I took the day off work. What do I look like on my days off, you ask? Mad. Blurry. Pink lipped. My eyes even turn into octagons, the kind of octagons that pierce your soul if you stare at them for too long.
And what does any normal boy do on his day off? (“Get into trouble!” screams the distant, troubled reading public in unison.) NO. Normal boys make curried lentil soup.
Thar she is: the soup that looks all baby poop. Delicious, when you’re not thinking about that. That. How can you not think about that. I look at the soup and my mind goes to that time my little niece, now only a handful of months old, had what was appropriately referred to as a “blowout.” I know what else you’re thinking, and I’m just going to say NO, I don’t not live in a crack den. Jordan decorates with Lady of Guadelupe candles and wooden camels, okay? Okay.
Don’t these carrots look like The Suck? If I were the grocery store that sold these to me I’d be shamed to the point that I’d bow out of the business. I DON’T CARE IF IT’S DECEMBER IN MINNESOTA.
A better view of the table. Those aren’t bars on our windows. They’re part of the Islamic-Renaissance styling of the manor, okay? It’s fancy, alright? Okay.
FACT: never has a camera been able to capture Shlomo’s eyes. Never. FACT: cats don’t care if the chair is set up. They just don’t. They’re going to sit there anyway. They might even pee on it a little to claim it as their own.
Sometimes wordpress is stupid and doesn’t allow me to flip the picture, so here we have Normie defying gravity, expectations of beauty.
I quit that novel I started in November, and now I don’t even remember what it was about, which is a great sign, right?!?
Things I’ve been doing: moving, working, holidaying. Things to come: working, holidaying, traveling.
I’m taking a month off from blogging so that I can participate in NaNoWriMo. I’m really really really excited to write a horrible novel in just one month’s time. I’ll let you know how badly it goes when I’m done.
Last Sunday was my dad’s birthday. It was also 10/10/10, which is insignifcant, but people like to connect the dots whenever the dots look the same. But I do think it’d be kind of cool if my dad was turning 10 on 10/10/10. That’d be like a super golden birthday. But it’d also be weird if my dad were turning ten, because then I’d be more than twice his age. Plus I don’t want to think about my mom being with a ten year old. Above: a picture of two pictures. On the left we have my father, now 52. He’s excited by ” ‘vettes.” On the right is my neice. She’s excited by television in a way that I wish I still was. To the top left we have a brand name.
Here is some kind of caramel creation my mother put together. I think you just throw a bunch of random processed food together and then dump caramel on it. I was most confused by the Cheetos.
Crooked nostrils. One eye that closes more than the other. Facial hair that doesn’t match other hair. A nose that deserves some sort of blackhead-removing scrub. Skepticism surrounding the the Cheeto-caramel amalgam. It was a Sunday.
What is this creature?
I’m thinking about getting a new lens for my camera for my birthday. