PUT IT IN YOUR MOUTH

YOU KNOW WHERE

2007-10-23T12:17:00.000-04:00

I'm retiring this blog. Thanks to my readers, regular and irregular (a lot of you were irregular and wound up here after googling Dannon Activa Yogurt, a product I reviewed in a past entry). To the latter, I hope you feel better. To the former, au revoir.

I'm ending on a high note, which is this: the author Jay McInerney, whose novel Bright Lights, Big City I read at WAY TOO YOUNG AN AGE (what nine year old needs to know that in 1984 the Cool Kids called cocaine Bolivian Marching Powder?), linked to my blog in his most recent House & Garden Blog.

!!!

This is a small thing, but I just found out and I'm crying because it feels like something. I am obsessed with something, that feeling that I am always writing for, eating for, living for. The surprise, the ephemeral something, the unexpected experience that makes me feel connected and Here.

I am Here and I wrote things here and an author found me over here and read me and then connected me to his readers over where he is so that they might find me over here and read me. It's a small thing, it is nothing. It is something, it is everything. I am Here! Thank you for finding me!

You know where to put it,
Megan

MORE THAN THIS

2007-09-07T16:26:00.000-04:00

Some things you should do in private. I think you know what they are. But I don't know what they are. That's why I'm Me and not You. One of the things that makes me Me and not You is that I don't know that it is impolite to eat while walking in the street. Or: I do know but I disregard the knowledge. The only thing worse than knowing and disregarding this knowledge is that today I did it with just about the worst food one could. It being eating and walking. In public. Where there's PEOPLE.

The food? All Natural Spicy Pecan Smoked Beef Jerky. Here, let me give you a moment to imagine me, a grown woman, power-walking through New York City while attempting to gnaw on large strips of salty-spicy leather. Please, take your time. And be sure to account for a lot of chew action:

...

This is unaccaptable behavior! One day I will look back on this moment and maybe but probably definitely wonder sadly why I wasn't better to myself. Not Giving A Shit is overrated. You are what you eat, and I am what I am, but starting now I want to be more.

MY PEASANT FOOD

2007-08-27T23:24:00.000-04:00

I'm going to keep cooking until something good comes out, and even with near-hits and definite misses I'm really enjoying making things with my hands and then using my aforementioned hands to feed myself the aforementioned made things.

Tonight I had an onion that was about two days away from going to waste and also some leftover white rice so I decided to do something with both. I suppose certain cultures' peasant food arise out of circumstances slightly similar this one, and peasant food is my favorite kind of food (generally one-dish, hearty, meat-n-veg combos that you can eat with a spoon), so I was happy to invent my own.

Caveat if you find the tooting of horns offensive, because I'm about to toot some major horn on behalf of myself and my dinner: it was DELICIOUS! I made GOOD, SIMPLE FOOD! Also: vegetarian. But: meaters would love it.

Here is the recipe if you care to try:

Two cups leftover pre-cooked white rice
One almost rotten Vidalia onion (make sure it is NOT rotten) medium chopped (you can also use a totally fresh onion)
Two little cans of sliced mushrooms
1.5 tablespoons sesame oil
1 teaspoon hot chili oil
1 tablespoon chopped garlic (about 2, 3 cloves)
1/4 cup fresh chopped cilantro (I love cilantro, some people don't. If you don't, I feel bad for you but you can sub fresh chives or dill but not basil!)
1 tablespoon butter

Okay -- heat a pan and combine the oils (but not the butter) and stir the onions in. Cook them on a medium to low flame, and let them get slick and transparent. Add the garlic, and keep the flame on the lower side. Add the mushrooms...let 'em cook. Throw the rice in there with about a half cup of water and the butter; let the water reduce out, but not so things get too dry -- you want things to be soft and mushy. Add the cilantro, or if you're a sad person who has no taste for cilantro, the chives or dill. Stir stir stir, and that's it.

This dish is TOTAL COMFORT FOOD and just SO DELICIOUS and yummy. Not to mention CHEAP AS SHIT. Even if we're lucky enough to afford better, on occasion we should all eat like peasants.

EDIT

2007-08-21T13:04:00.000-04:00

Everything about today's lunch could have used an editor. It basically tastes like steak au poivre, which is unfortunate because I ordered penne with chicken, spinach, mushrooms, and tomato sauce. How could there be this much pepper in ANYTHING?

And I LIKE pepper but hey Chef! Next time spare me your first draft.

Edited to say: This is a first draft.

50% HUNGRY 100% OF THE TIME

2007-08-07T23:57:00.000-04:00

I don't know what's wrong with me but if I'm not eating then I'm thinking about eating and if I'm not thinking about eating then I am looking at pictures of food porn on the internet and coaxing myself into a state of stomach-arousal and if I am not doing that then I am probably killing time until the next time that I can eat again.

Why, just this past the week I surreptitiously ate french fries out of a garbage can (AT WORK! BUT! I knew the owner of both the garbage and the fries and they were clean and untouched and even though I'm not a Freegan for that moment I was one) and then I sat in a really stinky restaurant because I so wanted its ramen soup that I was willing to forgive its malodorous odor even though it put off my companion and if THAT'S not shameful enough then this is: as I write this I am STARVING and my stomach won't give up the ghost it is bottomless it is a slavedriver and I just fed it not 20 minutes ago so COME ON YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS, ME!

THE FLIP

2007-08-02T11:45:00.000-04:00

Success! I made a DELICIOUS meal last night, using leftover ingredients from my botched dinner earlier in the week.

What you might not know is that I'm really a ninety-year-old Jewish retiree and my taste in food often reflects this. Yes, I actually ENJOY gefilte fish (even from a JAR), and growing up one of my favorite foods was my paternal grandmother's stuffed cabbage. I still love stuffed cabbage, but I refuse to order it at a restaurant and so I rarely eat it anymore. Until last night, when I made a lazy-man's vegetarian version that was so delicious I think (I mean I know) that I will do a repeatsies on this one for sure.

First, I put on my apron, because I like to be cute for myself. Then I sauteed finely chopped mushrooms, garlic, and onions in olive oil and added a little bit of sherry wine to reduce it. While that was happening I browned some spicy vegetarian sausage that I picked up at Whole Foods out of a weird, but not misguided, curiosity. It didn't crumble as easily as ground beef, but it was seasoned well and after browning the texture was approximate enough. I added this to the mushrooms and a heaping portion of chopped Napa cabbage. To this I also added a small can of Hunt's tomato sauce, which I like for recipes like this because it's a little bit sweet. Then I added some fresh ground pepper, covered the pot and let it simmer.

I knew things were going well because my apartment smelled GREAT. After about 10 minutes I checked on it and voila: done. If I had had white rice I definitely would have dumped spoonfuls of the cabbage/fake-meat mixture over it, but I didn't, so I didn't. Instead, I ate the "stew" from a little bowl, and was really impressed with how much it evoked that old-world stuffed cabbage taste I was craving, and how quickly I was able to achieve it. Again, I had A LOT of leftovers and I briefly entertained the idea of going over to my new neighbor's door and asking him if he'd eaten yet and would he like to try my concoction, but then I realized that no, I'm not that folksy and yes, he would think I was weird. So I did what any Nana would do and I stuck the extras in the freezer for another time.

THE FLOP

2007-07-31T09:45:00.000-04:00

I really botched my dinner last night. And I was so excited to cook! But: passion doesn't guarantee results! At least: good ones!

After a Chinatown shopping spree earlier in the month wherein I went condiment crazy, I was inspired to make a spicy vegetable stir-fry and serve it over rice noodles. It was supposed to be a classy stir-fry, too; I bought Chinese eggplant because I wanted to see how it was different from uh..."regular" eggplant which sounds kind of racist but is not. I think the primary difference is that Chinese eggplant is a beautiful lavender color, thinner, and extremely more phallic than any vegetable ought to be. I also picked up mung beans, onions, garlic, napa cabbage, white cap mushrooms, and tofu. Sounds good, right?! But: it wasn't. It was TOTALLY BAD.

My first mistake was that I bought way too much food. I just had TOO MUCH STUFF to mix together, which led to my second mistake: I stir fried my garlic, onions, and tofu in a grill pan that I had specifically purchased for the SEARING OF MEAT. You know the kind...it has RIDGES? Yeah, it does, and those ridges mean that it is the opposite of a good idea when you're mixing around ingredients. But I used it because it was the biggest pan I had! And I bought too much food! What a mess!

My second mistake was that as I was soaking the rice noodles I separately sauteed the mushrooms, eggplant, and more garlic in the same big soup pot intended for boiling the noodles. As the mushrooms and eggplant turned a horrible gray and released their water, I figured I'd just throw the noodles in with them and cook them all together. BIG FUCKING DUMB MOVE! The noodles congealed almost immediately, the eggplant disappeared, and the mushrooms got caught in a gloppy-gluey noodle web that may or may not have ruined my pot. I'm not sure of its status because it is still soaking in water.

At this point it would have been prudent to give up, but I am a Fighter and an Optimist and so I mixed the spicy tofu cabbage mung bean onion blooper into the gloppy-gluey rice Chernobyl and, yes, it was just too much food for the size of my pots, so yes, my tiny kitchen floor knows the sensation of so much hot food spilling if it didn't already. I forced myself to eat whatever it was that I had cooked, and, here's a spoiler: IT WAS BAD. It wasn't offensive, but it had zero sex appeal looks-wise and I would have had a more exciting taste sensation if I had dipped a piece of white bread into water and let it air-dry on my tongue. The irony of all this is that I have a TON OF LEFTOVERS and an ABSENCE OF DESIRE to eat them.

UNITARDED

2007-07-22T12:13:00.000-04:00

You're asking for trouble if you go to El Sombrero (aka "The Hat") with two of your favorite girls and order TWO PITCHERS of frozen strawberry margaritas. You're asking for trouble if you make quick work of those pitchers and afterwards pass by a tiny Japanese restaurant advertising $7 Sake Bombs. Because you will be forced to stop inside the tiny Japanese restaurant wherein you (me) will drink (chug) a Sake Bomb and then finish up half of another Sake Bomb because it is very clear that you (I) are (am) the alcoholic in the group as evidenced by your (my) neverending tolerance (inability to "feel the buzz"). You're asking for trouble if you pass by American Apparal while three sheets to the wind because you (we) will go inside and purchase MATCHING GREEN UNITARDS and color-coordinated terrycloth spa bathrobes and WEAR SAID GET-UPS OUT OF THE STORE. You're just asking for it, you're really asking for it if you (we) show up at a very crowded party in the aforementioned get-ups and CONTINUE TO DRINK. Because one girl will quickly go home to vomit, and the two of you remaining will have about an hour's worth of fun before it becomes very clear that the best venue for such ridiculous outfits is the bedroom. And not for kinky reasons but for passed-out-drunk-gripping-a-vibrating-cellphone-which-nevertheless-fails-to-wake-you-(me)-up reasons.

MY BREAD. MY BUTTER

2007-07-16T17:34:00.001-04:00

Things are going to get out of hand if I continue to purchase the trappings of cookery without ever getting to the cookery itself. So what, though?! I have an apron fetish, and I blame this place.

Also: aprons make amazing housewarming gifts (tacky hint hint).

I will say this: with great protection from food splatters...comes great food.

LITTLE NEST

2007-07-10T12:57:00.000-04:00

Apologies to my loyal reader(s)* for the lack of updates. I don't believe in excuses but I do believe in being a hypocrite so here's one: I moved into my own place and preparing my little nest so that it's livable (read: adorable) has consumed much of my time. One of the most important "rooms" in my place is, of course, the kitchen, but to call it a room is an exaggeration that even I can't abide. The kitchen is tiny. It almost doesn't exist. Sure, there's a full-size fridge and a working stove and a mini-sink and some cupboards, but it presents quite a challenge to someone terribly keen on becoming a better cook. And that's precisely why I love it! If I can prepare full dinners in this kitchen (and I'm gonna!), then I'm guaranteed to be The Barefoot Contessa in future, larger kitchens! But first: get the kitchen in fighting shape.

I spent Sunday in Paramus, New Jersey, and if you live in the greater NY area you know what that means: I went to Ikea with my folks to get some Space-Saving Solutions. We succeeded, but only after listening to the shrieking of countless babies and inhaling the farts of literally a million strangers all hell-bent on buying their own Space-Saving-Solutions. Seriously: Ikea is a genius place, but Double Seriously: any time spent there will decrease your lifespan. And not because of the farts. But because of the cafeteria's Swedish meatballs. Probably.

So I took my Space-Saving-Solutions back to the little nest and my dad and I installed them. He mostly installed them. But that's because he was the one holding the drill. Not because I'm lazy, but because I'm incompetent! A little! But I knocked on walls to see if they were hollow or not, so that's something! And now I know about drilling into drywall, so that's something else! We installed the Kroken dish drainer (I have almost no counter top space) and hung two little Kroken cutlery caddies. I think they're cute! On the opposite wall we installed the Grundtal hanging rod and a little Grundtal shelf, onto which I immediately placed my newly-purchased Trader Joe's cooking oils, Japanese rice vinegar, and spices. I hung my apron and some kitchen towels, and when I get some S hooks I'm gonna throw my pots and pans on there, too. I have a hunch that's also gonna look pretty cute.

But it's gonna get totally adorable when I finish painting, have my new mattress delivered, replace my metal desk filing cabinets ruined by Manhattan Mini Storage, pick up one of these, plan a menu, purchase groceries, and invite some friends over for my first dinner party. Which is gonna happen soon...ish!

*I'm talking to YOU, dad.

GO PLACES

2007-06-25T11:55:00.000-04:00

I visited Los Angeles last week and one lingering question is "how are The Locals not more fat?" I continue to ask this because all I really did while there was 1) get into my rental car (christened The Caramel Hearse on account of it being undeniably ugly) and drive to a restaurant so I could then 2) eat crazy amounts of (undeniably pretty) food and then 3) get back into the The Caramel Hearse and drive around, only to 4) repeat this pattern of living for four days. Yes I'm not the first to say it but Nobody Walks In LA and for me walking after a meal is THE most crucial part of the eating ritual.

But it's good to go places and I'm glad I did because I got to eat some pretty tasty things including luxurious sit-down breakfasts. I never eat sit-down breakfasts in New York but like most LA locals I didn't have a day job so I had time to spare and my mouth to feed. One great place my friends recommended was BLD (which stands for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner) and I went there TWO DAYS IN A ROW for breakfast because it was so damn good. The first day I ate their blueberry ricotta pancakes which was served with a little metal replica of a log cabin filled with maple syrup. I am a sucker for those kind of details, as I am a sucker for what is basically dessert for breakfast. Pancakes were stellar. The next day I ate eggs florentine which is basically a sly way to self-induce a heart-attack because one conveniently ignores the perils of hollandaise when it is placed atop spinach. I Took It To The Limit by also ordering a side of chicken sausage, which arrived way past the appearance of my eggs but I didn't complain about it and I'll tell you why: I am superficial and my waiter had crazy good muscles and gorgeous eyes and I was prejudiced towards his good looks. I almost fell in love when, after asking him for the check, he replied, "Yeah, you wanna get outta here?" as if it were a pick-up line and not an affirmation of what I actually wanted to do. I kind of wish it had been a pick-up line because, like I said: he had crazy good muscles and I am superficial.

One of my other favorite things was a milk-shake made with blueberries, banana, and honey at the 101 Coffee Shop, which was one of my favorite places in LA. First of all, I love a good coffee shop and secondly this one was great because the milk-shake pretended to be a smoothie but was in fact delicious like a milk-shake and also because someone in the kitchen was especially generous with the whipped cream. I had coffee there as well and they served it in little vintage carafes and brown ceramic mugs and again -- I live for this. I should add that overall coffee in LA was GREAT but I think maybe it's because the creamers were almost always filled with actual heavy cream (not milk) and that shit will make anything taste better.

My final meal in LA was actually at LAX and it was An Abomination. I took the red-eye but anticipated midnight hunger which led me to make a Grand Mistake and go to Chili's, the only sit-down place in the vicinity of my gate. I find it necessary to add that I had over an hour to kill before boarding, as if that somehow excuses my voluntarily taking myself to a motherfucking Chili's, housed inside an AIRPORT, no less. It's like I hate myself or something because WHY WOULD I DO THAT?! Why did I go there and pay $6 for a BUD LIGHT (oh my God, friends, it gets worse) and why did I order a bowl of AIRPORT CHILI and an AIRPORT SIDE SALAD topped with AIRPORT RANCH DRESSING before GETTING ON A PLANE? I don't know: maybe I really hate myself. It was all horrible disgusting food, even the Bud Light (the only thing I bothered to finish) but at least I got to eavesdrop on the table next to mine, which was populated by a heavily tattooed family of Margarita Enthusiasts, comprised of at least two who DEFINITELY WORKED IN A PRISON. It was pretty great watching them get drunk and get into a tangle over the check after the patriarch of the group just up and walked away without leaving enough cash. Oh people of the world! I don't know where you're going and I don't know where you're from but I'm happy to eat among you, on temporary terms, even with the subsequent belly-ache.

FATHER'S DAY

2007-06-18T15:07:00.001-04:00

My friend's father died on Thursday and his funeral was yesterday. That is shit timing but I suppose when it comes to matters like these there is no such thing as good timing. Another lesson on the theory of relativity! In any case I love my friend and so I went to her father's funeral to do what friends do at funerals, and what they do is mostly be comforting and kind and quiet and also what they do is go back to the house to set up the food and prepare the coffee and pick up creamer so that after the burial when everyone comes back to the house hungry and exhausted there will be food and coffee and creamer.

It is the best kind of work to do, and I was so happy to be asked, along with a couple of other close friends, to do it. I was grateful to have an activity, a place to put my hands and my energy and also I am pretty good at laying out catered platters of bagels, lox, and cream cheese. There was also a homemade noodle kugel, which the other girls and I heated up and then plated. We plated cookies and rugelach, set up cans of Coke, Diet Coke, and Nestea, and lined up bottles of water. Everything looked so nice. People came and ate and ate and ate, grateful to have an activity, a place to put their hands.

After visiting for a bit I met my own father and mother at our house and then we drove into the city to celebrate Father's Day. It's really sad, this whole thing. I got to eat a big Italian dinner with my dad and it's really sad how he took my suggestion of what to order and ordered it and loved it, and it's really sad that after dinner we went to the movies and I bought him a popcorn and soda because even though he was full from dinner it is impossible for my father to sit through a movie without eating popcorn and drinking a soda, and it's really sad how I listened to my father sit next to me and laugh throughout the movie, and next to him my mother actually awake and laughing at the movie, and on my other side my oldest brother leaning into me laughing at the movie, it's really sad, it's just so really sad to eat one way in a room and feel so empty and then to eat another way, in another room, and feel so full, so full to overflowing and it's sad it's really sad that one day I will envy myself and all the things I have now.

SWINGS

2007-06-12T17:09:00.000-04:00

Tuesdays start with the talking cure and tears. Therapy's expensive in general, but therapy is especially expensive for me because afterwards I always reward myself with some sort of breakfast indulgence. I do this because crying is exhausting and it makes me hungry, and now that I think about it crying probably makes a lot of people hungry, which is why there is always so much food at funerals.

I don't know what it is, and this makes me feel like some sort of General Foods International Coffee-drinking stereotype, but I like a Little Something after spending forty-five minutes rehashing all my early traumas and relating them to my present difficulties! It makes me feel SO ALIVE when I go to Starbucks for my once-a-week Cinnamon Dolce Latte (skim, of course. I'm indulgent but it's not like I'm ready to take a flying leap into Sodom and Gomorrah!). I'm REALLY LIVING when I GO FOR IT and purchase a toasted whole wheat bagel with vegetable cream cheese (again, low-fat, because, let's face it: I'm a lot like Lot).

Today was an especially epiphanic emotional chimney sweep which means that A) I have cry-snot on my shirt and B) I was super-hungry afterwards. So, when my boss brought in a bag of all-natural cider donuts from Brooklyn's Greenmarket, I WENT FOR IT by indulging in FOUR of them. I had already had my bagel-with-a-lite-shmear but, these donuts: so good! And, why not? I cried earlier! But: lest you think I'm some sort of future-bulimic (bad) or future-fatty (maybe bad, depending on your feelings about fat people), the donuts were kind of small. The only problem was that I didn't have any coffee with me at the time that I ate them and I very gently asked my coworker if I could dunk my donut in her coffee. She said no. Which is just as well because it means I have something to cry about at next week's session.

AND WHEN SHE WAS TIPSY, SHE WAS VERY VERY TIPSY

2007-06-10T00:14:00.001-04:00

Tonight I drank Pinot Bianco from Italy, then Cabernet Sauvignon from California. Tonight I ate an entire portion of suspiciously wet and salty chicken paillard, and then half a serving of Out Of This World sticky toffee pudding with vanilla ice cream. And after all of this tonight I ended the evening by drinking more than my fair share of suspiciously icy sangria. Don't get me wrong: it was a really good night! Until!

As I walked my friend to the subway a guy passed and tugged on my sweater. He was walking with a girl, and I turned around to give him a look. The look said: "Uh, what was THAT about?" The guy: he caught my look but continued his walking, but as he did he kept looking at me, and, this was so weird: his girl looked at me, too. I gave another look. This one politely asked: "What. The. Fuck?" It was enough of a look that the guy: he turned back around, and, with his girl, approached me. Of course I got nervous. "Do I know you?" I asked. "You look really familiar!" he said. Then he said: "But no." "Oh," I said, smelling clove cigarettes on his breath and immediately deciding I was superior to him, "so you were just fucking with me?" "Yeah," he said, revealing gray teeth and the undeniable truth that clove cigarettes are a bad idea always and forever. "I'm Sasha," he said, and extended his hand. "I'm Vagine*," I said, shaking it. I looked at him, I looked at his girl. "I'm Paige," she said. "Okay," I said, "now we know who we are. Glad we solved that mystery."

Then I walked away, both ashamed and in love with myself.

*pronounced va-jean.

IN MY FAVORITE SONG, THE CODA IS MY FAVORITE PART

2007-06-04T17:18:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I freak myself out with this thing! What I'm saying is that while most of my blog entries are benign and/and irrelevant, some have been weirdly prescient. I'm not kidding when I say that there are days when I feel like I'm writing my life out on this thing only to later live it.

You are a scientist, or maybe you are a detective, so you want empirical data or maybe evidence so okay, wonderful, I understand your skepticism and am happy to provide examples:

I wrote about being a cater-waiter at the City Bakery a week before I went to a wedding and was served, by cater-waiters, at the City Bakery. This is weird because the wedding was not originally supposed to be at the City Bakery; the location was changed at the last minute because of a more-than-unfortunate event. I believe in coincidence too, but still: WEIRD!

And some time ago I wrote this and, I'm not sure if it was coincidence or something more, HALF THE WISH LIST CAME TO PASS VERY SOON AFTERWARDS. Which is: DOUBLE WEIRD!

Which leads me to this: I must make more wishes. And more specifically, I must write them down here, For Your Eyes Only (Roger Moore's best Bond flick if you ask me).

So here goes Another Wish List

I want to have an extremely enjoyable and Amy Sedaris-inspired dinner party once I finally move into my new teeny-tiny apartment. I want to wear my favorite apron. The entire time.

I want to have ice-cream sundaes for dinner with Mom, Dad, and Max (our dog). It's what we used to do on hot summer nights when we were younger (only Max was Oscar, our Other Dog) and I think we should do it again. Because it's the little things, right?

I'm not trying to be greedy, but I would also like to put on a cute outfit and go out to dinner with you, whoever you may be. You can pick the place and I will love it or I'll pick the place and you will love it. In any case, it'll be delicious for sure and I won't feel awkward eating in front of you not even when food inevitably ends up in my hair or on my face because maybe you will think it's charming that food ends up in my hair and on my face. And you will let me know.

That's it! Since I am asking for so much I will also give what is my favorite song right now.

DAVID CHANG YOU MAKE ME SWEAT

2007-05-31T16:45:00.000-04:00

So I sort of had my steak dinner last night. My friend Brian called and asked if I wanted to grab dinner and I did so I said yes. To "grab dinner" typically implies a quick bite in the neighborhood, nothing fancy or memorable, but I realize now that whenever Brian and I get together to "grab" anything, whether it's dinner or a drink, we turn into crazy hedonists for whom those Hedonism resorts were not invented, because our kind of hedonism does not involve fuck swings (or any kind of swinging, for that matter). It involves either inebriation and/or too much food.

He wanted to try Momofuku Ssam, and I was totally game, having been there once -- before it turned into the Pleasure Den Of Sin it is now. Literally. Because Momofuku Ssam, which used to be a laid-back Asian burrito bar, is now a Skinemax-Style Food Resort devoted to pork parts (bellies, butts, and ribs), shellfish (oysters, soft-shell crabs, crawfish), and offal (veal head, tripe, sweetbreads). It's completely insane, and I'm only talking about the menu. The menu being all the evidence I need to make this statement: recent James Beard Award-winning chef David Chang HATES vegetarians AND kosher people. Like, if you're either, you are aggressively not welcome at his restaurants. Like, NOT AT ALL. Triple like, his menus have these charmingly hostile warnings: ABSOLUTELY NO SUBSTITUTIONS, and NOT VEGETARIAN FRIENDLY. Gotcha, David. P.S. I am in love with you.

We had to wait for about 20 minutes because the place was jammed, but we passed the time by drinking alcohol. Brian had OB beer and I had the house Momofuku sake which was totally delicious, as was its subsequent buzz. Then we were seated on some high stools against a long bar and pondered the menu. I was kind of fucked by it. Seriously: I am not eating pork or shellfish right now...

(short version of long story: I'm Jewish and even though I'm not religious I have no living grandparents and I miss them very much. As such I impulsively decided to eat the way they ate, according to their traditions, as a way to honor and remember them. I thought this homage would last about a week but I've been doing it since December and I can't seem to stop!)

...and the menu was almost exclusively both. Brian was dead-set on getting the steamed pork belly buns and pork ribs, which meant we couldn't share those dishes. And I'm a big-time sharer. So, to start, Brian got his buns (loved them), and I got the assorted seasonal pickles, which are way more delicious than that sounds. It was cucumbers, turnips, jicama, fennel, beets, and maybe parsnip? served like the most high-brow Korean kimchi, which ate like the ultimate astringent, crunchy palate-cleanser. I also made us order the hamachi appetizer because I wanted to try something from the sea and oysters (one of my old favorites) were out, because, sadly, they are traif.

No tears, though, because the hamachi was thick-slices of yellowtail sashimi, cured in a light brine, with a horseradish cream, pea shoots, and a scattering of edamame peas. It was pretty awesome in my mouth. Maybe not oyster awesome but few things are. Brian ordered the ribs for his main, and I was relieved to see hanger steak on the menu so I got that. Which sounds like enough food, right?

Well, I also forced us to get the Warm Veal Head Terrine because A) I wanted to try something crazy and B) I am a bottomless pit of hunger and C) veal head is kosher!

Okay, I am so glad I am me because this dish was FUCKING AWESOME. I've never had veal head and before you get grossed it's not like, a baby cow's head on a plate. It's basically the gelatinously fatty gooey cheeks thinly sliced over a warm plate, and you spread this gooey gorgeous mess onto crisp wedges of bread and top it with some lightly braised fennel. Then you mouthgasm for five uncomfortable minutes and almost pass out from the pleasure. Good thing I didn't pass out, because my hangar steak arrived and it was also FUCKING AWESOME. It was cooked medium rare (they didn't even ASK, they just KNEW), served sliced (I like to cut my own meat but whatever) on a bed of wilted, transluscent onions, with a pile of bibb lettuce on the side. Two sauces, a red spicy kimchi and a green, garlicky one were also on the side. I made little ssams (burritos?) by putting the steak, onions, and two sauces inside the lettuce and rolling it up. Then I put this in my mouth and ate it. Crazy yummy. I offered one to Brian, who had the nerve to accept it, even though he was nice enough to insincerely lament that he couldn't share his ribs with me. I didn't mind, because at that point I had food up to my trachea and my attractive stretchy dress was unattractively stretching. I'm pretty sure Brian loved his ribs because he ate every single one, but by the end of the meal we were both so uncomfortably full we almost couldn't high-five each other. Almost.

I should add that throughout our meal David Chang, who is my age, was in the kitchen, causing Yours Truly to become starstruck. Even though I've seen him multiple times at the original Momofuku. And: he's just a chef. But still! This is why I know that I will never be James Dean Cool. Another reason why I know? Because I kept asking Brian to dare me to congratulate David on his James Beard Award, and even though Brian did I was too scared to do it. Hold on, James Dean? Shit: I will never even be Velma Dinkley Cool.

SLOW NEWS DAY

2007-05-29T11:50:00.000-04:00

This is bad news!

But this is great news!

And in other news! My CFO (Current Food Obsession) is Great Grains Pear Yogurt mixed with a generous helping of Alpen Original Muesli Cereal. Sweet, tart, crunchy, yum! I'm sure there are traces of it in my hair and/or on my face. That's what happens when I don't hold back.

U BE YOU, I BE ME

2007-05-28T00:24:00.000-04:00

My old high school friend L married new adult friend M tonight at the City Bakery. It was a modest but beautiful reception, and to it I wore a teal silk dress, strappy heels, diamonds and perfume. I even brushed my hair (!) and carried a clutch purse (!!). Yes, I was quite the lady, but that facade crumbled after my third trip to the open bar. After two glasses of wine and one prosecco, I was what an old-fashioned person might call a Wiseacre. Or a Dr. Wisenheimer. Please note that the prefix "wise" connotes the opposite. I didn't do anything embarrassing or even say anything inappropriate, but had there been a Slip N' Slide or even a Super Soaker Master Blaster some crazy shit easily would have gone down. At least from my end. Wow, thinking about it now I wish there had been a Slip N' Slide or Super Soaker Master Blaster! That would have been pretty fun.

At one point I became the Drink Gopher for all my married friends and I quickly realized it was not because they were lazy; it's because the bartender was a total dish and they were trying to get me to flirt with him. They mean well, my married friends, but even their goodwill cannot compensate for my bad unwillingness. Besides, when it comes to parties like these, I'm not there to make time with the opposite sex; I'm there to go to MouthTown on the food. Which is what I did. Which might be an indicator that my priorities are a little out of whack. Anyway, it was light fare, the food was: Chicken Guacamole Wraps, Asparagus Toast Points, Grilled Shrimp with Lime Cream (I passed on that), Pulled Barbecue Chicken Sandwiches on Brioche Buns, Mini Lobster Rolls (passed on those, too), and Andouille Sausage Toast Points (triple passed). It's not like me to be finicky, but I am on a pork/shellfish hiatus, and even unlimited scrimps and free lobster could not pursuade me.

My discipline made for extra room in my tummy, which was filled lickity-split at the dessert bar: Chocolate Chip Cookies, Ice Cream Sundaes (I had mine with hot fudge, sugared walnuts, and fresh cherries in syrup), Sugar Cookies, and Lemon Tartlets. As I finished my sundae my old friend, A, and I caught up with each other. She had recently broken up with her boyfriend of 10 months and was feeling bad about it, but not so bad that she didn't drunkenly promise me that this was going to be "The best summer ever!" Anything is possible but if that's true then the opposite is also true: Anything is not possible. I'm thinking positively, though, and I was charmed by her offering of this golden nugget, overheard by her friend on the subway. The nugget is this:

A couple was having a raging fight on the D train in Brooklyn. The woman was screaming and cursing at her much larger boyfriend, and at a certain point began to physically wail on him. He took his licks for awhile -- publicly, even -- but then, according to A he finally defused the situation. And he did it with this declaration:

"You be you! I be me!"

What?

"You be YOU! I be ME!"

OH!

I get that! I guess when you finally meet the person for whom that statement is both true and inoffensive, then you marry them. And then you make a party. And at the party you serve tiny sandwiches and sweet desserts, and, if you're very classy, a make-your-own-sundae bar. If you're extra-classy and know that I'm going to be there, you might even provide some high-pressure water guns. It's not traditional, I know, but neither am I. And I be me.

I AM HAPPY FOR ME (TOOT! TOOT!)

2007-05-24T12:27:00.000-04:00

It turns out that I am mousy-looking, thin, and crass! Yeah, STEAK DINNER! You're going to be inside me!

Is it tacky to link to one's own previous blog entry while at the same time tooting one's own horn? I don't know the answer because I am a meathead.

Speaking of meat! It will be a Strip Steak, cooked medium rare. I'd love to dig into a Luger's Porterhouse, but this good news doesn't quite make that cut. Side of creamed spinach, french fries well-done. Trying to drink less so maybe a Dr. Brown's Black Cherry to wash it down. Oh boy!

WHEREIN I INVOKE JONI MITCHELL

2007-05-21T00:03:00.000-04:00

I'm thinking of her song today because of a phone call and the The Times' Sunday Magazine. This post has so much backstory I don't know where to begin!

There was an article about The City Bakery. I read it. And I remembered intermittently working there, years ago, as a cater-waiter. I worked come pretty glamorous parties, and I remember enjoying the atmosphere, but cater-waitering was very hard work, both physically and emotionally. I carried a lot of heavy shit up and down stairs, succeeded and failed at holding trays of long-stem glassware, sweat and slipped in the kitchen retrieving set-up materials, mugs and saucers, replacement ramekins, and also served celebrities, the wealthy, and New York City's cultural elite mini-brioche Coach Farm cheddar burgers, cauliflower pakoras with cilantro cumin dipping sauce, and at least three dozen more varieties of outrageously delicious finger foods, my voice a lilting loop of "grilled shrimp with yogurt-lime cream?" or "Niman-Ranch bacon BLT on biscuits?" Back then, I answered questions with a question ("What is that?" "It is this?"), and I desperately wanted to be enjoying the parties instead of working them, although working them did have its advantages: I saw Salma Hayek devour some lambchops in a drop-dead-sexy way while her boyfriend at the time, Ed Norton, scowled and refused all food. Total sign that they were Not Meant To Be! I also witnessed, completely astonished, one of Jennifer Lopez's "handlers" feed her chicken with his bare hands because I guess she didn't want to touch her own food with her own bare hands. Total sign that she is Bonkers!

In any case, those two years that I worked intermittently as a cater-waiter made me more ambitious than I'm comfortable admitting. Being on the working side of the passed hors d'oeuvres tray was a great motivator in my never wanting to be on the working side of the passed hors d'oeuvres tray ever again. And I have been lucky enough, since, to enjoy the other side. And it feels good, because I remember when it felt bad. Sides: there are two. And you need Both.

And here is where I relate it to love, because That Is What I Do. Sigh.

Today I got a phone call from someone extremely close to me, and its purpose was to tell me that the caller had broken up with his girlfriend of six years, a woman who I have come to feel extremely close to. He is broken-hearted, of course. He is beyond broken-hearted. Ah, it breaks MY heart! And I have never been in a relationship six-years-long, and I have never been in a relationship where I was certain, beyond any doubt, that the person was my future, would be my companion for the rest of my life. But I have been in love and know the joy it brings. And I have been loved and not loved back equally, and I know how painful that is. And I have been in love and had it not returned and that is The Fucking Worst. Hoo boy it stinks so bad, does evolution require it if not then why does unrequited love exist do we need this broken-hearted feeling for species survival can we get NASA on that stat?

But we all get a turn. For six years I watched today's broken-hearted man live on the side of love that made him feel amazing. Then, poof! he's on the other side.

I like to think we all have it coming; the good side, the bad side, and then, hopefully, the good side again. I remember holding a tray and offering hors d'oeuvres. I answered questions with questions and went home alone and exhausted. I have also put on a pretty dress and gone to the party, and I tasted the food that was offered to me. With my own hands, thank you very much.

I guess the point of this whole thing is that sometimes we're hungry and sometimes we're fed. Maybe I know nothing, or I'm just a sad romantic (it's possible that the two aren't mutually exclusive), but I think it's this: as long as nobody starves and nobody chokes, we're all going to be okay.

NEUPHEMISMS

2007-05-16T23:07:00.000-04:00

I like to invent words and phrases as much if not more than I enjoy plagiarizing other people's clever lingo and turns of phrase (or is it turn of phrases?), and today, oh boy today, did I ever invent a new euphemism (see: the title of this post for a pun which makes me extremely proud) which makes me extremely proud. Sorry dudes, this one's not for you, it's for The Ladies, and it's kind of gross but kind of beautiful and it relates to food which is why it's here and enough with the build-up!

"Dropping My Caviar"

It's for The Ladies for when they're On The Rag (a not-so-nice euphemism).
Or when they're Riding The Crimson Tide (a beachy, sporty, euphemism).
Or if they're entertaining a Visit From Aunt Flow (a very gracious, hospitable, euphemism).
Or if they've got The Bleedies (a not very euphemistic euphemism).
Or if they're menstruating.

I like it because it sounds really luxurious, you know? Caviar. So chic!

Look, I am BEYOND AWARE that no one will ever order my personal Beluga at a fancy restaurant, pay hundreds of dollars fo the smallest ounce of it, and smear it on blinis with a dab of creme fraiche (that would be HORRIFIC). But there's something a little bit refined about "Dropping My Caviar", right? I mean, it beats "The Monthly Blobbies".

SHAME ON YOU

2007-05-14T01:53:00.000-04:00

Mother's Day in Whole Foods on the Bowery. My brother and I are shopping for groceries for Mother's Day dinner and availing ourselves -- with numerous toothpicks and great frequency -- of the various free samples. Of course we should not be doing this. I mean, the only appropriate serving plate for a free sample is a petri dish, right? There really is no activity more likely to give me explosive diarrhea. Well, maybe there's one: if I ate actual explosive diarrhea. But my brother and I suspend our disbelief because we're like, hungry. And the samples are FREE. So we dip the chips and try the melon and, ooh! My favorite! Some sort of cheese sample with sundried tomatos and olives! Too bad there's a perfectly-sane-seeming middle-aged-woman in front of me, because I really want to have at that cheese. Well, I can wait; she's civilized, as evidenced by her Vespa helmet and the toothpick she just picked up. How hygienic! Good on you, lady!

Wait.

WHOA.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING, LADY?!

DID YOU JUST STICK YOUR TOOTHPICK, WHICH WAS JUST IN YOUR MOUTH, BACK INTO THE CHEESE?!

WHAT THE MOTHERFUCKING FUCK?!

NO! YOU CANNOT BE ROOTING AROUND THE ENTIRE CHEESE SAMPLE RIGHT NOW!

NO! NO! YOU ARE NOT MAKING YOURSELF A TINY CHEESE, TOMATO, AND OLIVE KEBAB!

YOU ARE!

YOU ARE MAKING AND EATING TINY CHEESE-SAMPLE KEBABS! WITH THE SAME ONE TOOTHPICK!

Oh, God. Please. Lady. Don't make me be a hero right now. I will do it: I will be a hero. I will be and I was a hero with these exact words: "What you're doing right now is really gross and you should stop immediately."

I wish I could describe what her response was to this, but I literally ran away. I had enough moxie to shame a stranger, but too little to bear witness to the fruits of my confrontation.

I'd like to think that she is the obnoxious person in this story, but that may not be the case. In my own defense, if this lady knows how to operate an Italian scooter and to construct tiny kebabs, she is probably not retarded. Which means she deserves to be shamed. But maybe not on Mother's Day. But maybe?

SNAP INTO IT

2007-05-10T22:07:00.000-04:00

I refer to myself as a late bloomer and, though I'm not a flowery gal, it's an apt description. I bring this up because, very late in the game, I have discovered something amazing and I'm sure -- much like DVR, alcohol, and sex -- all you early-blooming, precociously-pubescent carnivores knew about its wonders way before I did.

My discovery is JERKY. As in: dried beef/salmon/turkey jerky. Seriously: I had NO IDEA. It's WONDERFUL STUFF!

Caveat: I'm not talking mechanically-separated-pork snout jerky, those long, brown, dried ropes of turd that a certain wrestler and/or "snapalope" is famous for schilling. I'm talking NATURAL jerky, the meat separated not by machine but the sexiest of sexy man-hands.

My kind of jerky is great because it's like a chewy, spicy salt-lick AND it counts as FOOD! It's full of PROTEIN which means it's HEALTHY. Nevermind the salt content; I have adorably low blood pressure and can use a little kick of sodium every now and then. Jerky is a totally tasty stress-reliever because it gives my mouth a serious workout and that's awesome because I'm really into keeping fit (this means I'm interesting), especially if I can keep fit while eating (this means I'm insane). It's basically chewing gum for carnivores and Florida Panhandle murderers.

Trader Joe's sells organic versions of spicy beef and kippered salmon jerky, and I currently Can't Get Enough. This might mean I am a piece of trash or more like Macho Man Randy Savage than I ever thought, but I can live with that as long as I can snap into something so returdedly delicious.

ONE LUMP OR TWO?

2007-05-07T12:47:00.000-04:00

I have a catchphrase for whenever something lucky happens (or might potentially happen) to me, and it is this: "Steak dinner!" As in: I will reward myself or celebrate over a steak dinner. It's the only way to go, I think.

Well, I just uttered "Steak dinner!" to myself, only it's for the most hilariously insulting reason. Here it is:

A couple of weeks ago I auditioned for something which required me, at one point, to take my top off and show the producers, casting director, and cameraman what I look like in a bikini top. Except that I don't currently have a bikini, at least not one less than--I'm not kidding--8 years old. It's not decent, and certainly not flattering. So instead of wearing a sun-bleached triangle with stretched elastic, I wore a brand new push-up bra with a loud pattern thinking it'd look kind of like a bikini AND give the twins a little extra cleavage. Safe bet, right?

