Dinner, man. Am I right?

I’ve had some pretty complicated meals these past few days. First of all, I have altered my diet ever so slightly (and it’s mostly mental) recently – by that I mean, I have decided to prepare for a week of food detox, and I want to ease my way into it, so I’m currently on a “no booze, no caffeine” routine as an easy way to start the detox. But when I say it’s mostly mental, what I mean is that while I have the very best of intentions, I don’t always adhere strictly (but in my head, I’m still allowed to say I’m doing it, full steam ahead!).

So in the past 6 days of this pre-cleanse, I have had one beer, a half a glass of Champagne, and one Coke Zero. Three units of no-no beverages, but in my defense, the beer was organic, the Coke was out of headachy necessity, and the Champagne was because I totally forgot about the pre-cleanse when I was offered it and then I couldn’t be rude and not finish it. Eventually I’ll be eliminating refined flour and sugar and meat (which, again, was supposed to be part of this week’s agenda but the deli where I got my breakfast sandwich yesterday ONLY had pre-made sandwiches with bacon on them and who am I to custom order?) so all of this is just prep for the week of December 7th when I go all in with the cleanse. Yes, I need three weeks to psych myself up for this. Don’t judge.

Last night I went to dinner with Old Pal Matt, and I suggested we go to a local, sustainable, vegetarian, buzzword-a-riffic restaurant I’d never been to before.  This was inspired by the cleanse, and also because Matt is game for whatever I tell him to do. He’s a good friend that way. After we got our food…um, remember in L.A. Story when Harris goes to a chic Beverly Hills restaurant, L’Idiot and gets like, a pea and a chive and that’s his entree? I kid you not when Matt and I ordered two “small plates” and a flat bread and we got, roughly, a pea and a chive. We ordered ravioli as a starter and we got TWO. Two ravioli total. One per person. Then we ordered Brussels sprouts and there were, ok, like what amounted to about 6 of them, but chopped and tossed in a cold dressing. And we got a flatbread that was less hearty than an English Muffin. Without the benefit of nooks or crannies. I dare you to say the word cranny without finding some kind of alternative meaning or hilarity in it. Hot cranny mess.

It was all delicious, and I wish I had taken a picture  just so  the rest of you could laugh along with me (but again, I’m no food blogger so I didn’t want to be That Guy in the restaurant, plus the couple next to us was having some kind of argument and I made eye contact with the girlfriend while she was huffing at her boyfriend and that made me feel awkward and ready to bolt as soon as we paid our organic, recycled paper and soy inky bill.) Unsatisfied, we made a pilgrimage to the antithesis of sustainable, healthy, cleanse-worthy cuisine, Momofuku Milk Bar, which I have gone on about before. We had tried to be healthy, good people and when that ended up going to shit, we became our real selves an gorged on Candy Bar Pie, Cinnamon Bun Pie, and Donut flavored soft serve. I have yet to, er, cleanse, today. Paging Dr. Oz!

Two nights ago was another dinner disaster that angered me for no good reason, it was just a comical turn of events in the kitchen that was not so funny at the time: I tried to make a rice stir fry with vegetables and this cilantro sauce from Epicurious, and after realizing that my rice was smoking and burning (note to home cooks, don’t forget you’re making rice!) and not wanting to take another 20-30 minutes to make a new batch, I decided to bust out the soba noodles that have been living in my pantry for a year. And when I say living… Yeah. There was some kind of cocoon-type bug skin thing in the noodles that I noticed tight before dumping them into  the boiling water and I couldn’t eat them knowing that a bug was living in them for who knows how long. I’m sure I eat bugs and mites and awful things daily, unbeknownst to me, but that’s ok because, in the immortal words of Exposé, what you don’t know won’t hurt you. What you DO know will kill you and make you wretch. It was right around then that I actually tried the cilantro sauce (to be fair, I didn’t have the full amount of soy sauce called for so I just added salt too) and good god, y’all, it was so gross. And I’m not going to be one of those Epicurious commenters that gives something a One-Fork rating but then clarifies in my review “I made this by substituting applesauce for the butter and halved the sugar and added some pepper. This recipe was terrible. I can’t understand what went wrong.” But somehow, I got it wrong and it was sucky.

At Home Dinner Trauma Specialist decided to take matters into his own hands and he ordered Middle Eastern for us, and while it was delicious, I still had stir-fry rage, which I got over by watching Top Chef (beat it, Eli! Go home to your faux-hawked BFF Richard Blais). So. Rage! What? Sigh. Let’s hope this cleanse will purify my  ♥  as well as my :

 

The kids today and their phones and the dirty talk

I think the concept of “sexting” is hilarious, and teenage me would have thought so too (because teenage me would not have had a cellphone nor suitors with whom I would sext. The lack of phone would be out of defiance, because remember – teenage me also enjoyed incense and second-hand corduroy and wore a LOT of patches. Those details are probably also responsible for the lack of suitors).

So even though teens today are more precocious and advanced than I ever was (or, honestly, will be) I still took it upon myself to make up a punny name for what they do…I can see this as a NY Post headline more than anything, although I would really love it to be an Onion headline:

 

Talk QWERTY To Me.

 

I Was Your Favorite

Last night, Live Music Companion and I saw Neko Case at the Beacon Theater. The show was amazing, especially since he managed to get us in the eighth row (although the man with the fattest head in all five boroughs did manage to sit in front of me so…sigh. Post about terrible New York audiences and the things they do to annoy me TBD – I’ll be sure to mention the woman who slurped a Frapuccino during a Broadway show on Sunday). Anyway, Neko. While she sang, I kept thinking that Neko’s voice isn’t quite human and at one point the thought that came into my head was “Her voice – -I could take a bite out of it.” What? Whatever. It vibrates in a way that makes me think I could eat it. So what? (Is it possible to say “So what?” these days without thinking of Fred Armisen as Joy Behar? No.)

Music Companion actually gave me all the Neko albums I own, the first being Fox Confessor…, so the entire time at the show, I kept wanting to hear songs off that album, it’s my favorite and for whatever reason I think it’s her best music. Music Companion however, was clearly more taken with the songs off The Tigers Have Spoken – is it a general rule  that people latch on more tightly to the first album they hear of a particular artist? The first Beatles album I ever bought was Rubber Soul and for some reason it makes me the most nostalgic for high school – plus “Norwegian Wood” is a kick ass song, but in general there are songs I like better off other records, it’s just that Rubber Soul makes me feel something I don’t feel with the other ones. (It could very possibly be the slight punniness to its name. Let’s not count that out.) Every year or so there’s one artist I decide to love and obsess over an album, but it’s never the first album they’ve put out and it actually makes it harder for me to listen to previous albums they’ve made, regardless of how critically acclaimed they might be. So, to both of my readers, I ask you, is that a general rule, do you always fall in love with the first album you’ve heard by a particular artist? I’m genuinely interested, but I’m also hoping this theory explains why King of America is my favorite Elvis Costello album. ‘Cause seriously, no one sends that album their regards.

 

email=The New Math

email

I work with the artist (Craig Damrauer) who creates these awesome New Math posters. I’m pretty sure I want to buy this one as a t-shirt, mainly because the more I have to be tethered to a computer, the less I like that computer and the people trying to reach me on it.

 

Amy Sedaris: She’s Real And She Is Spooktacular

Whenever I get down on myself about being completely directionless about my life (Do I write? Do I want to cook? Do I want to just retreat from this world and live in a Corona commercial on a desert island?) I remember Amy Sedaris and think, oh, right, it’s kind of ALL possible. 

Here’s a recent feature of hers on Epicurious of all places. 

 

 

Bye-Bye Summer

I don’t know the first time I heard the phrase “In Absentia”. Most  likely it was during a siblings’ graduation ceremony, and I couldn’t figure out why someone would rather be in a place called Absentia instead of in their schools cafetorium, carefully remembering to take with the left and shake with the right. But as you can all tell, that’s exactly where I’ve been this summer: in absentia. At least when it comes to this blog. Sorry. But in case you were wondering where I’ve been I’ll break it down for you. 

I’ve been writing full-time at TheFabLife.com and I’ve also been directing a sketch group. I’ve also been working, y’know, at the old day job. That takes up most of my time, fortunately (insurance!) and unfortunately (precious time wasted!). I’ve been attending weddings and bridal showers, I’ve been beaching in 60 degree coastal Maine beach water, and I’ve been riding segways and Rock’n'Roller Coasters at Disney World (and eating insanely delicious – who knew? – skewered meat and bread pudding from the Polynesian Resort). I visited Woodstock, NY for the first time ever, on the actual anniversary of Woodstock, right after traumatically getting swept down a river in the Catskills in delightfully unsafe inner tube. That was the same weekend I made an ice cream brownie pie with a gold-teeth grill and ping pong balls for eyes so…yeah. I’ve gone to wineries and farm stands on the North Fork of Long Island and walked through the halls of a hotel in a bathrobe while a wedding took place there. I went to Governor’s Island, the Bronx Zoo, the Brooklyn Flea,  Long Island City comedy clubs, bowling alleys in Chelsea, the world’s largest outlet mall, a friend’s cheesecake bakery in Maine, and spent more than a few hours watching the entire series of Mad Men on my couch. I also met two tiny twin babies that managed to crap and barf on me and my Twin-Holding Companion in about 4 seconds flat. I have spent the whole summer saving money while contemplating culinary school, and still haven’t come to a decision. I have also spent the whole summer with a $1 winning scratch ticket in my wallet contemplating where to redeem it (in the form of another $1 scratch ticket), to increase my odds of turning it into more money. I’ve spent a lot of time worrying about money, being jealous of my neighbors who are moving to San Francisco, doing yoga to somehow magically elongate my short body, and eating burritos, which seems to neutralize all that negativity. So if you ask me what I’ve been up to and my stock answer is “Nothing”, it’s not that I think all this is nothing, it’s that if I say “Everything”, it means I’ll have to get into a long conversation and, obviously, I don’t have time for that. 

 

 

W-4-M: Thor, God of Thunder, on 14th St

The other day I slipped out of work at 2 in  the afternoon to get a haircut. Just generally speaking this is a rare occurrence because a) I get my hair cut thrice a year, and b) my hairdresser is on 14th street so it takes about 25 minutes to get there and I start to feel pangs of anxiety if I’m away from my desk for too long, as if somehow I will get caught. (By my very nice and friendly bosses? Who never question my whereabouts because we are all adults?)  Still, I am constantly haunted by irrational fears of doing stuff wrong and getting caught. I fear authority, what can I say? Well done, public school system.

I decided to walk across 14th street instead of taking the L to 1st Ave. and on the way, I saw the most magnificent man in the world, ever. If it wasn’t so socially unacceptable (even though it’s totally socially acceptable), I would have whipped out my camera phone and taken a picture, but instead, I texted my In-Network Texting Companion to say “I just saw a guy who looked like Thor walking down the street – his t-shirt was literally cut all the way down below his pecs. he was sunburned. Brown hair though” I couldn’t contain my giddiness about this guy. Granted, he was not blonde, and from the waist down he was just an average Joe, but from the chest up he. was. Thor. I have to admit that my experience with Thor is limited to Vincent D’Onofrio in Adventures in Babysitting when he played a Thor-like savior of a truck driver to Chris Parker and her young charges, so when I said Thor, I guess I meant “Thor, but not Thor the comic book character or mythological figure, just a guy who looks 80’s trashy and had a huge chest.” Seriously, he was wearing a t-shirt cut on purpose to below his pecs. Can you stand it?? I came home that night, after work, after haircuts, and all I could talk about was Thor. We had to search on Flickr to see if other people might have seen this man-beast too, but alas, a search for “Thor sunburnt chest guy” turned up nothing. How dare the people of Flickr not have such a tag?

Last night I was in a rehearsal with the lovely sketch group I’m working with and we were discussing the cast of Adventures in Babysitting, as one does, when Vincent D’Onofrio came up and two of the members of the group said “Oh hey, speaking of, we just saw Thor on the sidewalk! A guy with a t-shirt cut out below his chest, but with brown hair! THOR!”

I’m not sure if I yelled or gasped or what, but I knew they were talking about my Thor. They too did not get a picture, but I’ve never felt such validation. Indeed, Thor was not a figment of my imagination or something I blew out of proportion – they saw him and were just as stunned by the chest so broad you could have local elementary school children paint a mural on. 

If anyone in New York sees my Thor, I beg you, please take a picture. He is my urban Yeti. I know he exists, but I long for the rest of the world to see him.

 

EDIT: Urban Yeti FOUND! Thanks to Stan, I now realize I’m not the only person fascinated by my Thor, The Observer was also fascinated enough to write a whole article about him. THOR!!!!!

P.P.S Edit: Someone else is obsessed with My Thor ™, only they call him He-Man.

 

Stuff n’ stuff

It’s been a busy time at our house these days, what with the 5 solid prime time hours of weekly I’m A Celebrity, Get me Out of Here! that we have to watch, plus all  the Top Chef Masters, Next Food Network Star and 30 Rock reruns we have been forcing on ourselves. The 30 Rock has been holding up the best, shockingly enough. 

