking “Trends in Yogurt Consumption” study. How monumental! If I could only secure employ doing a survey every hour. That’s $15 an hour, plus I would never have to buy food again. Sure, the sour cream survey could get a little hairy. Don’t get me started on the prospect of the hot dog survey. But I would be doing good in the world, as banana-vanilla has so far stayed off shelves, clearly all thanks to my vehement protest.

-xxoo

Swiss hit-or-miss

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From the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

The first question is, why does the hot cocoa making vending machine in my new office keep kicking me in the nuts? Every time I get a hot cocoa there’s a good chance it’s waterier than American beer. Today it almost fucked me by flipping the cup on it’s side and pouring the contents all over the machine. I caught the cup in time.

My second question is, why do I keep using the hot cocoa vending machine when it continually kicks me in the nuts?

Perhaps this is a question that only Charlie Brown can answer.

-Hot for hot chocolate

Dear Hot Chocolate,

Kitty Winn believes in miracles! Charlie Brown is unavailable, but you have come to the right place for 5 cent advice. This problem, while seemingly insurmountable, has a very simple solution.

As to your first inquiry, are you always so very paranoid? Kitty is sure the contraption bears you no personal malice. As to the second, you keep coming back because you want the hot chocolate. Hot chocolate, in theory, is delicious! There is no shame in having desires.

So the temptation to fiddle with that wretched mechanical beast is understandable, but just remember that you are better than that. There are people to do that sort of thing, and they ain’t you, babe. Do everyone a favor, and have your bête noire hauled off to the scrap heap. Thus and only thus will you break the cycle of destructive behavior.

Then have someone else prepare and deliver the hot chocolate to you. What sounds better, a kick in the nuts, or a nice frothy cup of cocoa, made with buttery hormone-free milk and rich Ghiradelli shavings? Perhaps you fancy a cinnamon stick or a dollop of sweetened whipped cream to go with that? Does your office not have an office boy? If there is no intern or other such lackey, perhaps you can intimidate one of the weaker-willed employees to do your bidding. You will recline, feet up on your desk, tugging your suspenders like a fiend, while some would-be hausfrau scalds some milk in the kitchen, feverishly melting the chocolate to your liking.

As for the poor quality of American beer, Kitty can’t help you there. Kitty only drinks champagne. The rumors of her nail polish remover consumption are highly exaggerated. Well, once Kitty drank a Belgian ale called Delirium, and she ended up without her knickers. These things happen, and no photographs survive.

Properly dressed,

-Kitty

A good egg

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Licketysplit

Alton Brown has helped me make this quiz, fraught with existential panic:

Which egg grade are you?

AA – Really perky

A – Just a bit older

B – When twirled in front of the light, it is obvious that the white has broken down

Aiyeee! This morning I’m feeling like a solid B. I have an altogether odious task to complete today, so odious that I will put off doing my hair until it is finished, lest my coiff be ruined in the process. I can’t detail it further, for they are watching.

xxoo

Spring

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lambchop

… is so slow to arrive in Berlin. I refuse to leave the house until i can exhale sharply without producing a puff of steam. So what is there to do but stay home get drunk and write lists like this one:

Things I Should be Doing- making a chicken and pepper wrap with melted cheese, watching some liposuction on the surgery channel, calling up random strangers and singing them a couple bars of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, working out pent up hostility by smashing coffee cups on my balcony (it keeps my collection fresh at any rate), and returning to that scrummy dream i had this morning (SEXSEXSEX).

Well, before I could rot in my own filth, Steele decided I needed a good spring airing. As if a look at his tanned smooth calves isn’t refreshing enough! So he got us two tickets to a Yankee game. We spent the afternoon in Manhattan, eating pizza in the Village and handing out Bruschettas to homeless people. You should have seen them press their scabby fingers to their eyes when he flashed his blinding grin! Then we made our way over to the stadium. Steele was engrossed in the game- I was eyeballing the hot dog boy while the infielders plucked at their gonads and the afternoon went lazily by. The Yankees won of course, to some other team that did not have those charming pinstriped uniforms.

lamby and Steele at the ballgame

smooch

Thel’ About Town

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thelma haney

Last week was March Madness here in Epsom Square. This year’s theme was “Diversity” so they had booths for ethnic foods like burritos, falafels and even Jumbalaya. I usually bake a marble cake or chocolate chip cookies but Flora and I decided even with chocolate swirls it wasn’t very ethnic. I did find a nice lamp at the antiques table though. It has a shepherdess sitting at the base with a lamb, listening while a shepherd plays to her with his miniature guitar. I go for the old fashioned stuff. I also bought my son a tie from Hypno-ties with an American flag on it. Come to find it has little skulls on it instead of stars. I didn’t want to make a fuss on such a fine day, so I just dropped it in the clothes drive box on the way home. People who can’t even afford ties probably won’t mind.