I then threw my dignity out the window and, IN A BRA, NOT A BIKINI, auditioned. Aside from the utter humiliation of IMPROVISING SHIRTLESS for a room full of men, it went well! So well, in fact, that I have a callback! Yeah! Steak Dinner! I don't want to jinx myself, but getting this part would be the exact kind of thing worth celebrating over a medium rare strip steak with well-done french fries and a side of creamed spinach. It's the kind of meal that would absolutely restore my dignity. Kind of!

But here's something: the casting director e-mailed me today to say that the producers want me to audition for a different, non-bikini-clad part. Hooray, right?! I mean, I wasn't too fond of the notion of wearing a bikini on-camera in the first place! I can't stop winning!

So what part DO they want me to audition for? Well, it's even SEXIER than the first:

Tooth Fairy: mousy looking, thin young woman, early 20’s, Caucasian who speaks in a foul, crass manner.

Wow. I show them my mo-mo's, my top-bits, my sweet-B's, and they come back to me with this. My own dumb vanity is trying to be flattered by their thinking I'm thin (and, I'll be honest, in my early 20's), but...no. There is nothing flattering about this breakdown. Even though I really couldn't be more typecast by it.

Nevertheless: fingers crossed! I would love to eat a steak dinner! And, who knows: maybe some of those extra calories will find a home in what I like to call Titty Kingdom.

LET THEM EAT

2007-05-04T11:50:00.000-04:00

Cake.

I knew I loved this band but I forgot just how much. Best part: reserve glass of milk! Crucial!

LOVE HURTS

2007-05-02T15:50:00.000-04:00

I love coffee and I love tea and they are two of my favorite things. And even though I'm the Occasional Klutz, I tend to get along rather well with a steaming cup of Joe or English Breakfast. So well, in fact, that super-hot beverages are part of my daily F train multi-task trifecta, wherein I balance my ipod, book-or-magazine, and coffee with the greatest of ease. I've become completely efficient at enjoying all three, which I think makes me a little bit amazing.

And here is where I admonish all of you who think that your invisible super-powers on the train or wherever mean that you're a little bit amazing: arrogance is always rewarded with pain. Must be, because just now, in the break room, while filling my cup with boiling water from the coffee maker for my afternoon green tea pick-me-up, I daydreamed a little too dreamily, and burned the ever-loving-shit out of my left hand. It was so bad and so surprising that I instantly started crying, IN FRONT OF ANOTHER, UNSYMPATHETIC, PERSON, and COULD NOT PLAY IT OFF. I didn't curse or even whisper an "ouch!" or a "yikes!" or a "zounds!" I just cryingly put my hand under cold water and watched the red welt snake its way, like hot pink paint, down my hand, while the UNSYMPATHETIC PERSON silently snaked her way, like a hot green snake, out of the break room.

I'm writing this to say that the truth is that at the time of The Incident With My Hand I was daydreaming about what it feels like to be in love. And, get ready: I started crying both from the burn and that it happened while thinking about something so pathetic. I was burned AND humiliated. My daydreams are like the finest Maple sap, and I am practically a Grown Woman. Practically.

STRANGERS

2007-05-01T14:13:00.000-04:00

Somewhere in Columbus, a girl is writing this. It's still early, but I'm solidly sure that she's made my day.

WHAT A SO TASTY!

2007-04-30T17:15:00.000-04:00

My ex-boyfriend went to Japan and photographed all his meals there. He then sent me a link so that I could mouthterbate to the pictures. Thank you ex-boyfriend: you're one in a million.

This is my favorite one because of the subtly threatening line, "Our pursuing tastiness will never stop". Seriously? That's amazing. It's amazing for like, a thousand reasons, but one of them is this: last night, my fortune cookie totally said, "Don't stop now." At first I thought "That's what she said." Then I thought (only after giving myself the ol' High Five for my first thought), "WTF?" And now, after looking at this picture, I'm thinking: "Whoa, what a precient fortune cookie!" That's right, everybody: Don't stop! Never stop! Sounds Good!

QUERO MEU BIFE MAL PASSADO

2007-04-27T12:44:00.000-04:00

This post is all about meat, because I am infatuated with meat. I was going to qualify "infatuated" with "slightly" but then I thought the adverb would read like an apology and I am not sorry for my obsession.

I decided to write about meat today because of some music I've been listening to also unapologetically obsessively, and that music is Battles. Their record Mirrored is like The Greatest Thing I Have Listened To In Quite Some Time and I would already like to declare it Best Album 2007. That shit is amazing and the reason it is part of this entry is because listening to it makes me want to consume the flesh of a fresh-killed animal and eat it with my bare hands. I know that sounds crazy but listen to it and then tell me it doesn't kind of make your mouth water for Something!

Because I live in a time and place where eating the meat of a fresh-killed animal with my bare hands is not exactly convenient, I am doing the Next Best Thing: I am going to Carne Vale to eat as much Meat-On-A-Stick as I possibly can. Carne Vale is a Brazilian rodizio on B between 3rd and 4th and it is sick. For $35 you get a ridiculous amount of meat delivered (by metal stick, sim) and sliced (by metal knife, double sim) to your table, never mind the salad bar, sides, and dessert, which are good but ultimately irrelevant. Yes, it's a Flesh Feast at Carne Vale, in this case a charred Flesh Feast of so many anonymous cows and steers, their bodies divided into rib eyes, filets, prime ribs, skirt and flank steaks, short ribs, sirloins, not to mention the anonymous baby lambs, and also some extra-anonymous sausage/turkey/chicken selects that I'll be ignoring. When you think about all those lost animal souls, $35 is a retarded bargain. Especially in this town, I mean are you kidding me?

YOU'RE SO COOL, YOU'RE SO COOL, YOU'RE SO COOL.

2007-04-26T12:27:00.000-04:00

I met a friend for breakfast at Cafe Edison today, and as I waited for him I had what I consider to be one of my best celebrity sightings ever: Ira Glass! He was sitting in the corner having a rather animated conversation, and I covertly watched and tried to listen in for a good ten minutes.

Now if you only vaguely know me, you know that even my best attempts at being covert are about as subtle as a fresh turd on a wedding gown. I mean, I was literally STARING at Ira Glass, eavesdropping to the maximum degree. At one point he looked over at me (my laser-vision is scorching hot) and I did that thing that everybody does when they get caught having a look-see: I very quickly looked away at nothing, and pretended that the nothing was just so incredibly interesting. Except for me, the nothing that I chose to look at was the floor, so I had to pretend to be incredibly interested in Cafe Edison's floor for longer than I would have liked.

I was tempted to walk up to Ira Glass and say, in my most charming voice, "Have I got a story for YOU!" but I did not do that because, to be honest, I had no story for him, and also I realized that saying that to him would have been kind of insane and not at all charming. Especially if I had said it and then admitted, "Actually, Mr. Glass, I have no story for you." I am very funny and clever.

My friend arrived and we were seated as far from Ira Glass as the interior design of Cafe Edison would allow, and at this point in my day I am choosing to believe that it's just a coincidence.

GOOD BABY

2007-04-24T15:36:00.000-04:00

Congratulations, Avner! Today, my friend, you are a Put It In Your Mouth VIP. Seriously, I have never seen anyone, baby or adult, so keen on Putting It In His/Her Mouth. At this point in your short life, Mommy's Nipple is just as good as Random Spoon, Soft-Cover Book, Own Foot, My Hair, Own Fist, Pacifier, Mommy's Other Nipple, Fortune Cookie Wrapper, My Glasses, and your Own Other Foot. Oh, and BTW, Avner, you are crazy flexible! If it weren't inappropriate to say so I'd admit to a slight envy of your physical flexibility (for sexual reasons, natch) but I would never say so because that is a sick thing to say in front of a baby. And you are a baby, you are, and I really am not one for babies, I mean I'm picky, I play favorites, I only really like the good babies, the sweet, smart, wise-eyed, old-souled babies, and you, Avner, you are a Good Baby. You are one of my favorites, and I really admire you. I admire the way you explore the world because you explore it with your mouth. I can't say it's a courageous way to approach things, because you're not conscious of what you're really doing, but I do think it's brave in its own way. Because you have no fear. And you shouldn't; your mama is there to make sure you only put safe things In Your Mouth. You are a lucky dude. You are more than that: you are Really Something! I like you and I like eating with you and I like watching you eat and not eat. You remind me of what I used to be, and how far I've come. Congratulations to you for being awesome and to me for appreciating it out of my own self-centered nostalgia!

PYROMANIA

2007-04-23T15:26:00.000-04:00

Living in New Amsterdam you're either a don't or a do, and if you're a don't good for you I admire you completely and wish I had your strength of will I really do but I'm no don't I'm a do as in I do enjoy a dose of the Dutch Courage and if you're a do too then this is your place. The margaritas are very good and what makes them very good is that they are absolutely unnecessary most especially on a Sunday and made fresh with lime and grapefruit, tequila infused with habanero and jalapeno, the cup's rim sugared instead of salted, and they set my mouth on fire, my mouth on fire! fire! fire!

You don't have to be a do be a don't it's up to you and you don't have to start fires but I do I do I do.

A COMPLAINT, A DESIRE

2007-04-20T11:27:00.000-04:00

It's not for fame, or just because I'm vain: I do it for the Craft Services. But when they're less-than-thrilling, I find myself unwilling: to keep my complaining to myself. All I want is to be fed, given my daily bread: but if it's just bread I'll say harumph. I'm a spoiled little lass, I can't help it, but, alas: I should shut up and take what I can get.

Also: I want to eat 1000 meals with her.

IT IS THE SIZE OF A GARBANZO BEAN

2007-04-16T14:55:00.000-04:00

I have a tiny head.

But I have a big heart.

EVERYONE IS A GHOST TO ME

2007-04-14T23:49:00.000-04:00

I visited The Man tonight. He's an Old Favorite and an Old Reliable and I've been buying his $2.50 pistachio hot fudge sundaes for years now. I don't know if other people besides me and my very close friends call him The Man but that is What and Who he is and I've never bothered to learn his real name. He has a name, I'm sure; he's not merely The Man, he's A Man, and I realized that tonight and that realization made me feel sad because A) I'm leaving the neighborhood and won't see The Man as much as I do now, and B) The Man is becoming very quickly The Old Man and I was struck for the first time since I first started seeing him that one day he will cease to exist and when that day comes who will run his tiny shop? There will be no more The Man and what a pity. That sounds glib, and maybe it is, and I don't mean to be.

I love you, The Man, for all your years of hot fudge sundaes always when I needed something small and sweet made sweeter still by my being able to count on it.

You can all go find your own Man but if you want to visit mine I am not the jealous type. He is on the West side of Avenue A between 7th and 8th and the sign says Belgian Fries. I don't mind sharing something this special but you gotta take me up on it quick quick quick, better go before it's gone.

LUGER'S

2007-04-12T23:58:00.000-04:00

It's just a restaurant, I know, but I've never been. I promised myself that I would go only after I felt I'd really earned it. Never knowing what that meant, earning it, deserving it, I've kept a Luger's steak dinner on a pedestal so large that I might as well be Thumbelina. Besides that, I never bothered to define what precise goal, when reached, would be enough for me to finally taste that perfect Brooklyn Porterhouse.

But what a week it's been. Incredible lows, hard work, difficult decisions, sad sad sad, real Adult Stuff, and, then! Out of nowhere, a phone call, some good news, an incredible high. And then another. And another! I had been so discouraged, and now it's raining, it's pouring. Well, it couldn't come at a better time. This good rain; it's hiding my tears. And suddenly, Luger's, your steak dinner: I'm so close I can taste it.

WHAT IS KARMA?

2007-04-11T13:30:00.000-04:00

A long time ago I christened the street I live on Rat Alley because it was infested with rats and every night that I'd walk up the stairs to my apartment was like walking through the G.D. Secret of NIMH. Eventually I made a silent pact with the rats that if they'd leave me alone as I walked down the street then I'd leave them alone and refrain from yelping/hootin'/hollerin'/shrieking. It seemed to work, and they ceased to bother me.

Until last night when, late past midnight, I caught about five rats FEASTING ON A HUMAN TURD three steps in front of my building's stairs. I have never seen even a single rat eat shit, but last night plural rats were chowing down on an ENORMOUS pile of non-canine FECES like so many midwesterners at a Las Vegas buffet. "Come on, guys," I said, "you're better than that."

I can't help but feel they were putting on a final performance for me, as I am moving soon. If so: good show, ol' sports! Good show, indeed.

BAD GOOD JEW

2007-04-06T14:56:00.000-04:00

There are smarter things to snack on in bed than buttered matzoh, as evidenced by this morning's crumb-blast.

I'M THE GUY. NO, I'M THE GUY.

2007-04-03T09:40:00.000-04:00

I'll buy you that cheeseburger. I'll eat the fries from your plate. We'll share apple pie my way, hot, with a scoop of vanilla. We both like the waiter, and the waiter likes us. He's refilling our cups and you're drinking coffee even though you don't drink coffee. I'll think about this later and wish I was more and less of a girl.

YOU SAID IT, MORGAN

2007-03-30T15:48:00.000-04:00

I've said it before but it bears repeating: I am a big fan of this, because it completely appeals to my inherent voyeurism and foodie proclivities. Guys, I just wrote "foodie proclivities," so fine, I'll admit it: we had Champagne at the office today to say goodbye to a co-worker and because it was The Good Stuff yours truly absolutely drank up.

Which is also why I enjoyed the very last line of this immensely, because Morgan's company sounds a little like my own today, and synergy is a rare and wonderful thing.

THE NEW ROUTINE

2007-03-26T14:48:00.000-04:00

I go in phases: that song I can't stop listening to, the pair of jeans I'll wear every day for a week, the liquid eyeliner experiment (results pending), the sudden infatuation with Barbara's Shredded Spoonfuls seasoned with fresh blue and black berries. Phases are my fickle heart's way of maintaining loyalty, but the briefest loyalty, a loyalty with an expiration date. How I loved David Thomas Broughton's "Execution", those Straight-Leg Slouch Levi's, a mod eye, healthy breakfasts...they were all True Loves.

So my latest phase is a head-over-heels burning desire for pre-packaged macrobiotic vegan dumplings found in my bodega's fridge section. They come Thai style, Hunan style, Schizuan style, and Spicy Malaysian style. As far as I can tell, all the "styles" are pretty much the same. I've tried them all, and I can hardly discern a difference between them. What I know is this: they are dumplings. They are fall-apart-in-your-mouth-messy/chewy. They should probably be heated up, but I eat them cold, straight from the (plastic) crate. They're ostensibly healthy, which is a wonder because healthy is an exceptional quality not often attributed to a dumpling, let alone 14 ounces of dumpling(s). At $4.19 a container that's some buck bang. I love them, and I love to put sriracha sauce on 'em and wreck my mouth for the rest of the day.

I know in time I'll move on to something else, and so, Macro Vegetarian Vegan Thai Dumplings, the lunch of which resides presently inside me, I already miss you.

GIMME GIMME

2007-03-22T13:07:00.000-04:00

This is a completely obnoxious request but will someone please buy me this?

BUT I DID IT ANYWAY

2007-03-20T09:55:00.000-04:00

Last night for dinner I had Chinese take-in with L. We've been friends since the fifth grade, and in that time we've shared many meals together, although I'm reluctant to call some of the things we ate, like microwaved cheese on white bread, "meals". Prepubescent snacks is more like it. What I'm saying is: we go way back.

L is a woman who as a preteen kicked me out of her house for squeezing a tomato inappropriately. Years later, as a full-fledged teen, she would throw a glass salt shaker full force at my chin, in public, at a diner. I'm sure I deserved it only a little bit.

So the point of all of this is that last night she and I split a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, tofu with black bean sauce, moo-shu vegetable with extra pancakes, and veggie dumplings and afterwards, as I readied myself to leave, she showed me a picture of her 11 month old son, who was sleeping in the next room. "Doesn't he look like he has Down Syndrome in this pic?" she asked. "Uh, a little bit, yeah," was my honest reply. "Well, don't put that in your blog," she said.

PAN-FRIED GRAPEFRUIT

2007-03-13T15:15:00.001-04:00

I know: you wouldn't think you should/could cook grapefruit, but you CAN! I DID! Here's why: I love dessert and all manner of sweetness, but my ice-cream addiction needs an intervention. In looking for something to simultaneously satisfy my sweet-tooth AND keep my ass in shape, I invented a dessert last night that is actually delicious. Here it is:

1 Ruby-Red Grapefruit, skinned, cut-up.
1 Tbs Grand Marnier
Honey (a good amount)
Cinnamon (as much or as little as you like)

Combine, cook, let it all sizzle for awhile. Put that shit in a bowl, let it cool so you don't burn your tongue, and eat with a spoon. It's 100% delicious, and, like, totally healthy. You can make it without the Grand Marnier, too, and the shit still tastes rich.

I've done a variation of this swapping grapefruit for apples, only I saute the whole thing in butter, and then I put heaping scoops of vanilla ice-cream on it. It's like the best part of apple pie, sans pie. Oh, and it's not quite as healthy as the grapefruit, which is why, sigh, it is more delicious.

MONSTER MOVIE, YOU'RE MAKING ME HUNGRY

2007-03-12T13:31:00.000-04:00

So lately my favorite food is Korean food (I'm addicted to any and all kinds of kimchi) and lately my favorite movies are Korean. Sympathy For Mr. Vengeance and Old Boy come to mind, and this weekend I saw The Host and it's pretty terrific. It's just one of the scariest, funniest movies I've seen in a long time, and I'm probably going to see it again just because it was good enough for a second viewing.

I write about it here because really, a lot of the movie's more subtle themes are about selling and stealing food, hunger, the threat of starvation, and being eaten alive (not a subtle theme, exactly). MY life's subtle themes are about all of those things, too! At least: I perceive them to be.

I don't want to give too much away because that would spoil the fun, but if I were a monster I would probably be The Host, because he/she/it was one very hungry monster. Also, I love food scenes in movies, and The Host had a particularly great one featuring instant ramen. If you see it, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

GOT ME A MOJO HAND

2007-03-09T13:52:00.000-05:00

Somebody or something gave me a jack 'cause my lady-mojo is through the roof! I don't mean to boast but I have been asked out on a number of lady-dates recently, and (okay, this is bragging) the ladies are pretty smokin' hot. They want to eat meals with me, these women, and I am more than happy to oblige them, but I hope they realize that the dates are not going to end in coitus.

Last night I went on one and I was more excited for it than I have been for most of my dude-dates. I even got DRESSED UP! Even though I was the one asked out (notice my self-esteem demands that I emphasize this), I took the reigns in planning the date, and decided on La Esquina (aka The Corner), a sceney, pricy, hot-shotty Mexican joint in my neighborhood.

Fortunately for me and my date my friend is a server there, and she was able to get us a reservation for 9pm absolutely no problem, your table is right this way past the employees only door, downstairs, through the kitchen, make a right, and there we were, in a packed restaurant that looked like a very hip Mexican dungeon whose walls were punctuated with random stencils of luchadors and whose ceilings had painted buckets on them. For no reason. I dug it.

We were seated next to the kitchen and bathrooms, which, as any snob knows, is dining Siberia. This, I did not dig. So I asked the hostess, very politely, if we could be moved to another table, and in no time my request was accomodated. My date was VERY impressed, THANK GOD, because I am always worried that my being pushy and/or overbearing means that I'm unloveable. NOT SO.

It turns out we were seated in my friend's section. WHICH WAS AWESOME, because she took her time with us recommending the best drinks and best dishes, and we took all of her recommendations. Date started out with a simple margarita (costing a rather complicated $10) and I splurged on a Hibiscus/Rosewater margarita (for an even more complicated $14). Both were DELICIOUS.

Date and I were basically made for each other, because even though she is a teeny-tiny skinny-minny, she is an EATER. We discussed our shared fear that, in life, "there's never going to be enough food," and "Megan," she said, "I'm HUNGRY, and I don't like small portions!" So we shared one ceviche and a spicy-steak taco appetizer, and then we EACH ordered our own whole grilled fish of the day (Durade) because the table next to us had ordered it and it LOOKED GOOD. Our server, my friend, thought we wanted to share just one. "No!" we both said, "We want TWO ORDERS of the fish!" We also ordered a side of garlicky string beans, 'cause I like to keep it healthy by adding unnecessary food.

The ceviche and steak tacos were completely delicious. After finishing them, I was actually starting to get full. I probably didn't need to eat too much more, actually, but I was looking forward to my fish. A food runner kept trying to put these amazing-looking chorizo quesadillas and raw tuna tortas on our table, and we kept saying "we didn't order that!" After his third try, I saw my server friend and she winked at us to take them. WOW, TOTAL BONUS ROUND! I am lately "off the pork", so I nibbled around the quesadilla, but the tuna torta was, to put it perfectly, rilly frickin' good. By this point, date and I were positively stuffed, but we soldiered on, ordering another round of drinks called Michelada, which is Tacate beer served over chili-doused ice fixed with a lime and salted rim. This was...not delicious? I drank it, but it was kind of pee-pee-doo-doo. Date had the wherewithal to leave hers behind.