I have still been finding the time to make a lot of food at home lately, which led to a disaster of thumbnail proportions when I actually grated off part of my thumbnail with a cheese grater yesterday. At-Home Triage Companion was right there to help stop the bleeding with some anti-bacterial foam and a bandage within seconds, but the bigger issue still was “Is that cheese safe to eat or might there actually be a shard of bloody nail in it?” and we actually debated whether or not to throw it away for a good, long minute until At-Home Triage Companion said “I would feel like a cannibal knowing I was eating a part of you so lets maybe throw the cheese out”. The fact that this was even a debate shows how questionable we are as people.

I also made a really good pound cake from this month’s Martha, only I did the sour cream and berry variation. It was pretty delicious, although I used mixed frozen berries instead of cultivated wild Maine blueberries or whatever it is Martha recommends.

I’ll be doing more celebri-blogging at The Fab Life this summer too (or at least this week – length of stay TBD), although sadly this has nothing to do with American Idol, it’s just regular old celeb gossip which is fine by me. I do miss hating on Adam Lambert  though (oh hey, also, whatever happened to Kris Allen? Because um, yeah, he won right?). 

This week is the final week of I’m a Celebrity... so I guess that means that after Thursday, I’ll have more time to devote to this blog.

 

Just before Lucille Bluth gave us a scare…

 

One Wedding and a FUN..eral.. FUNORAIL. FUN MONORAIL. DISNEY.

It’s been a rough week. The loss of Bea Arthur, coupled with the fact that I’m going to favorite-engaged-couple Amanda and Caton’s wedding on May 9th but planning to wear a dress that’s too small and depriving myself of real food in order  to fit in it is making me unhappy. In other words, I need a cheesecake to get me through this. And someone with a lanai upon which I can drink and drown my sorrows.

At least I know that in a week I will either fit into a dress I bought in December knowing full-well it was too small, or I will give up and just eat my weight in wedding cake to deal with the disappointment I have in my own willpower. Both are fine options, but I really do want to wear that dress. 

The wedding is in Florida, (Tampa, not Miami but you know that if I had the time I’d make the pilgrimage for Bea), but I don’t have the time because as soon as those two lovebirds say “I do,” we are so outta there – Disney waits for no one. Because yes, we are going back to Disney! For a week! Oh my God I can’t wait to eat so much freaking food in the World Showcase! Seriously. After Traveling Companion and I got back from Disney the last time, we researched and found the recipe for the cheesy chicken (Chicken a la Raja or something? More like Chicken con Awesome.) that fake Disney Mexico served because it was so insanely good. I never knew how much food mattered at Disney and that it is so very, very delicious down there, which is why I called about 2 months ago to make reservations for all our meals. They open the reservations up 3 months in advance and people, believe me when I tell you that some places were fully booked 3 months ago. We learned the hard way that you don’t want to be wandering around the Hollywood Studios on an empty stomach, lest you end up eating day-old chicken fingers for lunch. And I love chicken fingers, that’s not the issue, the issue is that there is SO MUCH MORE you COULD be eating if only you had made a reservation. 

The food is not the only reason we’re going either (although it’s a priority now that we found out Space Mountain is not going to be running for 6 months starting like, this week. We’ll always have vaguely racist Splash Mountain though…) We also decided to go a little nutters on the trip and rent Segways and take a Segway Tour of Epcot for a morning. When my travel companion brought this up I was like, “what, and look like Gob? I don’t think so.” But the more we mulled it over I was like “What, and look like Gob? I think very much so.” So I made the reservation, and when I did the helpful Disnervationist was like “Ohhh mah Gahd, y’all HAVE to bring a camera. What’s yer travelin’ companion’s name?” “Jeff.” “Well you are gonna want to take pitchers a’ Jeff fallin’ off that thang!”.  So basically, yes. I’m going to force him to wear loose linen pants and sandals to really look the part.

I have been waiting for three years also to have a sweet sip of the glorious nectar called Dole Whip, the pineapple sorbet only available in Disney and Hawaii and according to certain people on the internet, the occasional college dining hall. It is so good and despite my mild fear of flying to Florida in the midst of an international Swine Flu pandemic, if I had to die, it would be with a Dole Whip in one hand and a custom made chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich in the other (available at the Main Stree USA bakery! Act now!) Farewell cruel world. You are delicious.