Yesterday brought some bad news. My daughter Jessica- she is studying to be a nutritionist over at the Epsom County Community College, called and she said something about McDonalds “losing it’s market share”. Apparently the young people are going to the coffee joints instead, which I don’t understand. They charge three dollars for a cup of coffee and if you want a roll they want another two dollars and it doesn’t even have raisins in it! That’s a darn shame about McDonalds. I think they should bring back the Lobster Sandwich. I must have had ten of those a day when they came out, must have been the summer of ’92. I know because I had the corns real bad that summer and I used to sit with my feet in a bucket of salts.

It’s a good time for that great taste!

God Bless,

Thelma Haney

He’s got the whole world in his hands

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It hasn’t been all cocktails and soda crackers for yours truly. The fate of the world has been laying heavily on my mind. Just yesterday I was in a French restaurant having medallions of monkfish and a salmon carpaccio drizzled in this wonderful creamy mustard, and i was thinking “damn those french, pass me another slice of that lovely lovely bread”.

I am afraid that I side with Michael Moore, on being a great fan of the french, if not Chirac. And “freedom fries” is a concept that makes me shudder. Our president is the only person buffoon enough to think that changing the name of that particular snack is a slight against the french. Freedom fries must have something to do with every american’s right to get fat while our government dupes us out of our own rights and brings down its imperialist fist wherever it chooses.

The pope has branded this war a Sin. I am no Catholic, but I agree. And so Steele and I went to Rome to ask the Pope personally if maybe it would be possible to dust off the Rack for Mr. Bush. Or perhaps at least some thumb screws.

pleading our case with the pope

smooch

Purging

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Lambchop

I have lost a day in there somewhere. Really. I spent all of yesterday believing it was tues. And was hopelessly unable to count or determine how many days had passed since sunday without getting up and looking at my desktop calendar. It just goes to show you, a day without a blog is like a broken pencil. Pointless.

Its all about self-improvement, though. Yesterday i learned how to purge an eggplant! (it does not mean what you think it does. thanks to Stu for the scrummy link!)

It has been pointed out to me that this Blog is rather lacking in personal information. I, who get to spend all day being me, am not sure this is a deficit. But ever ready to please, here is a List of the Top Ten Things I Hate That are In My Closet:

10. The punk rock belt I am no longer punk rock enough for.

9. The tube top with the picture of the dog on it. (I was with you, Lickety, when I bought this- please explain!)

8. Underwear that is only fit to be bled upon.

7. Yards of leopard fur that I am going to “do something with”.

6. Moths.

5. That silvery dress that looks so pretty on the hanger but makes my hips look like airport terminals.

4. Moths (i really do HATE them, scourge, but it’s too dull an item to occupy the top spot)

3. The unfathomable tangle of run, colored stockings.

2. The pink feather boa that Sheds.(I got rid of it on another continent and still get greeted by a puff of feathers when i open the door)

1. That stinky corpse.

Top Tens are all about payoff, aren’t they?

smooch

I love you like a fat kid loves cake

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It’s a slow news day. Boston is under a blanket of white stuff….much like the one under which Vomitola staff frequently finds themselves. I was toying with the idea of a post called “Things I have spilled on my desk.” Last week it was chowder. Corn chowder, not man chowder. Heather. A co-worker walked into my office and said “Aw man, I missed the bukkake.” A few days later, marinara sauce. Same co-worker walked in, he of impeccable timing, and said “Aw man, I missed the placenta!” The moral of all this? I’m a saucy girl? Bukkake is always amusing? I don’t know what to tell you. I’m ashamed of myself, really. And I do clean it up, it’s not like it festers for days! Surely that’s more important than the snow out there. I feel for all those poor Fox news bastards shivering out along the highway in their parkas. “It appears to be snowing, yes, quite a bit. I’d stay inside if I were you. Don’t walk on the Charles, morons!”

That out of the way, I should explain the title of the post. It’s from the song “21 Questions” by 50 Cent. 50 is a numerological cipher, he is! He is really on the pulse of America’s damaging love affair with food. Witness 50’s take on the obesity epidemic:

Fat, fat, them Snickers got your ass getting fat, fat

Those cookies got your ass getting fat, fat

That Cake got your ass getting fat, fat

Bitch you grown, that ain’t baby fat, fat

In the gym I see your ass up on the Stairmaster

But you got it on level two bitch go a little faster

Look girl, I ain’t gonna lie, I’ll tell you how I feel

They should handcuff your big ass to the treadmill

He’s really on to something, huh. The secret to weight loss is definitely to reduce intake while increasing activity. I’m not sure diet experts would agree that one should handcuff him or herself to gym equipment, but I’m sure 50 cent was speaking in metaphorical terms, citing willpower as a virtue. In fact I’m inspired to get a personal trainer! Brawny Hans will have me lithe and limber in no time.

xxoo