Our fish came and we both agreed it was amazing amazing perfect. It came with peppery grilled onions that had been cooked so long so as to be transluscent. Our string beans were tops, too, and we both dispensed with ALL of them even after mutually confessing that our bellies were spilling over the tops of our jeans.

Dessert was completely unnecessary, but we both agreed to at least try one. The molten chocolate one. I slipped away to the bathroom because by this point we'd been sitting for over two hours and I had to, you know, pass the water? When I came back my date revealed that she is, in fact, my soul mate. Here is how: "Megan," she said, "I accidentally ordered TWO desserts! Do you hate me?!" So: we shared, and ate, TWO DESSERTS, one being the giant, outrageous, molton chocolate melting vanilla ice-cream ass-widener, and the other being a sticky, warm, fig and raisin bread pudding thigh-ruiner.

Four hours later we were ready for our check, because at this point weirdo-weirdo dudes started dancing awkwardly in the bar area and both of us became unilaterally shamed for the women they were with and, because we were impotent to defend anyone's honor, we decided we should just skedaddle out of there. Plus: it was 1am.

The check came. It contained numerous errors. Our drinks, the two extra appetizers, and our desserts were mysteriously missing. DOUBLE BONUS ROUND! We told my server friend "No way, Jose!" and she said "That's offensive! Not everyone in a Mexican restaurant is named Jose." Okay, she didn't say that but she did insist on leaving the check as is, so we left her a more than 50% tip in cash. Hey, that's just how I roll, li'l homies.

GREAT date! Even though it didn't end in a make-out session or full-release massage it was a fabulous time.

Now...Do I call? Or wait for HER to call?! Eek!

IRREFUTABLE PROOF

2007-03-05T15:10:00.000-05:00

For lunch today I deliberately purchased a tuna salad (made with LIGHT mayo), whole wheat bread sandwich, wrapped in cellophane, for four dollars and ninety-nine cents.

I washed it down with NOTHING.
I am now craving RED JELLO.

Also: my shoulder feels arthritic because I slept on it wrong.
Plus: this morning when I took out the trash and caught a whiff I said, aloud, "Feh!"

And so: I am a 90-year-old woman.

DON'T DO ME LIKE THAT (I SHOULDN'T DO YOU LIKE THAT)

2007-03-02T17:37:00.000-05:00

EDIT:

I think an extended rant about milk IS too petty. AND passive aggressive!

CAN TAKE THE HEAT

2007-02-26T11:36:00.000-05:00

Ack! I haven't posted in so long that now I have a real backlog, and I'm not even sure what to include and what to ignore! Eeek! I guess what comes to mind is this:

I HAVE BEEN COOKING...A little bit:

I live on the edge of a domestic cliff, and I am constantly on the verge of hurling myself over it. Maybe it's pathological, but all I really want to do is paint walls, decorate, buy new furniture and knick-knacks, wear one of my adorable aprons (that I collect for no reason other than they are, in fact, cute, PLUS my long held belief that I will eventually start a massive trend of wearing aprons outside, over my clothing), purchase cooking supplies, and COOK. And yet: I do none of these. Until recently.

Last week in a fit of domesticity and the genuine desire to hover over a hot stove I improvised a pasta dish, and it came out GREAT. I was surprised, because all I had between my cupboard and fridge were a couple of boxes of angel hair pasta, two cans of sardines, some good stinky Parmesan cheese, my roommate's leftover fresh parsley, and a couple of garlic cloves. So I boiled the pasta, sauteed the garlic and sardines in the olive oil, tossed that into the cooked pasta, and then grated generous amounts of cheese into it. I topped it off with the parsley, which I chopped. I have to say: it was really delicious! Even my roommate, who is an accomplished cook, caught a whiff and said, "Mmmmm, something smells GOOD!"

Now I know sardines might not sound appealing to most of you, but I am one of those people who love fishy-delishy foods, and the sardines weren't at all overwhelming; they were just meaty and yummy. The parsley balanced the garlic, and the cheese and olive oil gave the dish a luxurious fattiness, without being overly greasy. I ate THE WHOLE THING. Side note: I have been eating THE WHOLE THING of EVERYTHING for the last few weeks, and it's beginning to show! Double Side note: it's not "beginning to show" -- it is actually showing!

Back to the cooking. Last night I did it again, this time for my brother. I went over to watch The Oscars and got bossed into cooking for him, but, I'll be honest, I was game for it. He had defrosted a Trader Joe's "frenched" rack of lamb (no doubt given to him by our mother), and even though I've never made "frenched" rack of lamb I, again, improvised. And, again: things took a turn for the GREAT. This is a lesson, I think, to always Go In Confidence, or, at least, to Go In Blindly.

I seasoned the rack with garlic salt and fresh pepper, and laid them on the broiler pan. Then: I let the fire take care of the rest. They needed one good turn after about eight minutes, and in another five they were ready. Fresh meat, apparently, needs only a watchful eye so that it doesn't burn. The chops were medium, medium rare, supremely juicy, and devoured lickity-split. I mean, between me and my brother, they didn't stand a chance. We were raised on lamb; we might as well be Lamb People. Just in case you don't understand what I'm saying let me put it this way: our version of Silence of The Lambs would include a lot more lamb footage and definitely more lamb carnage and hopefully less "lotion in the basket", but: you never know.

Okay, so about this recent foray into cooking: I'm into it, I'm actually pretty good at it, and I will hopefully be doing more of it. Awesome.

RALPH

2007-02-15T17:42:00.000-05:00

You know what really makes me sick to my stomach? This isn't a rhetorical question; I'm gonna answer right now. And, oooh, bonus: there are MULTIPLE answers!

First, and most explicitely: VIRUSES. I am loathe to blog about That Which Exits My Cake-Hole Involuntarily, but not so loathe that I will refrain from doing it. And, I figure: if I'm going to write about what goes INTO my mouth, well, I might as well write about what comes OUT of it. Explosively. In chunks.

PUKE! I hate it! I hate it so much! But I had a big ol' bout of the pukes earlier this week because I caught the stomach virus that's been going around. Catching it confirmed, once again, that my belief that I WOULD have survived the Holocaust (through sheer determination and invented wiles) is patently wrong. And offensive. In fact, after my first Shout At The Toilet (which was actually a sour, wet, chunky Shout Into The Wastebasket beside my bed), I'm convinced that had I ended up in Dachau I would have died IMMEDIATELY. I can't take digestive sickness; it makes me want to Give Up.

I'm finally On The Mend after a 36-hour endurance trial of sleeping, sweating, and puking. I did feel bad for myself, but when I finally started to feel better I was kind of proud of myself for having Made It. On second thought, Maybe I WOULD HAVE survived!

Okay, the other thing that turns my stomach is my roommate's boyfriend. He lives two blocks away, ALONE, but HE IS ALWAYS OVER. And: HE NEVER STOPS TALKING. And: HE IS VERY LOUD. My roommate is lovely; I just don't love her taste in men. I wish I could say to her, Sweety, just 'cause something has muscles doesn't mean you should let it inside your life. Or apartment. Or vagina.

But I can't. So I won't.
Oh, my big mouth: some things hurt coming out; some things hurt to keep inside.

CHARADES

2007-02-08T13:40:00.000-05:00

Restaurant. One word. One syllable:

Swich.

It's a new-ish pressed-sandwich shop on 8th and 15th and I took it for a quickie digestive spin today. It only cost me 30 minutes and $10.50 to be both ephemerally charmed AND enduringly creeped out. Way to multi-task my emotions, Swich!

My first impression of the place was that is was sleek, modern, and clean, all things I'm partial to when it comes to food purveyors. The menu is pretty varied and definitely appealing, but after I ordered my Hippie Chick "Deconstructed" salad with a side of coffee my optimism gave way to a vague feeling of anxiety. It started with the seating. Swich has just one long communal table, which can be awkward if you're a single diner and the only available seat is the one in the middle, facing in towards the back mirror, your back to the restaurant. I got dealt a lucky hand and was able to face the restaurant, but I had a stranger facing me for half my meal.

But besides that, what really creeped me the most were the two flat screen TV's next to each other, each airing two different "programs". The first was fine; it depicted a floating CD case whose function was to let customers know the current song selection, selections that included Alphaville's "Big In Japan" (why that and not "Forever Young" I'm still trying to figure out) and T Rex's "Cosmic Dancer". Now, I'll be honest: it is not easy to eat a salad with T Rex as the background music, at least not for me. I mean, we're all agreed that T Rex is music to make out to or shoot up some horsey to, or shoot up horsey and then make out to, but T Rex is not music to eat salad to in a sparkling clean communally-tabled panini place, right? A little unnerving.

But even more unnerving was what was on the other flatscreen: something called "Swich TV". It was UNBELIEVABLY WEIRD. It was...uh, like, some fucking future shit that, thinking of it now, still has my brows all a-knit. Basically, Swich TV is a series of different unstyled and definitely unkempt "actors" PLAYING CHARADES against a white scrim. PLAYING CHARADES VERY POORLY. And, what's worse, we, the audience, ARE GIVEN THE CLUE FIRST and are then made to WATCH THE BAD ACTOR ACT IT OUT EVEN THOUGH WE ALREADY KNOW WHAT THE ANSWER IS. So, this one girl, in a really terrible outfit that violated me with how wrong and ill-fitting it was, this girl, she had a terrible dye-job and a terribly-serious robot-face, she was acting out the clue DIRTY HARRY for about 10 minutes. And she went through all the trappings that a game of charades entails, including MIMING 2 WORDS...FIRST WORD...TWO SYLLABLES...EVEN THOUGH WE ALREADY KNOW WHAT THE ANSWER IS!

I could not tear my rods and cones away from it.

It was killing me, but I just could not stop watching. Then there was some other non-descript white guy not playing charades but MAKING FACES MEANT TO DESCRIBE WHY HUGS ARE IMPORTANT. I know this because THAT'S WHAT THE SUBTITLES SAID. During the course of my salad (which was fresh, delicious, and, ultimately, irrelevant), I broke into anxious sweats about three times. All because of what was playing on the TV. Plus, the people across from me were speaking some sort of unrecognizable foreign language (I am usually good at deciphering, but, honestly, whatever they were speaking was so foreign I became suspicious that they were just making it up to fuck with me). Not Swich's fault, but...not NOT Swich's fault either, maybe.

So, my tally for Swich is this:
Tasty food!
But: so weird!
And: Free lessons on how to play charades!
Totals: WTF?!

WHEN? SWOON.

2007-02-05T15:48:00.000-05:00

A year ago a dinner date cancelled on me and I complained about it in this blog. I was all High Hopes back then, High Hopes over dinner dates, over my career, over every minor expectation and deep down wish. It was hard to live that way; I was bound to be disappointed.

It's a year later and I'm still high hopes because I'm still me, but these hopes: they're lower-cased versions of last year's desires. My expectations are measured because I'm trying to protect myself from feeling disappointed. It's like, so hard to do! But it seems to be working? Yes, it does.

Here is an example how so:

Last week I was asked out on a real dinner date. Which normally would make me LOOK OUT! High Hopes! REE-OOOOH! REEEEEE-OOOOOOOH! EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY!

But I'm a Real Adult now, with Real Expectations, so instead of flipping out I calmly said: no thank you.

Alright, to be honest, High Hopes aren't entirely the reason I said no thank you. I said no thank you because I already had plans.

But then my friend got sick and cancelled! And unlike last year I didn't get disappointed and I didn't blog about it (you're welcome), no, I just made other plans, other plans that had me saying yes thank you to the dinner date which was great because yes thank you is what I wanted to say all along and in the first place. And I'm so glad I said yes thank you (thank you!) because this dinner date was the furthest thing from disappointing. It was the closest thing to So. Much. Fun.

And I know why.

I went expecting burgers.

I got Strip House.

Swoon. Big-time. For me, going out for Steak Dinner is special because it's a little bit FANCY and a little bit DECADENT and a lotta bit INFREQUENT. When my dinner date told me we were gonna have Steak Dinner I was Completely Surprised and Totally Jazzed. Adding to my jazzy-ness was that, for real, Strip House is one of my All-Time Favorite restaurants, Steak Dinner or no Steak Dinner. I love it I love I love it. It is a sexy place with sexy food and I don't care what you say there is nothing wrong with that not even if you're a vegan or a Christian Fundamentalist.

What makes it so sexy and delicious? EVERYTHING! But I'll get into details:

Strip House is sexy because IT MAKES YOU WAIT. Like any any good seduction, Strip House isn't desperate, and it really takes its time. I mean, it takes your time, while you wait for a table. But in a good way. Even if you have a reservation, you're gonna wait. But you wait knowing you're going to be rewarded. SEXY!

We waited for about forty-five minutes, which was just enough time for me to nurse a drink from the bar. I had Maker's Mark and ginger-ale, because before a steak dinner I like to have a bourbon. It's masculine and brassy and it provides a sweet buzz. SEXY! We were lucky to get seating on some low red couches near the bar, so our wait was actually comfortable. DOUBLE SEXY!

When we were finally seated, I got really excited, because Strip House's menu is really good. I decided to get the Strip Steak, medium rare, because it's DELICIOUS THAT WAY and my date got the Filet, medium. Then we discussed appetizers and sides. I knew we had to get the Black Truffle Creamed Spinach, because the one other time I've been to Strip House I had it and it remains one of the most delicious and SEXY! foods I have ever put in my mouth. It is like Mmmmm mmmmmm earthy creamy mouth-fragrantly yummy. Herb-garlic fries were also on order, and they were crisp and perfectly seasoned and just retarded. I mean that in a good way, not like, Oh no, your baby is...Well, you get it. We also got steamed broccoli, which, when you figure in all the fatty fat fat foods we had coming, was a healthy, refreshing choice. As if that weren't enough for two people, we ALSO split an appetizer of tomato and onion salad. Sharing is SEXY! But more than that, the tomatoes were fresh and juicy and how does a restaurant pull that off in FEBRUARY?! By being SEXY!

What can I say about the steaks and the entire meal? SO SO GOOD! I didn't even need steak sauce on my strip, which was cooked perfectly, with a crusty salty char and a deep pink juicy center. SEXY! I tried the filet and it was incredibly tender and not even tasteless as far as filets go. Date encouraged me to get a glass of wine so I did (I know: TOTALLY SEXY!), and even though it was a Merlot (I never order Merlot out of some sort of misguided shame but out of all their wines by the glass it seemed the most appealing) it was really very good.

I got full way too quickly. Which isn't SEXY! but it is ADORABLE. Maybe! I couldn't finish my steak, or my spinach, but I did finish my wine (I am a good date). We both got coffees to "combat" the "effects" of the food (ie: coffee makes you go boom boom). I skipped dessert on account of my jeans no longer fitting my waist (SO HOT!), but the check came with two homemade caramels, and I availed myself of both of them because I like sweets more than my date did and also I am a little greedy. They looked like two turds on a doily, and I said as much out loud. SEXY!

So that is my account of why Strip House is good and also why I am good. At being more of an Adult. I may not entirely be there yet, but I will be soon. And then? Swoon.

SCARFIN'

2007-02-01T11:06:00.000-05:00

Wow, hormones, you did it! You really know how to fuck my shit up! Thanks to your monthly spike, I have been on some kind of binge bender. I'm exactly like Godzilla if Tokyo were a city made of chocolate. And if Godzilla spoke English and had freckles. But you get the terrible analogy (fingers crossed!).

Yesterday's Menu:

Breakfast: Activia strawberry yogurt. English Breakfast tea, skim milk. SO FAR SO GOOD.

Lunch: Large romaine lettuce salad, tossed with artichoke hearts, sundried tomatoes, parmesan cheese, black olives, grilled mushrooms, fresh squeezed lemon, black pepper, balsamic vinegar. KEEP IT GOING, NEURINGER. LOOKIN' GOOD OUT THERE!

Snack: Snickers Bar. WHAT THE...?

2nd Snack: Swiss Miss hot chocolate. WAIT, DIDN'T YOU JUST HAVE A CANDY BAR 5 MINUTES AGO?

Dinner: Small coffee, four donut holes (2 chocolate, 2 glazed). THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!

3rd Snack: Kozy Shack rice pudding cup. WAS THIS REALLY NECESSARY? YOU'RE AN EMBARRASSMENT.

2nd Dinner: 2 glasses Sauvignon Blanc, 1000 blue corn chips, 2 bowls guacamole, 2 bowls salsa. OKAY, THIS IS MORE BALANCED. CORN, AVOCADO, TOMATO, FERMENTED GRAPES. NICE!

4th Snack: Caramel Chocolate Luna Bar. THIS IS BASICALLY A CANDY BAR PACKAGED TO RESEMBLE A HEALTH FOOD. NOBODY LIKES YOU RIGHT NOW!

5th Snack: 1000 Carrot sticks, 1 tub o' hummus. WAY TO BRING IT BACK TO HEALTHY. I'M PROUD OF YOU. JUST DON'T FORGET TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH. WHAT? NO, YOU CAN'T JUST REST YOUR HEAD FOR A MINUTE, YOU'RE DEFINITELY GOING TO FALL ASLEEP IN YOUR CLOTHES AND FORGET TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH. AT LEAST SET YOUR ALARM. HEY. HEY! HEY, ARE YOU ASLEEP ALREADY?! WOW. YOU LOOK SO PEACEFUL. LIKE A LITTLE DOLL. LET ME TUCK YOU IN. OH, YOU'RE AWAKE NOW. WHAT? OH, THAT'S SWEET, BUT UH, I CAN'T. BECAUSE, I JUST...CAN'T. LOOK, I CAN'T MAKE LOVE TO YOU, OKAY?! PLEASE STOP ASKING, THIS IS MAKING ME UNCOMFORTABLE. WHAT? A HUG? SURE, WHAT'S ONE LITTLE HUG? C'MERE. THERE, HOW WAS THAT? NOT LONG ENOUGH?! UH, OKAY. HERE. HOW WAS THAT? LONGER? UH...OKAY. OKAY. UH...LISTEN...UH...OKAY. UH...LOOK, I GOTTA GO. I GOTTA...WHAT? YOU NEVER WANT TO STOP HUGGING? EVER? I GOTTA...WOW, THAT'S SAD.

I COULD LIVE ON HOPE

2007-01-29T13:13:00.000-05:00

Steel pins and surgery are not enough, and hope is not enough, so I am sad for Barbaro today. He's just a horse! But I love horses, and I love a winning horse, and I especially love a winning horse who can become at once a dog, an underdog, because of a terrible accident that shatters his right hind leg, a strong leg that seems to mend and in so mending makes me hopeful, but then again it's a right hind leg that doesn't mend, a strong right leg whose injury is so much stronger, so that, too much, it's all too much, it's all injury, and so the right hind leg and the left hind leg, and the two front legs and the gorgeous horse hair and gorgeous horse head and the everything horsey, the gallop and the gait and all the gorgeous horse grace that makes up a horse is down.

They put him down.

And I am weeping for a horse.

If I tell you that my tears are salty, does it count as a food review?

GOD'S CUTLERY

2007-01-26T14:59:00.000-05:00

That's what I call my fingers. Clever! And another thing: I think that eating with one's fingers is both one of the more disgusting and more enjoyable of life's small pleasures. It's messy and undainty (although, when I do it, it's VERY dainty) and potentially unhygienic but it FEELS SO GOOD. And: you can do it in public.

Today at work, due to my incessant goading, we had a pizza party. I'm full of good ideas, and a Friday pizza party to reward our "hard work" was one of them. Management complied. My other good idea was that the pizza party should include buffalo wings. Again, management complied. More than my professional talents, I think this might be the reason they continue to hire me; nobody goes hungry when I'm around!

I ignored the pizza, courtesy of Fat Sal's (great name, but redundant. ALL Sal's are fatties, right?), and went straight for the wings. They were acceptable: spicy, meaty, bright orange, but that's not really the important part. Or: how they tasted is less interesting than how they were consumed.

I had a really tough time maintaining my world-famous demure femininity while I ate these wings. I was a lady in that I only put three little pieces on my plate at a time, and I chose the drumsticks so that at least I'd have a literal handle on the situation. But as I bit down and ripped the meat from the bone, all decorum was lost. Immediately, I became an awkward meat-eating monkey with hot sauce on my lips. Which doesn't really telegraph wherewithal and competence, two things I think are valued in a work environment. So even though I care about The Forests I ended up using one's worth of trees in napkins over the course of six little chicken wings. I just didn't want to have a saucy face in front of my co-workers! So I'd bite and wipe and wipe and bite and chew and wipe and bite and chew and wipe and this went on for about 15 minutes before I gave up. Also: I was full.

Had I been alone, of course, things would have been much different. For one, I wouldn't have had the wings. Because I'm not into giving myself private pizza and chicken parties. But more than that, I wouldn't have felt the unnecessary self-consciousness that I felt at lunch today. I would have licked my own hands rather than wiped them on napkins (God's Cutlery is also God's Salt Lick). I might have been more profligate with the blue cheese dressing; instead, I was reserved. But: it's okay. I got through it alright. Next time I'm suggesting taco day!

GETTING WARMER

2007-01-24T17:13:00.000-05:00

The New Year is hard. It's so cold! Right now, the season mirrors itself; the weather isn't a coincidence. It's appropriate.

Look, I know I need a Bahamavention, but it's not gonna happen so I'll settle for warm foods that soothe. Like soup. Best when taken with friends who soothe. Like B.

I met her and her baby at a totally decent Vietnamese place and played about an hour's worth of hooky from work so that I could fill up on some chicken rice-noodle soup and hot tea.

Thank God for B. Atheist, agnostic, true believer: Thank God for B. She is as much a winter panacea as any soup could be, and just knowing that she's willing to haul ass and baby 35 blocks downtown to meet me for a quickie lunch means so much.

The soup was good. But when I think about it now I'm sure I ate too much! There's not enough room in my body for all that liquid and now tears are squeezing themselves from my eyes.

MY FAVORITE MEAT IS MEAT

2007-01-22T13:14:00.000-05:00

Let me be more specific. I like meat, and I especially love good meat, like fall off the bone fatty short-ribs meat and savory tender strip steak meat and musky salty lamb chop meat and fresh red juicy hamburger meat. That's the kind of meat I mean, but, you know, I can't get it all the time. Which, actually, is for the better, because an overload of meat, good or not, is bad for the belly and bad for the heart and I want this thing to pump forever. Or at least another 70 years.

This is all just to say that I have eaten the steak and eggs at Schiller's on Rivington. Forgive me: they were mediocre. So tough and so small.

TAG AND COD

2007-01-18T13:28:00.000-05:00

So "getting tagged" or "tagging" aren't terms limited to when one is speaking about graffiti or sex; one can also use either/or when speaking about blogs? The answer is yes.

I was "tagged" by Katie Schorr to list five things that you don't know about me. While it feels a bit like participating in a chain-letter, I'm not enough of a wet blanket to not participate.

1. I am a very old soul but a very late bloomer. Go figure.

2. I check my horoscope every month. Then I check the horoscopes of people close to me. I get anxious or excited, depending. I am ashamed of all of this, but not enough to stop doing it.

3. You know those "getting your first period" nightmare stories? Here's another. I was fourteen and in the middle of an AUDITION to be part of a TOURING DANCE COMPANY. In a LEOTARD. During a HIGH-KICK COMBO IT started happening. I excused myself and in the bathroom I realized that I was a woman. I was a woman all over my LEOTARD. So I "cleaned up", crammed some toilet paper in my crotch, and went back to the audition. BOTCHED IT! While waiting to hear about callbacks, some other girls and I got to chatting. We sat on the floor in a circle and they all started talking about when they got their first period. "When did you get yours?" This was asked by Georgina, the prettiest, most developed, least-likely-to-get-her-period-during-an-audition girl in the group. "Uh, right now," I said. "What?!" All the girls were appalled. "Yeah, today." "Today?! During the audition?!" "Yes." "You got your first period right NOW?!" "YES! NOW! IT'S HAPPENING NOW!"

When my mom came to pick me up she asked,"How was the audition?" and I burst immediately into tears. I didn't make the dance company, but that has not stopped me from high-kicking it and making jazz-hands. Or getting my period. I just don't wear LEOTARDS when I do it.

4. I was a real ham as a kid. After dinner I would disappear from the table, put my hair in braids, and run full-speed back into the kitchen screeching "IT'S PIPPI LONGSTOCKING TIME!!!" I would then regale my family with stories about what I, Pippi Longstocking, had done that day. Mostly adventure tales with my animal friends, if you must know. My family tolerated this for...wow...for a really really long time.

5. I am a twin.

Now: Cod.

I cooked it last night, and it came out AWESOME. I am so proud of myself I really can't help but brag about how good it was! And so SIMPLE to make! I put two defrosted filets in aluminum foil, dusted them with an Old Bay-type seasoning, a pinch of salt, and some ground pepper. Then I laid them on pats of butter and covered them with lemon slices. Added a little olive oil for moisture. Tented the alumninum foil, put it on a baking sheet, and set it in a 400 degree oven for 20 minutes. They came out DELISH -- moist (I hate that word, but that's what they were, they were moist. I'm just being accurate), lemony, buttery, very yummy yummy, and there was no fishy smell in my kitchen!

Then the best thing happened, my friend called to ask me what I was up to. I said I was up to cooking, and I invited him over to eat. He'd already eaten, but he said he'd "watch me eat." This was The Best, because 1) I now had a witness to my GLORIOUS COOKING and 2) he bought a good bottle of Italian white. Allow me to brag some more: my friend, upon looking at the fish, said "it looks great!" This was BEFORE he drank half a bottle of wine, so I know he wasn't lying! I made him Nutella on Tea Biscuits for dessert. Yes, I am VERY CLASSY and EUROPEAN.

I now cannot wait to cook more; this was such a nice confidence boost! Aw, I just kissed my biceps, gave myself a high-five, and whispered "You rule," to myself.

I know, I know: Such. A. Dork.

CHILI CON KARAOKE. BIFIDUS REGULARIS.

2007-01-16T09:35:00.000-05:00

I was invited to be someone's date at a chili "cook-off" on Sunday night. I think I was a pretty good date, because I was complimentary without being fawning, polite without being stuck-up, and attentive without being cloying. I think I was all these things because my date was a platonic girl friend. I am always at my best when stakes are low! I even danced to a number of songs that came up on Oh! Air Karaoke (yes, it was That Kind Of Cook-Off), and after four bowls of chili that is no easy feat.

Now, this wasn't really a chili "cook-off". I mean, the chili was provided and cooked by only one person, and unless he was competing against himself (which he may have been; some people strive for excellence in all that they do), there was no real element of competition. Which isn't to say the chili wasn't top notch! 'Cause it was!

There were four kinds: White Chicken, Veggie Beef (which means that the "beef" was soy, not actually derived from a moo-cow), Spicy Vegetable, and Southwestern Chicken. The White Chicken was my favorite, but only because any savory food that tastes like a hot bowl of spicy ice-cream is tops in my book. What I mean by that is the White Chicken had a lot of dairy (cheese and sour cream). I made the bold choice to mix the White Chicken with the Veggie Beef (inspired by Vodka Sauce -- Red + Creamy = Pink and Dreamy), and this "bold choice" was rewarded with an even bolder tummy ache. Or maybe it was because of all the corn in the various chilis? I ate a lot of chili, therefore I ate a lot of corn. Oh Man, it was good, but Man Alive! I was Feelin' It later.

Which leads me to my next subject: Activia. Activia is Dannon's newest yogurt product, and it claims to "help naturally regulate your digestive system". I'm not sure what that means, but my mother is. She bought me a case of the stuff at Costco because my mother -- like your mother, and all mothers since the dawn of mothering -- is EXTREMELY concerned about the intestinal health of her offspring. And so, I've been put on a 14-day regimen of Activia because it will help me clear out toxins and, and according to my mother, "roto-rooter" my system. I'm not sure I even need to "roto-rooter" my system, but, then again, it couldn't hurt, right?

I took my first one today. I say "took" like it's medicine, but I didn't "take" it, I ate it. It's yogurt! It was peach flavored. Tasted like yogurt! So far, so good. I do harbor the slightest fear that I will have immediate and explosive diarrhea on the subway sometime today, but, if that's what it takes to clear my intestinal clutter then it will be well worth it. Sorry in advance, F train!

I CAN AND I CAN'T TAKE MYSELF ANYWHERE

2007-01-07T17:48:00.000-05:00

Let's talk about being Under The Influence, okay? I spent most of my high school and college years completely sober. I abstained from alcohol and drugs out of an innate disinterest in them, and found it impossible to participate in inebriated socializing the way so many of my peers did. It wasn't really until I was a senior in college that I loosened up a bit, and this was AFTER my stint abroad in Brighton, England, a sixth-month period spent--that's right--completely sober. Even in a country where I could legally drink, even in the UK's youngest, most party-centric city by the shore, I abstained. Completely. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!

I now realize my inability to lose control was that I didn't really feel in control enough, I guess, to let go. I just didn't trust myself or my surroundings, and I was scared of embarrassing myself or, more importantly, getting into potentially dangerous situations. I credit the head-over-heels love I had for my senior year college sweety for allowing me to feel safe enough to occasionally smoke pot with him, which, honestly, I didn't enjoy. It made me anti-social and catatonic. But: at least I was trying something outside my comfort zone. Something which made me more uncomfortable.

My next boyfriend introduced me to drinking. Well, he shouldn't get all the credit; a year and a half of unemployment helped, too. Our first date together we both got so drunk on Grey Goose martinis that we told each other deeply personal secrets, held hands across a table in a W hotel bar, got respectively weepy, and then made out on some steps in the East Village for the rest of the night. The first few months of our relationship we spent thousands of dollars on five-course dinners, getting drunk, and cabs back to Brooklyn. I would sleep late, go home, shower, and get ready for another night out so we could do it all over again. It was Bananas.

And now I am me, under the influence of only me. And, sometimes, alcohol. And, very occasionally, a pot cookie...even though it still makes me a little anti-social and catatonic. It is so strange to see myself inebriated, and stranger that I even want to be! For so long, I couldn't fathom it; losing control terrified me. Now, it's just a weekend night. Or weekend. Whatever!

I will say that I think I am a lovely drunk; as far as I know I am not really sloppy or obnoxious or overly emotional. When the wave of alcohol washes over me, I let go. What that means is I no longer worry about controlling things; in fact, My Big Problem, the way I constantly and anxiously project myself into the future, goes away. Under the influence, I am in the moment.

Ah, The Moment: you are one elusive beast! I just want to be inside you all the time!

BOOBIES

2007-01-06T00:19:00.000-05:00

I spent this afternoon with my two dearest, oldest friends. In high school we were each a blonde, green-eyed, youngest-sister-of-two-older-brothers. Now we are still friends, but I am a brunette. This is not the only difference; both of them are new mothers to infant sons, while I am a new mother to infantile male urges. Everything else is exactly the same. That last statement sounds more true in my head but less so when read aloud.

So I'm watching one friend breastfeed today during our lunch-date hangout, and I am trying to act "natural". I am trying because I know that breastfeeding is SO NATURAL and NORMAL and GOOD FOR THE BABY! I know this because it said so in the New Mommies Magazine I perused while sitting on my friend's couch. But knowing something rationally is so different from experiencing it viscerally. Der. I was like a pervert as I sat on the couch trying to both catch a peek AND avoid looking at my friend's HUGE ta-ta's (nipples like slices of salami. Maybe even the circumferance of a Personal Pan Pizza). I mean, the experience was utterly fascinating and totally weird. Like, here is my best friend, my age, so close to me, so like me, except she has a tiny man drinking milk out of her booby. Like: women's bodies make FOOD. What the....?!?! That's not a revelation, really, but it blows my mind! When I have children, my body will like, MAKE FOOD. And not just any part of my body: I'm talking about my TITS! My TITS WILL MAKE FOOD! That is so awesome!

I do look forward to my turn as a milky wellspring, but I have to say I am very much enjoying NOT being a food source right now. I mean, all that breastmilk turns into one thing: ca-ca-doody. And let's face it: dirty doody poopy diapers are kind of a drag -- right now I am prepared to handle only my own.

TWO BLACK HOLES

2007-01-04T02:50:00.000-05:00

Finished reading Black Hole by Charles Burns. Left me feeling immensely depressed. I want to say "in a good way," but, uh, maybe there can be no good in feeling as sad as I did after closing the book.

I have said in the past that I like to be devastated by good books (and music, and movies, and, okay, sure -- food), but ugh! maybe I don't! Not that I regret reading it or wouldn't recommend it. I mean, absolutely, Black Hole is amazing, you should read it immediately, it's like The Best, and I say this knowing full well that I am maybe the last poseur to read it. Oops!

A different black hole that I would like to speak of, one that I would NOT recommend under any circumstances, is what I am convinced is the Number 1 harbinger of the Apocalypse: Max Brenner. This "Chocolate By The Bald Man" is a vortex of gluttony so obscene, contrived, and resolutely creepy that it left me, during AND after my single visit there, as empty and hopeless as Charles Burns' graphic novel.

First of all, Max invites you to "watch, smell, taste, and feel my love story." Okay, that is basically the pick-up line of an axe-wielding pedophile. Like, we're all in agreement that Max has decapitated baby heads in his freezer, right? That doesn't make me want dessert, it makes me want to never leave my house.

Tuns out Max's little "love story" is legitimately nuts, because apparently this jagoff wants to create a "new chocolate culture," and what that is, as far as I could decipher, is a very expensive, overly sweet, Dante's Inferno. Seriously, Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here, because you are about to enter not nine circles of hell but a BAZILLION. Yes, a BAZILLION concentric circles of hell. Now, maybe you don't believe in hell, or circles, and, I know, "a bazillion" is not a real number, but it should be because I promise you: I am not exaggerating. Max Brenner's is The Most Hateful And Disgusting Tourist Trap Ever Invented By Man Or Beast Or BaldManBeast.

I invite you not to "watch, smell, taste, and feel [his] love story," but to swear to yourself that you will avoid Max's shops and products forevermore and entertain yourself (ie: have your mind completely blown) with his website. Everything about it is unsane, and I can do it no justice trying to describe it here.

***In case you're wondering, I ordered something called the Chocolate Mess (yes, I was asking for it): It was an "individual" portion (I shared it with a friend), it cost $12.75, and it was served in an ENORMOUS round cake pan, accompanied by two SPATULAS. It was so offensive to look at, let alone eat, that both my friend and I could manage only about two spatula-pats each; we then spent the rest of our time defiling the Chocolate Mess. Which was totally redundant, because defiling anything by Max Brenner is like taking a shit on a turd carpet: what's the dif? Can't see the impact.

MUSTARDED CATCHUP

2006-12-30T23:58:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the lack of posting! The irony is that I've been eating insane amounts of food and spending much more money on meals out than I have almost all year. And yet: I've been neglecting my food blog. It's because The Holidays just got the better of me! So: Let's hear it for The Holidays! Right?! Yeah! This time of year is SO GREAT! I am very lonesome.

This will probably be my last post of 2006, and for some reason I'm finding that fact intimidating. I want to make this good for you guys! I want to make this good for me!

I started writing Put It In Your Mouth almost one year ago, and one thing I never mentioned about this blog (probably because it was only interesting to one person: myself) is that I maintained a private set of writing guidelines as a kind of self-imposed challenge. For one, I decided early on not to post pictures; I did this because I am very lazy when it comes to posting things, let alone uploading digital files. But more than that, and more pretentiously, I didn't want to rely on short-cuts. If I was going to write about food, I wanted to really Do It. Posting pictures seemed like an easy (or--for the lazy--difficult) cheat. I did post pictures of my trip to Holland (you can see them in the March archives), but after that I stopped taking pictures of food. I did, however, continue to eat.

Another pretentious challenge was that I would only ever publish first drafts. That way, I wouldn't care too much if my invisible audience didn't like a post. You wouldn't think that someone who keeps a public blog would be self-conscious about her writing, but I really kind of am! I know I'm a Cuckoo Bird for having no shame in admitting to botched booty calls, and yet shrink at your potential judgement of syntactical errors and/or boring entries, but that's what it is to be a nerd. A sexy nerd* who tried this year to get some tasty food and hot action and succeeded, sporadically, in attaining both.

So: what else? I guess the most surprising thing to me about keeping this blog was that my interest in food decreased. I used to proudly call myself a "foodie" but not only will I no longer make douchey pronouncements like that, I really don't think I'd qualify as being one anymore. I hardly keep up on the new restaurants, at least not nearly as much as I used to. I dine out less than I used to, or, if the frequency has stayed the same, I'm eating at my same old haunts, and haven't tried as many new places as I used to. I still read Menupages.com for fun, but, I'll admit, it's less fun than it used to be. I WAS about to buy the 2007 Zagat's Guide To New York City Restaurants but then I didn't. But that's only because today I switched bags at the last minute when leaving my apartment and forgot my wallet.

I suppose what I'm saying is that I don't know if 2007 is going to be a year where I care as much about food as I did in 2006. I mean, I'm still me -- I love to eat and hate to be hungry (SO UNIQUE!), and let's face it, "yummy" is a permanent, and permanently overused, part of my word arsenal. But right now food's a little less of a priority. Lately, I get all Spazz-Hands on music, graphic novels, and sustained emotional intimacy. So we'll see what 2007 holds in those departments, and we'll see if my interactions with any of the aforementioned merit the attention of this blog.

*Right?! Who's with me? No one? How about you, pillow? What? You're soaking wet with tears? Those aren't mine! I don't know...maybe someone else cried herself to sleep on you while I was out. Oh, I ran errands and had dinner at a nice fish place. Hey that's mean! YOU are the one with fishbreath, pillow! Look, I'm sorry you are soaking wet. The truth is, those ARE my tears. Really?! You think that's sexy? Oh, pillow: I love you, so.

IN THE COMPANY OF MEAT

2006-12-16T10:31:00.000-05:00

So on the same day that Frank Bruni blogs about solo diners in the NY Times Dining section, I coincidentally treated myself to (what I would consider) a high-end lunch at Pastis. Even though I don't usually dine out alone, I was in the neighborhood, and I was really jonesing for a great burger and fries. Seriously: Pastis does a great burger and fries!

Except that, you know, it's PASTIS. Not really one of those restaurants that you'd think about eating at solo. For one thing, it's a Total Scene, which, for me, can be intimidating. Why? Because I'm not a model, and I'm not rich, and not being either or both is a disadvantage when you're entering a Total Scene. But yesterday I was having one of those high-self-esteem days which made not being an Amazon Princess (almost) irrelevant.

Though Pastis was packed, I was seated immediately (solo dining advantage #1). I got a little booth/table and faced out to the restaurant. Though I didn't have a book on me, fortunately Pastis has a fully-loaded rack of newspapers. Their Times was a day-old, so I chose a current NY Observer, something I NEVER READ. It seemed an appropriate choice considering the ambience: lots of Euro-Trash (is that an offensive term?), many heads of expensive blonde highlights, and dudes in Italian loafers. Those People read the Observer, right? Wait: Those People are IN the Observer. Awesome.

Without much menu perusal I ordered a cheddar cheeseburger medium, said "tap water's just fine," and, because the waiter offered, said "yes" to the breadbasket (solo dining mistake #1). My burger came medium rare, but I didn't complain, instead interpreting its bloody juiciness as the kitchen's favor to me. Believe me: it WAS a favor, because the meat was fresh and super-juicy with just the right amount of fat. The cheddar was just-right, oozing off the sides of the burger, and there were bright green romaine leaves, perfect tomato slices (in December! Wow, Pastis, impressive!), and fragrant rounds of sliced purple onion stacked high on the almost-brioche bun. This burger sounds pretty awesome, right?! It was.

I tried to eat it delicately but then put that idea in the "fuck it" bin because delicious juicy greasy treats should not be consumed self-consciously. They should be consumed with gusto and lip-smacking and accidental moans of "mmmm...nummy-num-num-yum!" I say this because I did this and the three women in their early-thirties dining next to me noticed. But I felt no shame! Maybe a little. Actually: none! The burger was too good, and besides that how could I feel ashamed in front of three women who had all ordered salads and then paid their modest check with three different credit cards?! Here's a tip: LIVE A LITTLE!

Okay: so I made quick work of the burger and it was sublime. But let's not forget the fries! Pastis makes AMAZING fries -- perfectly cooked (well-done but never burnt or oily), and lightly seasoned with fresh herbs. The best part: HUGE, HEAPING PORTION. I love when people are generous with things they are good at. It's just The Way To Be. The Other Way To Be is to be a Plate-Cleaner, which I was. I think my waiter was impressed with me; I'm sure most women who eat there don't order what I ordered, then proceed to finish the entire thing, and then keep it in their bellies without any kind of induced vomiting. Yes: I am saying I'm Special.

After the success of this meal, I don't understand why I don't dine out alone more often. It's nice to eat at my own pace, and people-watch, and choose the place without worry over someone else's enjoyment. I'm not saying I'll be taking myself to Peter Luger's for a solo steak dinner anytime soon.
But: I'm not not saying it.

2006: BEST OF

2006-12-13T11:16:00.000-05:00

People are always pairing food with wine, so why not pair food with music?

Here is a rundown of my Top 10 Meals of 2006, paired with my Top 10 Singles of 2006. I don't think these meals should necessarily be eaten with their corresponding singles as the soundtrack, but in some cases, they definitely should. Oh! I didn't put these in chronological order, just in case you're wondering.

#10 - Steak Dinner At Home / Beirut "Postcards From Italy"

We were all (mostly) together, mom and dad cooked, and the food tasted better than anything. This song makes me nostalgic for things that are (mostly) still here.

#9 - Italian Passover Dinner At James Beard House With Matt / Jolie Holland "Mexican Blue"

My friend loves food. My friend loves me. This meal could have been cold beans from a can and it would still make the list for how much it meant to me. I listened to "Mexican Blue" A LOT this year. When Holland sings "I love your songs, I love your sounds/Everything's so much better when you're around" I just lose it.

#8 - Grand Schizuan After Shooting The Pilot / Guillemots "Made Up Love Song 43"

The best day. I was so happy for my friends, and I was so happy for myself, and I celebrated by eating extra-spicy fresh-killed chicken and ma po tofu at one of my favorite restaurants. The best things come from nowhere; it's true.

#7 - Buddakan With Sue / Swan Lake "All Fires"

The dinner was exceptional. I even tried frog legs for the first time (delicious). Then I went home and made a phone call and got my heart broken. I'm over the heartbreak now, but I can't get over this song.

#6 - Birthday Dinner With S and D / Peter Bjorn and John "Defects On My Affection"

My brother and his girlfriend fixed an incredible spread for me and my two best friends the night of my birthday party. Meats, cheeses, pate, crudite, champagne, and a gorgeous chocolate-marbled cheesecake. I went to my party feeling amazing, and the night just got better from there. I laugh more often now, I cry more often now, I am more me.

#5 - Dinner With B When She Told Me She Was Pregnant / M. Ward "Poison Cup" and Dr. Dog "I've Just Got To Tell You"

I was so suprised and happy. I love her, and I love her husband, and now, I love their baby. That's a lot of love, I know. These are two of the most romantic songs I heard all year.

#4 - Dinner With L After Big Meeting / Clipse "Roll With The Winners"

She's known me since fifth grade. She has always rooted for me in my silly career. We ate Chinese food in her new apartment looking over the Hudson River while her infant son slept in the next room. It felt like we both had made it. This song starts with an "Ow!" and a "Yes!" and it makes me feel like a winner.

#3 - 4th of July Barbecue / Destroyer "Rubies" and The Knife "Hearbeats"

My family is complicated, but we really know how to eat together. I was so stuffed my belly was comically distended...which did not stop me from going back into the city and meeting a friend for post-holiday nookie. Doing gluttonous, crazy shit like that pretty much sums up my year, as do both of these songs.

#2 - Dinner With K In Den Haag / Joanna Newsom "Emily"

We bought cheese and bread and wine and chocolate at the Albert Heijn. You cooked mushrooms. We sat and ate and talked. Then we didn't talk again for nine months. This song is a genius, but difficult. It's you.

#1 - Pops In The Kitchen At Three In The Morning / Annuals "Bleary Eyed"

My favorite meal of the year. My favorite song of 2006. They go together.

MORE IN MY MOUTH!

2006-12-06T12:29:00.000-05:00

I am eating "stage puke" again, TONIGHT!

What is the recipe for "stage puke"?

Ask me in person. TONIGHT!

A LITTLE TOO RAW

2006-12-05T15:02:00.000-05:00

Work's been slow lately so rather than sit at my desk I chose the in vitro lunch method today and dined in at my usual Japanese take-out joint.

It wasn't a mistake, but it wasn't not a mistake.

The service was good. And the food was fine. But the music? Pretty much unsane. It was porno music, but more than that it was like, World Porno Music. At first I thought it was just some strange Japanese music so I kept an open mind, but then I realized what I was hearing was a dead ringer for a Skinemax soundtrack. Let me not be the first to say that when you're a lady, which I am, it is unnerving to eat raw fish and involuntarily think of sex. And not just any sex, but cheesy, Casio-keyboard-drumbeat sex. Think: The Poor Man's Enigma. EXTREMELY poor! And from ASIA!

At one point there was breathy singing, and the singing was in English. Here is what the lyrics were, as far as I could decipher: "I like the way you treat me/Treat me/The way you treat me/I like the way you treat me/You me/Treat me/Me me/The way you/Treat me/Treat me."

Now imagine drums and pan flute and synthesized soundscapes. You just shit yourself and immediately lost your mind, right?! That's what happened to me. It was total UNSANITY!

Let's just say I didn't linger over my salmon teriyaki and sushi combination bento. I don't think I like it raw so much, after all.

OH PERSNICKETY ME!

2006-12-04T15:00:00.000-05:00

I like things "a certain way" and, owing to a degree of snobbery and (not entirely) baseless pride, I think my "certain way"--my taste--is very good indeed.

I say this as a way to justify yesterday's petty theft, over which I'm still feeling some small guilt. I went grocery shopping with my brother; he was paying (they were his groceries, I was just on tag-a-long duty) so of course we were shopping at Gourmet Garage, which isn't as inexpensive as it should be, but at least it's not as offensive as Dean and Deluca.

Digression: the day I am able to casually buy groceries at Dean and Deluca is the day that I will have Made It. On that day I will probably also turn into a puckered, red hole, because only a Real Asshole would spend that kind of money on groceries. Nevermind how pretty the store is. I mean, really, where do Dean and Deluca get off?!

Anyway, as we shopped for "mid-priced" gourmet food, I decided I wanted a cup of gourmet coffee. I wasn't really craving it, but sometimes we (I) give ourselves (myself) small rewards for having done absolutely nothing (walking errands with older sibling), and sometimes those small rewards are a way of taking care of ourselves (overpaying for brewed, beany beverages = "Thank God I'm not homeless this $3 means so little to me."). Gourmet Garage has a "pour-your-own" policy, so I followed it. And then I headed to the register to pay for the coffee, sipping along the way.

It was Not Good. Not Terrible, but just not...Delicious. And because this was supposed to be a kind of indulgence, the idea of paying for its failure made me wince. That is not my best face!

I mean, I feel like I know what good coffee tastes like, and I feel like it should always taste Delicious. Even when it's being sold out of a Garage! So: I went back to the coffee "area" and dumped my 3/4 full cup. I'm sure it wasn't a big deal, but I did waste their coffee. And I'm pretty sure if I weren't such a bitch about the bean, I would have been fine drinking it. But I AM a bitch about the bean! A great cup of coffee is Such A Pleasure; a lousy cup is Unacceptable.

Don't tell me to "smile more". I Take It Easy with so many things! It's just, I know What's Good! I know What's Really Good! Therefore: I will always want it. And, while it might be rare, I will always enjoy it when I get it.

Entitled? Arrogant? Red-n-Puckered? Oh, I can't help it!

NIGHTMARE

2006-12-01T13:07:00.000-05:00

I had a nightmare last night. I am not prone to them, and honestly can't remember the last time I had one, but what was interesting about last night's was that it was EXTREMELY vivid and, uh, kind of awesome! I mean, if it were a movie I would WATCH it.

So here is the part where I am going to describe my nightmare for you and then find a way to relate it to food, so here is also the part where you can save yourself from being bored and stop reading.

Okay. So basically, I was in my childhood backyard with an ex-boyfriend and we were looking at the moon, and it was HUGE. The moon was SO HUGE we could see the craters on it. It was lit and huge and didn't look real. And I said to the ex, "that's so crazy...it doesn't look like a real moon." And he said, "Yeah, and there are all these shooting stars and meteorites out tonight." "Huh," I said. And we kept looking at the moon and it kept coming closer to the tall pine trees in my backyard. "That's weird," I thought. "The moon is moving...like, discernibly moving, and it's, like, super-big." And then, to my horror, the incredibly large moon hit a branch of a pine tree. As it made contact there was a mini-explosion and it severed off a branch, and then the whole pine tree was destroyed and suddenly blasts of fire and explosions were all around the sky and backyard and neighborhood. WE WERE BEING ATTACKED BY MARTIANS AND THE MOON WAS THEIR STARSHIP! Martians: SO CRAFTY!

So I just got the fuck out of there. I totally ditched the ex and ran! I ran to the front lawn and saw neighbors' cars exploding. The entire neighborhood was out and it was so real, everyone was just running and panicking because we were totally being attacked by what looked like amazing Hollywood pyrothechnics. I could tell some people were dead but it didn't faze me. I ran down toward the boat yard that, in reality, is near my childhood home, and found a fucking sweet classic car convertible. It was one of the sickest, most awesome cars I've ever seen, and it had its keys in the ignition! Thanks, dream! I hopped in, even though the car's middle-aged male owner was standing next it going, "Uh, that's my car." I'm not kidding: that was all the protest he gave. So I gunned it and tore out of the boat yard and onto the crowded street where whole families were running and panicking. In real life I am a bad driver, and in this dream I was TERRIBLE. The bucket seats of the car were too low, and I couldn't see out my rearview mirror, and I was just out of control and so as I drove I ran over people. IF YOUR CHILDHOOD NEIGHBORHOOD WERE BEING ATTACKED BY MOON-MARTIANS YOU MIGHT ACCIDENTALLY DO THE SAME THING! After I hit a child, though, I got upset and ditched the car. So then I had to decide if I was going to stick around and try to survive the attack, or keep moving and find a safer place.

I rested for a minute and here's where THE FOOD PART comes in: as I was making my decision whether to stay or go I wondered what I would eat if I stayed. I realized I would have to eat grass and bugs and drink putrid water. That is what made me keep moving. I was like, "I am not eating grass and bugs. I think I can do better." THAT IS SO ME TO THINK THAT WAY!

So then I found this random shopping mall-type area. It was clean and slick and though the people in it knew we were under attack, no one was really panicking. People were more like, calmly gathering. There was a spa area with these strange, shallow water slides (I know, WATER, very big in dream symbolism!), and middle-aged women were sliding down them. I didn't get in, but I did hang out in the spa area because it was more relaxing than anyplace else. Which is why, in real life, people hang out in spa areas. DUH.

SO THEN I MET THE MARTIANS. I spied them in their real form by looking out the glass enclosure of the mall. They were about 6'4", latex-paint gray, with the bearded faces of Dr. Seuss' The Lorax. But inside the mall, they all put on human disguises. They wore ugly suits and wigs and covered their skin with paint that did an extremely poor job of looking like human flesh. But they seemed really nice! And so we approached each other. I didn't feel any fear, and they seemed totally gentle. Some kind of dream conversation took place where they told me that they were taking over the planet because we had done such a bad job of protecting it, and even though they were going to mate with the women of Earth, they weren't going to rape us. That was good news! I told them that I didn't think it was necessary for them to dress up like humans, that I thought they looked better gray and natural, and that the makeup wasn't doing anything for them. I guess saying this really appealed to them, because they took a liking to me and led me back towards the spa area. There they talked to me about how the food and beauty industry lies to us about what is and is not natural and organic. They said that even in this safe, pleasant water-slide spa area, everything had been designed to be a fake-out just to make us consume more and spend more, but that none of it was doing anything to benefit the planet. Then they told me to get on the water slide because we were going to go someplace to learn more stuff.

I did. And I slid. And then I woke up! Booo, I know! Where were those Martian Lorax's going to take me, and what were they planning on teaching me? I mean, now that I think about it, my nightmare/dream seems more like some kind of unconscious environmental guilt-trip than anything else. If I didn't love throwing out paper so much and burning Styrofoam, I might be inspired to change my consumptive behavior a little bit! But: MAKING GARBAGE IS EASIER THAN CONSUMING LESS, so I'll probably do nothing.

Which is a shame, and a nightmare.

TINY THAI CAFE - BIG ON NOT BEING GOOD

2006-11-29T15:06:00.000-05:00

Today's lunch sucked tiny Thai he-she balls. I love Thai food, it's practically my favorite, so being disappointed when it doesn't work out feels major.

I, with moderate guilt, decided to indulge my craving for greasy, spicy, stir-fried rice noodles. I mean, I know Pad Kee Mao isn't The Most Nutritious meal, but sometimes it's The Most Delicious. Or at least: Up There. In any case, there are plenty of Thai restaurants near where I work, but I'm not sure any of them are good. So I Menupaged a bunch and found Tiny Thai Cafe, which had good reviews and a decent lunch special.

I should have known from their logo that things would end bad. I mean, the "T" is FROWNING!

To its credit, Tiny Thai Cafe's "spicy" noodles were packed with vegetables and a decent amount of tofu, but in spite of the impressive quantity, the quality was lacking. Both the tofu and broccoli, carrots, and zucchini were a soggy, mopey mess. Which would make you think the dish was super-oily, right? WRONG! At least some oil would maybe have imparted, oh, I don't know, FLAVOR?! This was The Least Flavorful Thai Food I have ever eaten! It was vaguely spicy, but I'm pretty sure dried, pizza-joint red-pepper flakes were the reason. I saw Holy Basil in the mix, but I sure as hell didn't taste it.

I really didn't taste much, and believe me: I finished the entire, generous portion, just to make sure.

Bland! Boooo! Now MY "T" is frowning.

I don't know what that means, either.

WE GOT MCDONALD'S!

2006-11-28T09:56:00.000-05:00

Is it weird that I was permitted to watch Eddie Murphy's "Raw" as a young child? Is it weird that I thought it was hilarious? Both are true, and I remember watching with my family and laughing especially hard at the "house burger" bit. It's pretty famous, but I'll recap anyway:

Young Eddie wants a McDonald's hamburger, but his mom says that she can make a burger that's better. Eddie can't believe his mom cooks better than McDonald's. His mom rebuts that she's not making McDonald's, she's making "Mama's Burger". So she gets to making it and it's a monster -- she's putting peppers in it, and egg (!), and the burger becomes this fat meatball and looks nothing like McDonald's, and the worst part is there are no round buns so Eddie has to eat the greasy thing off two slices of Wonder Bread, and...this image! the bread turns pink from his fingertips, and then he goes outside to play and his friends make fun of him and taunt him, singing "We got McDonald's!" It is 100% hilarious to me. Maybe because I ate my fair share of "Mama's Burger's" as a kid. But I also ate a whole lot of McDonald's. Therefore: I was keenly aware of the difference between the two.

So anyway: I think that bit and Bill Cosby's "Dad is great...give us the chocolate cake!" are the two best food bits I've ever heard in my life.

And I'm reminded of this because last night I made "Mama's Taco Bell". I don't really eat fast food but let's be honest: it's DELICIOUS, and sometimes I miss it. There's no way I'm going to Run For The Border, but there is a way I'm going to Run To Trader Joe's and Think Outside The Bun. The corporate bun. So I picked up whole wheat tortillas, fat-free refried black beans with jalapenos, habanero/lime salsa, and shredded cheese. Then I went home, put 'em all together, and melted it for about 10 minutes. It was Very Good. Why not great? Because, I think, there was a lot less fat and sodium in my Meximelt than in Taco Bell's, and everyone knows that Fat + Sodium = TCD (Taco Bell Delicious). I mean, I didn't even have sour cream in there (a non-fatal error, but one I will correct next time), and I skipped the meat because, uh, I haven't fried hamburger meat in about 15 to almost-never years.

I think my next fast food copycat act is gonna have to be a Big Mac. It's not that I think I'm better than Eddie Murphy's mom or McDonald's; it's just something I have to do.

WHAT DO YOU DO...

2006-11-27T12:08:00.000-05:00

With your leftovers? What do you make, how do you make it? Do you have a secret flavor/ingredient combo whose power you feel like unleashing? Perhaps in the comment section? Of this blog? GO FOR IT!

I'm full of ideas, but I'm also very suggestable. Here is an example of both those traits.

Here is an idea: (that I've never actually executed but I KNOW it's good):

Take two chocolate brownies. Fresh or a couple of days old -- it doesn't matter. Then scramble up some eggs (they should be fresh). Then fry up some bacon. Sandwich the eggs and bacon in between the brownies. Drizzle maple syrup on the eggs and bacon. Then eat what I will now refer to as a Brownie Breakfast Sandwich. You might get diabetes and/or have a heart-attack within a fortnight, but also you might not. And even if you do: WORTH IT! I know the Brownie Breakfast Sandwich seems like the ideal Stoner Meal, but that's only because it is. I think I will start to make them, package them in tinfoil, and sell them to toked-out frat boys and girls at Dave Matthew's concert parking lots. Hold on: I will never do that. I love myself TOO MUCH!

How I am suggestable:

I have a sinus infection which is very much like a cold but way more dastardly. Part of its dastardliness is that yesterday it kept me in bed for most of the day and FORCED me to order in my dinner. Which, of course, was Yummy House Chinese food. Yummy House (I've mentioned it before) isn't so much 'yummy' as it is reliable and quick, but who would ever frequent a restaurant called 'Reliable House' or 'Quick House'? I maybe would. But then again...I'm suggestable. In any case, Yummy House is hit-or-miss. Last night I missed. I was prepared only to order a hot vegetable noodle soup as a panacea to my congestion, but when I got on the phone to make my order, I decided to engage the person on the other end in a way that sabotaged my dinner. I became indecisive and asked her, "What's good for a cold? Which soup is The Best?" She told me the chicken curry soup was good, so I ordered that with an extra helping of broccoli and spinach ("One dollar extra!") and cellophane noodles ("Oh...You gonna pay another dollar!"). Then I really blew it. I asked, "Is that enough food if I'm hungry?" and she didn't say no and she didn't say yes. She said, "What else?" So I panicked and blurted out "Steamed veggie dumplings!" even though I didn't want them. After hanging up I realized I could just save the veggie dumplings for tomorrow's lunch, no regrets.

So then my order comes (quickly and reliably), and I get ready to eat it. The chicken in the chicken curry soup is...FRESH. Like, skin on, bone in, hacked pieces of Real Deal chicken. Which I always appreciate, except when I'm sick and want to make quick work of my dinner. Who eats soup with her hands? I do. Did. Ew. I stained my white terry Juicy Couture pants with yellow curry, which is fine because I'm not a 15 year old living in 2002 Dix Hills, and I really shouldn't wear those pants outside of my apartment anyway, but still -- kind of sad! I held a short Jap-funeral for their whiteness and then finished off the soup. All of it. I was sweating by the end because it was spicy and also because, like a fat man, eating quickly makes me sweat. Again: ew. I guess I was full, but since when does that matter?

I looked at the veggie dumplings, which were supposed to be today's lunch, and, I'll be honest: they were looking pretty cute in all their cinched-up doughy greenness. I ate one. Then I ate four. Then I finished off all eight. Dabnabit! Now I was REALLY full and REALLY sweating, and I still had a sinus infection. AND my pants looked like I made an accident all over them.

I shoulda just stuck with my original plan. Or: stop talking to strangers. Or, better: stop being so lonely that I talk to Yummy House employees longer than I need to.

Okay, so I just shared. Big time. Now you share: get those leftover recipes in, people!

NICE ONE, POINDEXTER

2006-11-22T22:42:00.000-05:00

I am a dumb-dumb. I am almost exactly like Tweedle-Dumb. I am Re-Tar-Tar Binks, only I live in this galaxy. What I'm saying is: I am not smart.

I was really hungry and had to grab a super-quick dinner and the two friends I was with had already eaten so they didn't want to sit and it's hard to eat quick and not sit unless it's McDonald's or pizza and I don't eat McDonald's and I didn't want pizza so when we passed a Subway I said "Fine! I'll eat fucking FRESH!"

So I went up to the counter and ordered a sandwich and here is what I said: "I'll have a six-inch whole wheat...with TURKEY, please."

I ate a turkey sandwich. The night before Thanksgiving. That may not be a big deal to you, but it is an excruciating error to me. I mean, of all the things to eat, before, you know, I eat! It's like prepping for a coma by taking a nap. Or listening to a very poor cover band before seeing the original perform live (I am SO NOT INTO THAT!).

I ate an insulting, unnecessary approximation of "turkey" not 15 hours before I'll be eating the Real Deal. With sides.

Bonehead! Numb-nut! Lame-brain! TURKEY!

BEELZEBUB

2006-11-20T11:09:00.000-05:00

I'm not Catholic but if I were, after this weekend, my soul would be eternally damned (at least according to Wikipedia):

Modern views identify Gluttony as being associated with an overindulgence of food and drink, though in the past any form of thoughtless excess could fall within the definition of this sin. Marked by a refusal to share resources and unreasonable or unnecessary consumption, Gluttony could also include certain forms of destructive behaviour, especially for sport, for example substance abuse or binge drinking. The penitent in the Purgatorio were forced to stand beneath two trees, unable to make use of the food hanging there and giving them a starved appearance and fornicating with animals.

Okay, first of all: this Wikipedia entry was made by either a pretentious American or a knowledgeable Brit (notice the spelling of 'behavior'). Secondly: that last part is crazy! I definitely repent for my excessive eating and drinking this weekend, but I don't want to make love to a goat because of it. And I know the Wiki didn't specify which animal, I know I'm probably jumping to conclusions, but we're on the same page that the animal in question would be a goat, right?!

I don't think that what I did this weekend warrants that lonely tree-torture, either. Nor do I think it deserves my being forced to eat rats, toads, and snakes, which, according to The Picture Book of Devils, Demons, and Witchcraft, is the punishment for gluttony in Hell.

Hell, I'm already IN Hell! Is there anything more torturous to a woman of a certain age, possessing a certain vanity, than a distended beer gut, a puffy, pale face, fried chicken flashbacks, and incessant cravings for leafy salads, green teas, and multiple colonics? That may be a naive question, but at least it's rhetorical.

Hey, at least the Season Of Moderation is upon us, right?
Oh wait: Oh shit.

I PUT IT IN MY MOUTH

2006-11-15T15:19:00.000-05:00

I have eaten puke. A couple of times, actually.

If you want to see what it looks like when I do this then come to the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater TONIGHT!

It all goes down (and comes back up) at around 10pm.

"To Talk About Wine Is To Talk Like An Asshole"

2006-11-15T13:22:00.000-05:00

This is great.

SPARKS!

2006-11-13T14:41:00.000-05:00

More wish fulfillment!

Was taken out to Sparks Steakhouse this Saturday night, where I ate oysters without worry over price OR hepatitis! They were delicious, and in fact the entire meal was "off the hook" and "chain" and also, I would say, "crazy delicious"!

It would take a million words and an extraordinary vocabulary to describe just how good the entire meal was, independent of the steaks, but I will make an attempt using a little less than a million words and the vocabulary of a fifth grader.

We started with Makers and ginger ale at the bar. Even though we had a reservation, we had to wait for about 40 minutes. It was either wait or grease the maitre d's palm, and it would have felt awkward handing him a paper Abe Lincoln, which definitely would have gotten us our table sooner. But I'll tell you what: sipping on good bourban is an EXCELLENT way to pass the time. It is, I dare say, the ONLY way to pass the time. Or: maybe that's what alcoholics think. Anyway, the bartender made a real honest drink, which means I would soon became a real drunk woman. More on that later.

We were taken to our table which, as luck would have it, was a BOOTH! I love booths! Booths are the best unless they're assassinating aforementioned bearded presidents. We perused the menu and I came to the conclusion that although Sparks is a steakhouse it is also a winehouse, because most of the menu was really just a completely insane wine list. And besides wine and steaks there were also lobsters (up to 5 lbs) and other seafood dishes on the menu, and that's when I noticed the oysters. I guess I got visibly excited because my dining companion suggested we order them. AWESOME. We did. They were AWESOME. Fresh, East Coast, super-cold bivalves. We also ordered Ceaser Salad, which was...moist? I know that's a terrible word for a salad but that's what is was! A lot of dressing. It was...good? It was mostly wet. Enough about that.

Then: creamed spinach. Uh, duh. It was garlicky and very green and really quite delicious. Not overly creamy. Not chunky/gloppy. If Popeye were a Prince instead of a Sailor this is the way he would eat his spinach. We also got a bottle of red...I think it was a Cabernet blend but I kind of don't remember? I don't remember because there was alcohol in it? And I drank a bunch of glasses? Thank goodness we were in a booth and not a table because I would have fallen out of my chair, and that is not what a lady is supposed to do at a steakhouse.

Okay, now for the most important part: THE STEAKS. I am about to commit familial treason (I am so sorry, dad, as I am about to break your heart), but The Steaks at Sparks were The Most Delicious I Have Ever Eaten.

Dad? Are you okay?*

I had the Filet Mignon even though it's not my favorite cut and my date ordered the sirloin so that we could compare. Medium rare for both of us.

RETARDED DELICIOUS. I mean this. These steaks were so good I think I became retarded upon mouth entry. I mouthgasmed so many times on these steaks that if anyone had been filming I would now be the star of a humiliating amateur internet video. I'm talking perfectly charred/salty outside, tender, flavorful, deep pink/red innards. The sirloin was definitely the more flavorful of the two, marbled with fat, but the juiciness and melt-in-your-mouth texture of the filet was incomparable. NO STEAK SAUCE NECESSARY, and, as a demonstration of Arrogance or Totally Deserved Confidence, Sparks does not provide any.

I ate all of my steak (after sharing a good amount of it and eating a good amount of the sirloin) and was ready to bust, but because we were eating as if it were Our Last Meal On Earth we ordered dessert: Pecan Walnut Pie A La Mode. Delicious. Unecessary. Unfinished.

I impressed my dining companion with how much I was able to pack away (I think I ate more than he did. I am all about emasculation, guys!), and as much as I'd like to brag about how awesome my appetite is, really the thing most deserving praise is my dining companion for having both the smarts to suggest Sparks and the generosity to treat me. Oh, Sparks, I even came up with a new slogan for you: Steaks So Good, They'll Make You Renounce Your Steak-Cooking Father.

*My dad totally reads my blog.

DANG! YAY!

2006-11-10T12:42:00.000-05:00

So I walk into the writer's room having just bought myself a large chicken and dumpling soup. I don't even have my coat off when my fellow writer tells me: "Oh, we're having pizza and wings today."

DANG!

So I eat the soup (and its accompanying free roll) and burn the roof of my mouth.

DOUBLE DANG!

But now I smell pizza. It's in the conference room. There's spicy wings, too.

YAY!

I'm not entirely full off the soup. I think I can eat more.

DOUBLE YAY!

The pizza's from a lousy pizza joint in midtown.

GODDANG IT!

But it's free.

HALLELUYAY!

The wings are in a goopy sloppy smeary sauce.

DONG!

But they're spicy.

YAYZERS!

THAT OLDE TIMEY CAFE EDISON

2006-11-08T15:31:00.000-05:00

I was addicted to comic strips and comic books as a child, but my tastes were poor. Like, really, really poor. I was a Garfield Girl, and I also had a serious collection of Archie comic books that rivaled, and continues to rival, anyone I knew or currently know.

One of the reasons I so enjoyed Garfield and Archie, I think, is because a lot of their subject matter concerned food. Garfield, you'll remember, was obsessed with lasagna. I could relate to that, in spite of my deeply-evolved and completely justifiable hatred for cats. And in Archie, Jughead was always looking for a good meal, and he and Archie, Reggie, Betty, Veronica, and sometimes even ugly Ethel would gather at Pop Tate's Chocolate Shoppe and sip milkshakes and eat hamburgers. I envied them.

I desperately wanted a Pop Tate's Chocolate Shoppe of my own, and I was intrigued by the spelling of "shoppe" because it connoted the shops of the past. A past I had missed by being born too late in the century. I was, I'll admit, a rather nostalgic child, but my nostalgia was not limited to my own experiences. I was nostalgic (and I continue to be) for that which I hadn't experienced. Old soul, you know? So when I read about Pop Tate's Chocolate Shoppe, I yearned to sip a milkshake and eat a hamburger at a Chocolate Shoppe of my own.

Now that I'm a grown-up and nostalgic for my past as well as other people's, I try to frequent as many Olde Timey Food Purveyors as I can. I like the atmosphere. I like the food. And so when my friend Becca invited me to join her for lunch at Cafe Edison today, next to the Edison Hotel on 47th Street, I jumped at the chance. "You'll love it," she said, "it's right up your alley." Well, she didn't say "up your alley" exactly, but she easily could have. And she was right: I DID love it. It had all the trappings of Olde Timey-ness that I really go for: the walls were pale pink, the ceiling blue and vaulted, complete with original moldings and relief paintings and brass lighting fixtures. There were booths and a counter and wooden tables and chairs, and the menu advertised the food of The Aged: borscht, cheese and cherry blintzes, chopped liver, individual tuna salad platters, matzoh ball soup, and, I'm not kidding, stewed prunes. There were liverwurst sandwiches and hot pastrami sandwiches and tuna melts and beef tongue triple deckers and kasha varnishkas and salami and eggs and cherry lemon rickeys and...well, I fell in love with the place. Bad, slow service notwithstanding.

Becca got the cheese blintzes and matzoh ball soup, and I got tuna salad on rye and cabbage soup. Both soups were excellent. Blintzes: perfect. My sandwich? SHOCKINGLY dry. Normally I find tuna salad too wet; most places get a little crazy with the mayo, but at Cafe Edison they were really playing to their demo (those with artheriosclerosis, maybe?) 'cause my tuna salad had little to no mayonnaise in it. Eh, who am I to complain? Becca's mom joined us and finished the other half of my sandwich and then treated me to lunch even though Becca had already offered. I suppose the tree doesn't grow far from where the apple falls. And, I suppose, I have come one Cafe closer to having a Shoppe of my own.

DREAMS CAN COME TROI, IT COULD HAPPEN TO MOI

2006-11-02T23:13:00.000-05:00

I have to start writing down more of my wishes in this blog! TWO of my wishlist items came mostly true within the span of one week. I am gobsmacked.

First, on Tuesday, I ate one of the spiciest meals of my life, and it was witnessed by two friends, one who really does possess a remarkable laugh! Though he didn't utilize his laugh during the course of our meal as he was too busy enduring his own personal trial against the Ma Po Tofu and Fresh-Killed Chicken Ching Quong Style, I refuse to be disappointed. We ate at Grand Schizuan on 9th Avenue, one of my All-Time Faves, and our dishes were so extremely spicy that at one point my friend started shaking from instant fever-chills. I'll admit that the chicken dish, composed almost 90% of both Chi-Chien peppers (very hot, thin-skinned red peppers) and illegal Schizuan peppercorns (tiny little buds that taste like you're licking a battery when they hit your tongue), was more of a physical challenge than a gustatory experience, but I thought it was great, nonetheless. The Ma Po Tofu was super-spicy and oily, and it became the catalyst for a not very ladylike conversation over the term "spicing" which I've mentioned previously in this blog.

Then, tonight, my friend Matt, who might be the most instinctually generous person I have ever met, surprised me at a rehearsal with mini steaks and truffled creamed spinach. I didn't have a knife, so I stuck the steaks on my fork, making little steak lollipops, and bit off the meat that way. Well, I literally bit off more than I could chew, because I ended up swallowing such an enormous chunk of meat that my throat actually stretched out and now I have a hurty throat because of my lack of patience and glut of gluttony. The spinach? DIVINE! Yes, I just wrote that down almost without irony or shame, but it really was divine despite it being served at room temperature! That's the power of cream, truffles, and spinach. Which reminds me: Popeye, when are you gonna drop that Olive Oil and marry me? We are MEANTske for each otherske, sailor! Ah guh guh guh guuuh! Seriously: text me the next time you drop anchor.

So: two food wishes in a single week. Not bad, right?! Hey, I'm Megan: I DID it!

HERE IS A WISHLIST

2006-10-24T01:15:00.000-04:00

I would like to eat a strip steak, cooked medium-rare, with truffled creamed spinach, tomato and onion salad, and stolen french fries at a marginally fancy steakhouse.

I would like to bake a terrific apple pie and/or pumpkin bread while the season calls for it.

I would like to be invited back into the kitchen by a chef solely because he or she noticed how much I relished his or her food in the front of the house and felt that, somehow, that deserved special recognition as well as the revealing of backstage culinary secrets.

I would like to eat raw oysters without worry over price or hepatitis.

I would like be a sommelier for an evening and have it turn out pretty okay for my test-patrons.

I would like to accidentally eat something incredibly spicy, because I'm sure I don't have the guts to do it deliberately. I would want this experience witnessed by someone with a remarkable laugh.

WE GO TOGETHER?

2006-10-17T14:03:00.000-04:00

I am eating Emmi Swiss Premium Yogurt with a fork. What's the point of cutlery if you use it incorrectly?* I'm trying to make it work but I can't get every last bit of yogurt (probably because I'm not using a spoon) and I think I feel like a frustrated ape might. I probably feel more frustrated than an ape might, because an ape probably would have used his big ape hands by now, and I am trying--oh sweet god in heaven I am trying--to be a lady. Do ladies make presumptions about apes? Do they eat yogurt with a fork? This is a situation...

Confession: it's not just about the fork and yogurt not belonging together. It's also about the FLAVOR of yogurt I picked: GRAPEFRUIT. Everyone knows that dairy and citrus don't go together. I know Creamsicles are the lone exception, but in general, when will the one not curdle the other? But right now I'll vouch against those preconceived notions. This yogurt: it's delicious! I can't believe that something so wrong in concept tastes so right in execution. I'm impressed. I'm delighted. This is not a situation... I'm gonna make like an ape and use my hands. Being a lady? Overrated.

*This question from a girl who, when she was five years old, ate her brother's bar-mitzvah cake with a knife because she couldn't find a fork. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but deficiency is the father.

WHY I WANT TO BE FAMOUS

2006-10-01T23:36:00.000-04:00

...So that nymag.com can feature me in "The New York Diet", which is a fun little rundown of a minor-celebrity's meals and the restaurants he or she frequents. This week they featured published author and Lower East Sider Gary Shteyngart, and based only on the smallest glimpse of his eating habits (and his subsequent feelings about them), I think I've found my soulmate. I would like to eat a meal with Gary so badly, and he can even bring his tiny beautiful Asian girlfriend! Although if she's busy the day Gary and I get together it's not like I'll cry about it!

In any case, I think I would be a good interview! I think this because I eat a lot and I have feelings about the things I eat and I've got just the right amount of hubris to think that this would interest other people (see: this blog).

For instance, today was pretty interesting foodwise: I knew I'd be having an enormous meal this evening before fasting tomorrow, so I tried not to eat too much during the day. It started with a lousy coffee at Juicy Lucy. I hate a lousy coffee! This one was especially lousy because it was lukewarm (unacceptable!), bitter (a shande!) and overly milked (let me milk my own, people!). I didn't even finish it, which means it was super-duper-pooper.

I tried to avoid "lunching", but got hungry at around 3pm. I stopped by my favorite local cheapo health food/smoothie place and got a vanilla frozen yogurt. They were out of chocolate, is the reason. It was yummy, but only in the sense that I was biding my time before the main event -- which was to be my gorging myself on Jewish-style cooking. On the Upper West Side. Of course.

Dinner started with a real-deal chopped chicken liver appetizer served with crackers. I felt bad for our hosts, because by the time my brother and I got to the liver we were starving and crazed and went at the liver so shamelessly that at one point my brother's girlfriend's mother started nervously moving the bowl away from us, explaining, "I don't want you to get too full!" I refused to take the hint, though, because I rebutted "I NEVER get full! Don't worry!" and I just moved the liver back into my Feeding Zone. "Really!" I said, my mouth full of moussefied organ meat "I can out-eat just about anybody! I come from hungry stock! I think we might need some more crackers over here!"

Dinner began with, you know it, GEFILTE FISH! I love this shit, people. It's basically a cold fish meatloaf, and it rules my world. Cover it with spicy, red, beet-stained horseradish and you've got yourself Jewish Manna. I'm not into the gelatinous "jelly" it's oft served with, but I've seen grown men (my father) go crazy on the stuff. Next was MATZOH BALL SOUP! This was delicious! I love soup to no end; give me foods I can eat with a spoon and I'm happy. The matzoh ball was fluffy and flavorful, and the soup was studded with carrots and turnips and dill and glistening pieces of white chicken meat. As I was drinking from the bowl, STUFFED CABBAGE was placed in front of me. Growing up I was the beneficiary of my Grandma Dotty's stuffed cabbage, and even though the dish itself is intrinsically good, Grandma Dotty's was aces. Take ground beef, mix it with rice, roll it into cabbage leaves, and then braise it in a sweet and sour tomato sauce (leave the raisins off my plate, please). I was so excited to have stuffed cabbage again after so many years without it that I ate both my portion and my brother's girlfriend's. She said it was bland; I said "Yum yum!" I like meat and I love cabbage so what am I gonna do let it go to waste? No way, Schlomo! Then we ate steak. This was a little weird. There was some controversy over the steak's preparation, and when the gray, steamed-looking rib-eyes got to the table, I could see the folly in "too many cooks..." They were tender and tasty, but also sort of floppy and sloppy, two words I DON'T think should be applied to steak. But I ate mine up, so as not to offend the host or my slave-driving stomach. "More!" it gurgled, though I was past being full, "Tomorrow...NOTHING...More! Eat MORE!" I supplemented the meat (served with cold, fried LATKES -- not worth describing) with lots of...CHALLAH BREAD. If you think dessert was out of the question after this much food then, my friend, you are clearly not Jewish. Because dessert was served IMMEDIATELY, and it was comprised of CHOCOLATE BABKA, CHOCOLATE RUGGELACH, and CHOCOLATE BLACKOUT CAKE. The former two were dry, but the blackout cake was a chocolatey, puddingy stunner that became the catalyst for a terrible joke. Here it is: My brother takes a bite of the cake, and then says, "I can't see! It's a BLACKOUT!" Look for his HBO special early next year. Oh, I'm going to sound like a big ol' jerk but I'm just trying to do honest reportage: all this dessert was served with LOUSY COFFEE.

The only thing that could have made this meal any more Jewish would be if it gave me guilt trips afterwards. Which it is in the process of doing, what with the stomachache and the brepsing. Oh! I almost forgot! As we were leaving the dinner I wet-burped into my own mouth 'cause I ate too much! That was DISGUSTING! And INTERESTING! Interesting enough to maybe get me a spot in nymag.com? Or just terrible enough to be something for which I atone?

NEITHER! BOTH!

CORPORATE CORPULANCE

2006-09-29T14:13:00.000-04:00

Freelancing again. Eating like a day-jobber. When food is free, I go nuts! Yesterday my awesome editor brought me delicious baked treats from her local bakery: a ginger pear muffin and a savory/spicy potato bareka. Both huge. Both unnecessary. Both consumed with all the grace of a Tazmanian Devil. At lunch I did no better: outrageously portioned bento boxes from Haru -- the whole shebang: soup, salad, california rolls, rock shrimp tempura, teriyaki tofu, rice, mild ensuing dyspepsia.

Today I think she had it in for me: THREE treats from the bakery: the most delicious blueberry scone ever, just bursting with giant fresh berries and not the least bit dry, a strawberry mango muffin that seemed obscene when it revealed its pink moist middle, and a bacon cheddar scone that taunted me so hard after I left it on the plate that I ate it all up as a form of punishment. People: I ate three breakfasts! For why? 'Cause it was DELICIOUS and FREE and EFFIN' GOOD! Killed by kindess is totally the way to go!

Lunch was vegetarian: we ordered from Gobo, which is supposed to be healthy but when you're a Plate-Cleaner of the Highest Order "health" is a moot point. My stir-fried veggie noodles and tofu egg-rolls had all the nutrition of a ham sandwich and about as much oil as a mid-east war zone, but I ate it up, yum. I have a private reputation to uphold!

Now I'm sitting on a black leather couch, sleepily digesting, thinking about my next meal. This is what it means to be a machine...What am I if not a fat cog in the wheel?

A REAL REGULAR

2006-09-21T01:44:00.000-04:00

Why dream big? If you keep your dreams on the smaller side, they might actually have a chance of coming true. Perhaps this is a cynic's philosophy, but bear with me because I have a small ambition and it is to be a "regular" and I think I have a chance at making this happen.

My one true addiction is coffee, and as such I am susceptible to getting it whenever and wherever I can. I've really made an effort to avoid Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts because I'm opposed to being a link in life's little chain gang, but being the addict that I am lately I've slipped and imbibed the 'bucks. Which I'm not so into. So I redoubled my efforts to avoid Starbucks, and in doing so found a great, non-chain, coffee place.

I found it through my foodie-friend Matt. He'd heard of this Italian coffee shop just south of 57th on 6th and we stopped in on a recent rainy Sunday. I didn't try the espresso on this initial visit, but I immediately loved the place because it looked exactly like the coffee shops I remember from my brief trip to Italy seven years ago -- all gleaming tile, stainless steel, and small marble countertops. It didn't hurt that the Italian barista was more than easy on the eyes and also happened to be the proprietor (I'm not into coffee-slingers but I do have a soft spot for international entrepreneurs), and he won my awkward, blushing interest by allowing me to flirt with him. Which I did. Sort of!

That would have been a singular experience, except that I'm recently freelancing near this Italian's coffee shop. So the other morning I revisited the shop accompanied by a vague terror that doing so might seem utterly forward. "I'm here for the coffee!" I told myself. When I walked in the barista didn't seem to remember me, even though I totally remembered him. But I played it cool and ordered an Americano. "For here or to go?" he asked. "Oh, to go!" I said, "I'd love to stay but I can't***, thank you! Maybe some other time!" I probably would have kept talking but some Italian-speaking regulars walked in and for some reason they were able to make small talk with him and not seem as though they required institutional help. I was relieved when he gave me my drink; both because it gave me an activity and also because it was one of the most awesome cups of espresso I have ever had: smooth, but with a little bite. As I stirred in my sugar he said to me, "You were here before, yes?" "Yes!" I said. "Right," he said, "You are the sometimes performer?" "Yes...just sometimes," I said. Flattered that he remembered me I said "You should come to a show!" "Okay," he said, "You keep coming here to remind me, and then maybe I will see a show." Wow. That is a diabolically genius way to get a lady to buy coffee from you on the regular. I just might do it.

***The truth is, I TOTALLY could have stayed for the duration of a coffee. But: I was nervous. And: always leave them wanting more. Or: maybe?

WHAT DOES IT TASTE LIKE IN THERE?

2006-09-18T11:12:00.000-04:00

I'm a dry-heaver. What can I say? Ever since birth, if I experience something ocularly, olfactory, aurally, or orally disgusting, I will heave and retch and make the "Ooooo-wat!" sound. And, most often, I will do this in public.

Last week while waiting for the subway at Union Square I found an empty bench. I made a bad choice and decided to sit in the middle of the empty bench, and immediately I was swarmed by two females, about my age, who book-ended me into a bout of almost-claustrophobia. The woman to my left was totally normal, but the woman to my right, though having the appearance of normalcy, was clearly just not...correct...in...the...mind. I'll herewith call her Weirdy. First, Weirdy spilled her ice tea on me as she opened the bottle. I didn't make a big deal about it, and she apologized over the din of her personal CD player (a cheap brand, my first clue that Weirdy was weird. Perhaps my judgment of her is your first clue that I am a snob).

As I sat, my eyes glazed over with the internalization that comes with habitual waiting, I kept having to zone back in because Weirdy wouldn't stop sniffling. "Great," I thought, "I'm sitting next to someone with a cold. Gross!" I then heard a strange sucking sound emanating from Weirdy. I glanced over and saw her INSERTING HER FINGER ENTIRELY UP HER NOSTRIL, REMOVING SAID FINGER, AND USING HER MOUTH TO SLURP UP HER SNOT/MUCOUS/BOOGERS! She did this WITHOUT ANY SHAME OR SELF-CONCIOUSNESS! AND SHE DID IT REPEATEDLY! Weirdy would dig, and dig HARD, pop her finger out, take a passing look at her booger-bounty, and then suck it off like so many dipsticks covered in sugar. I wanted so badly to scream "Don't do that! Stop doing that! That is WRONG!" but instead I just stood up, made my "it smells like shit in here" face, and walked away. And then I thought about it. And then I started dry-heaving on the subway platform. Weirdy had turned ME into the Weirdy, because there I was retching, my eyes watering, only nobody knew why. Except for me. And, I think, Weirdy. So then, realizing the ridiculousness of the situation, I started laughing. At myself. Alone. I had become weirder than the weird girl, laughing to myself after retching to myself. The transference was complete, and Weirdy was the victor.

WE'RE HERE BECAUSE WE CARE ABOUT YOU

2006-09-12T12:31:00.000-04:00

So, uh...

I kind of accidentally ended up sort of drinking an entire bottle of Rheingau 2005 Riesling Kabinett "Edition Maximilian" the other night.

By myself.

While watching Intervention on A&E.

Hey: I used a pretty glass! It's not like I'm smoking Speedballs in my parents' garage!

Wait: My parents don't have a garage.

GO DOWN, MOSES

2006-09-09T20:34:00.000-04:00

Today I walked through the Union Square Greenmarket, purchased four plums with the intent to eat them later, and instead ate all four within the span of my twenty-minute stroll.

Matt: I miss you! The plums were really good! We never made dinner! Now you are at school! The Greenmarket, my Saturdays -- they aren't the same!

ANNIVERSARY

2006-09-05T12:44:00.000-04:00

Every September I get my heart broken. Now it is eighteen years, and as I remember all the things I want always to remember, I begin to realize all the things that are leaving me: the sound of her laugh, certain gestures, the geometric fit of our small bodies floating in a pool.

I lose my appetite. We call it fasting, but it makes the world go slower.

I remember her favorite food. A broiled chicken wing.

Of course. The part that wants to fly.

ALL THE PERSPECTIVE IN THE WORLD

2006-09-01T11:54:00.000-04:00

So I think I see the light at the end of the tunnel. The Tiny-Bug Tunnel. I think this because my exterminator has told me that I must sleep in my bed in order to "bait" the bugs so that they cross his poison spray and cease to exist. Okay, this is somewhat akin to psychological torture -- I mean, how can I go to sleep with the knowledge that the only purpose of my body is as a warm, carbon dioxide-exhaling lure for invisible blood-suckers? How? By being psychologically prepared. I tried to pretend I was going camping, and that, like most camping trips where one sleeps in the Great Outdoors, one can expect to wake up with a couple of mosquito or spider bites. No biggie, right? Yeah...I'm camping. Bear with me: until some genius invents a Body Bait (a tiny baby one can strap into their bed, or a kitten, or some adorable endangered species), I'll have to provide my own.

So Wednesday night I did it. I was exhausted by the time I got to bed at 2am, so falling asleep wasn't especially difficult, but staying asleep was. I'll admit to some moments of prayer. In the morning I woke up, checked my bed, checked myself, and...NO BITES! Hooray, right? Well, there would be no celebrating for this former optimist; I know better now than to think that things are just going to work out so "easily" in my favor. So last night, my second night as bait, I needed a little help to get into "camping" mode. So here is where I'd like to give a Shout-Out to God and to Trader Joe's Chardonnay. Because after some prayer and two glasses of that liquid fool's gold, served with crackers spread with goat cheese and drizzled with honey (I am a classy camper, folks), I was ready to pass out and be bait. Alcohol, when applied correctly, really does work.

As I was dozing, though, I got a text from my friend who has been forced to bear witness to this fiasco, which, in turn, has turned him into as much of a paranoid freak as I have become (seriously, guys: Prevent, Don't Panic. Buy some Steri-Fab and spray your shoes and bags when you walk in the house. And vacuum. And get rid of clutter. And, if that doesn't work, shoot yourself in the face). So anyway, my friend texts me to let me know that as he rinsed some grapes in a colander (the most innocent task in the world), he found a dead moth. What to do? I told him to give the grapes a good re-wash and then eat them. In my alcoholic daze I also told him that, "A moth is a butterfly, a dandelion is a flower." What. The. Fuck? I think I was trying to make the point that a moth is only gross because of its semantic distinction, but that in fact, it's as harmless as finding a dead butterfly in your grapes. Why are dandelions weeds and not flowers? They're still pretty, right? Anyway, I am a maniac apparantly, because my poetic response did nothing to soothe him. He was grossed out. Justifiably. I fell asleep before I could finish the text-convo, but I hope he ate the grapes because, come on, grapes are delicious and moths are harmless as long as they're not in your closet.

And here's the thing. About the bugs. They have forced me to ask way too many existential questions, and one of them is: What is gross? My tolerance for disgust has increased, I think, because of their presence in my life. Time was I wouldn't eat grapes if a dead moth appeared among their branches. But now I will. Hell yeah! I remember finding larvae in some instant oatmeal I'd been eating at work, only after I'd eaten half the package. I literally dry-heaved for 20 minutes after that discovery, but was I physiologically harmed in any way? No. Not at all. And yet I was so thoroughly disgusted. Disgusted by something HARMLESS. What I should fear are the pesticides being sprayed in my room, because though they may seem benign today, there's a possibility I will feel their bite much later in my life, and if I do (and here's hoping I don't) it won't be a little welt. So what is scary and gross? The possibility of a little bite I feel today? Or, I should say, DON'T feel. Because this morning, after the second night as bait, I woke up bite-free. I was pleased!

But I will say this: eat the grapes. Get close to "filth". We're all in it together, it's us and the bugs...and the birds, and the fish, and the frogs, and the worms. And we all need food. And ultimately, we all become food.

That doesn't mean I'm totally cool with certain kinds of bugs, though. I'm allowed to have preferences. Two nights down, the rest of my life to go...

FOODIE FOOD YUMMY YUM

2006-08-28T11:38:00.000-04:00

Avoiding one's domicile forces one to eat out. A lot. Yesterday was quite the splurge day, increasing the size of my midsection in direct proportion to the thinning of my wallet.

It started with a brunch at Norma's, in the Parker Meridien. I treated my friend Matt because he is always treating me and also because he had never been there, which is a shande considering that he's as much of a food fag as I am. We had to wait an hour for our table, but it was completely worth it because Norma's brunch menu is outrageous in all the best ways. Nevermind the expense of "hotel" dining (coffee is $5, a side of bacon is $7), because there is a gourmet chef with a charming sense of humor in the kitchen. Matt ordered Duck Shepard's Pie, which was a new menu item, and I had Berry Brioche French Toast, which is an unusual choice for me (I generally prefer savory over sweet, but I've had a rough week.5 so I decided it would be okay to have dessert for breakfast).

Matt's dish was a reasonable portion and really yummy. Can't really go wrong with creamy mashed potatoes and luxuriously fatty duck meat. But my dish was out of control, both size and taste-wise. The kitchen basically sent out an entire loaf of ridiculously thick slices of brioche, like, unecessarily huge, drenched in a pool of warm berry compote. And they didn't skimp on the berries (straw, blue, rasp, and black)! I made a promise to myself before I dug in that I would not finish it, but I guess I am not that good at keeping promises because all of a sudden the obnoxious loaf was inside of me and my plate was practically clean. "Well," I thought, "there is no need to eat anything else today. I can't imagine ever being hungry again."

Guys, I am not smart. Especially when it comes to anticipating how I'm going to feel in the future based on current feelings. I am a TERRIBLE predictor of my own later behavior, even though I'm not a terribly spontaneous person. Why would I ever think that eating the equivalent of an enormous seven-layer-cake in the mid-afternoon would satiate me for the rest of the day? Is it because I'm in denial that my stomach is a hedonist? Yes.

Later that evening I met up with my college friends Nate and Luke. Luke lives in LA and I see him about once a year so I took it upon myself to make sure he ate well during his little NY visit. As we shmied around the West Village, we walked by Roll and Dough, a new bing stand off 6th Avenue and 3rd Street. Bings are flattened, sesame-encrusted Chinese "hot pockets," and are as delicious as a fresh Krispy Kreme donut. Bings are also incredibly cheap, so even though nobody in our party was especially hungry, I bought a spicy pork bing because it was only $1.75. And also because my stomach needs an intervention. All three of us shared it, biting into its chewy dough and making a mess on the street as its oily, fragrant meat juice burst out.

A brief sojourn for some happy-hour pitchers got us thinking about dinner, and Luke wanted Malyasian. "To Nonya!" I declared. I don't often make such dorky declarations, but when I do they are truly humiliating. The boys let me order for them, which was great, because I love being in charge at a restaurant with which I'm familiar. We got a spicy curry noodle soup, some Roti Canai (that awesome flatbread bread with the curry dip), a "room temperature" chicken with salty-spicy sauce, and, 'cause Luke was pushing for it, Mee Grob, a spicy noodle stir-fry. Aces all around. The boys were psyched. Luke ate like a bird and Nate and I cleaned up. Even though, at that point, it was completely unecessary for me to consume anything more that day. "Why don't you eat more?" I said to Luke, because I knew he liked the taste of the food. "I want rice pudding after, and I'm saving room," he said. It made sense. On our way to Nonya we had passed Rice To Riches, and Luke got excited. Like, REALLY excited. I'll say no more about that.

So: we went to Rice to Riches. At this point I was stuffed to the gills -- I mean, my body was still negotiating its cake-breakfast, but Nate wanted to share, and I didn't want to NOT share because that would be selfish. So we split a marscapone/cherry flavored rice pudding. Luke got chocolate chip. I ate a lot of his, because it was delicious and seriously: Luke eats REALLY slowly and I hate to watch good food oxidize. At this point I got the sleepy feeling that comes from eating too much and also sleeping fitfully on one's brother's couch to avoid having one's blood sucked, so we said our goodnights.

B(ACK!)LOG

2006-08-24T11:04:00.000-04:00

I haven't updated in awhile. Sorry! The reason: something has entered my life that makes it very difficult for me to concentrate on -- or even care about -- food.

That's because the something that has entered my life has turned ME into food.

I don't want to go into details. But I will say this: in this world (or at least in this goddamn dirty, dirty city), sometimes you are the predator. And sometimes (in this case a very unfortunate sometime), you are the prey.

I suppose I'm receiving a rather low-risk reminder.

But it literally sucks, nonetheless.

SUMMER DUMPS

2006-08-13T12:57:00.000-04:00

A good indicator of how I'm feeling about my body is if you see me at the grocery store, which is a sign that I need to take more responsibility for what I put in my mouth. An even better indicator of how I'm feeling about my body is what is in my grocery cart. A look inside and you will see the convergence of my bodily self-esteem with my financial self-esteem. The two together are EXPLOSIVE, and keep my therapist employed. But, I imagine, I'm not the only one in New York City for whom the two converge. Regularly.

So I'm shopping on a Saturday night after working out at the gym. A gym whose scales have just indicated the "mysterious" gaining of about 4-5 pounds. "Mysterious" but I know why: I have been eating anything and everything I want to, and leaving no leftovers on my plate. I have been ravenous! But, for the first time: it shows.

SPOILER ALERT! Here is where I confess to something that makes me feel deeply ashamed:
I went to the supermarket with the intention of buying those Kashi Go-Lean shakes.
I have never deliberately dieted in my life. I have accidentally stopped eating over heartbreak and sadness, but I've never consciously sought to reduce my weight, nevermind pay for a foodstuff that might help me do so.
But, last night, I totally wanted to!
But, last night, the store didn't have any shakes. They had Kashi Go-Lean powder. The kind you mix yourself.
I was like, "Fuck that!" I'm not mixing my own high-fiber, high-protein, meal replacement shake! THAT IS TOO MUCH EFFORT!

So I went to the yogurt aisle and bought 6 Great Grains yogurts (my favorite).
And I went to the cereal aisle and bought some Kashi Go-Lean cereal because I actually like it and eat it anyway, scale surprise or not.
And I wanted to buy some blueberries and raspberries but they were god-awful expensive. But the Cliff Bar Kidz Bar was $.49, so I bought 4 of them! Even though they are basically candy. But their cheapness appealed to my financial self-esteem, while the blueberries and raspberries did not. Even though they appealed to my taste-bud and body self-esteem.

The ways I indulge myself and the ways I deny myself are such that there are people, at this very moment, locked inside certain institutions who are more in touch with their needs than I am. But hey, let me not get too down on myself: at least I can wipe my own ass, right? High five! High five! Biceps, I kiss you in exultation!

EVERYBODY WINS!

2006-08-10T01:59:00.000-04:00

Overpay one day, get some freebies the next:

I'm freelance producing and today my editor and I ordered make-your-own salads for lunch; I asked for my dressing to be mixed in, but my editor, apparently "watching his weight", like a "silly girl" who "hates her body" even though it's "pretty good" and too bad he has a "live-in girlfriend" wanted his dressing on the side. Which meant that he got no dressing when our salads were delivered. Since he was the one doing all the work in our session, I offered to take the elevator down 32 flights to get him something that would make his salad edible: liquid, fatty, flavoring. Now, my once and future nemesis Cosi just happens to be on the ground floor of the building--and they happen to sell salad--so instead of going outside I thought I might be able to get some dressing from them. Which I did, by lying to the man manning the dressings, saying I'd purchased a salad earlier and could I please buy some more dressing. He gave me a soup-cupful. For free. Pretty classy Cosi employee, but I still hate Cosi (see: Squagel).

Then this evening, before going to the gym, I thought I might like to have a cup of City Bakery coffee. But they were selling Cold Hot Chocolate, which is just too delicious for words! AND too fattening for thighs! "Could I have a bit of your cold hot chocolate at the bottom of my coffee?" I asked. "I'm happy to pay the extra for it." But once again, the Universe provides, because the nice man selling me the coffee refused to charge me for that generous drop of cool cocoa. Total class act, nice man!

THEN, I had an impromptu dinner with a friend, and HE paid for me! For no reason! Or maybe because my BLT was astonishingly inexpensive and it would feel weird to ask for $3.90? Well, whatever the reason it was Super-Classy To The Extreme!

I have to wonder, though. It's summer, and my shirt was kind of low-cut. But hey: if a little cleavage makes men classy then I am all for it. Thank you, boobies. You're terrific!

WHOLE FOOLS

2006-08-08T10:22:00.000-04:00

Whole Foods' salad bar now costs $7.99/pound. That is Re-tar-tar, Whole Foods! More Re-tar-tar than the pun that titles this entry!

And don't think that I don't notice that most of your composed salads are super-heavy, sopped with dressings to add weight (and, yes, flavor!). That's right: nothing gets by me!

And your signs? The ones that say "NO NIBBLING!"? Hey, guess what, Whole Foods: I don't need to be condescended to...especially as you're victimizing my wallet with your sloppy-sauced salads. No nibbling! I will goddamn nibble if I want to! Maybe not pre-purchased chicken provencal salad, perhaps instead the nibbling will be upon my own cuticles, but you can't stop me!

Disdainfully Yours,
Stingy McBleedyfingers

THE DISCIPLE

2006-08-06T23:53:00.000-04:00

I would very much like to be the second coming of Gael Greene.

But with more discretion.

PICKY

2006-08-01T16:54:00.000-04:00

I'm very picky. It might seem as if I'll eat ANYTHING, but that's not true. Wait: it IS true, but what I mean is: I don't ENJOY everything. I suppose, though, that I will TRY it. Wait, that's a lie, too. I won't TRY everything, but I will LOOK at it or SMELL it. That's something!

Sometimes I'll go against my gut and try something I shouldn't. Like just now. There's a heat wave and I am too scared to leave my office and pick up a snack from outside but I am (I mean was) hungry so my only respite from the heat and hunger was the corporate vending machine. I don't think Nestle or Nabisco or Kellog's has a true bead on what it means to be hungry; if they did, they wouldn't have invented Pop Tarts and Bugles and Famous Amos cookies. For one, those "snacks" will NOT satisfy, and for another, they are, like, literally, not food. What is a Bugle? Like, really: WHAT IS IT?! It's a temporary placeholder for something real. Why can't a snack be real? Why does it have to be an invention that bears no resemblence to food as found in nature? Or: why don't they have apples and/or grapes and/or goat cheese-beet-watercress sandwiches in vending machines? That would be some Good Stuff and I'll tell you something: I DESERVE Good Stuff!

The only Good Stuff in the vending machine was Mr. Nature's Unsalted Energizer Mix. Okay, that's an amazing name for something that's meant to go in your mouth. I was ON BOARD! I mean, I like energy. And mixes. And Nature. And Mr.'s. So I gave it a go.

$.65 cents later I was like "Blargh! Blegh! Blooooogh! Feh!" You wanna know why? 'Cause Mr. Nature put DRIED BANANA CHIPS in his mix. I liked the almonds. And the raisins, and even the sunflower seeds. But, I just discovered, I DO NOT LIKE DRIED BANANA CHIPS. I like regular bananas just fine, and I'm not opposed to dried fruit, but a dried banana chip is just unholy and goooooooooo! goooooooooo! gross! Blech!

I ate every single chip in the bag to make sure I hated it so much, and believe me: I DO!

The other thing I've tried and not liked was raw octopus. Tasted sluggy. How much did I not like raw octopus? I've eaten tree and I liked raw octopus less.

Everything else: Yum!

A CAUTIONARY TALE

2006-07-29T13:38:00.000-04:00

Today I woke up with large breadcrumbs stuck to my legs and sheets. There was turkey in my hair. And the taste of swiss cheese and mustard on my breath.

I'm no forensic genius, but I think l had a one-night stand with a turkey sandwich. I'm not entirely sure, because I don't remember us getting together. I don't remember how the turkey sandwich even got into my bedroom. And, worse, my bed!

I'm hoping it was consensual, although I can't find the turkey sandwich to ask it. I think I said "no!" a couple of times, but it kept putting itself in my mouth anyway.

I was face-raped by a turkey sandwich.

I know what you're thinking:

Wow.

Right?

I can't imagine the kind of Google searches that are now going to lead to this entry.

ARE YOU GONNA EAT THAT?

2006-07-26T11:45:00.000-04:00

I'll eat that. If you're done, I mean. Even if you're not. I will eat that. Whatever you're having, I'll have, too. Don't throw that out! I'll take care of it, PRONTO! You're full? But there's still food on your plate! Why don't you slide it over here. I'm all over that. I just hate to waste. Oh, it's cold now? No problem. I'll eat it. What are you gonna do with that extra sauce? Just leave it there?! Gimme! I've got a spoon. That's right: I'm going to sip your sauce with a spoon. Why? 'Cause it's THERE. And I hate to waste. Trust me. I will EAT that. Hold up! you're not gonna eat your crust? I'LL eat your crust! That's FOOD, not GARBAGE. Glad one of us knows the difference. No, I'm not full. I'm NEVER full. Hollow leg? Ha! Ha! Not me! See all that food on your plate? I will EAT that. Even if you won't. Ha! Ha! Why? Because I'm still hungry. Why? Because I'm ALWAYS hungry. I'm INSATIABLE! Ha! Ha! A dog would stop at this point? Is that some sort of insult? Ha! Ha! Go fuck yourself! Ha! Ha! But first: slide that plate over my way. Ha! Ha! Yes, I'm serious. Seriously serious. I will eat that.

CASUAL

2006-07-24T00:50:00.000-04:00

I was feeling sad and I was feeling strange, and I met my friend by Union Square and she did the most wonderful thing. She had a roll, it was hers to eat, and even though she was feeling hungry, she saw me feeling sad and strange and so she did the most simple, silent, human thing: she broke the roll in half and shared it with me. "Here, eat this," she said, so I did. I wasn't hungry, she was hungry, but she fed me anyway. I had forgotten what it meant to be beautiful and safe and she reminded me.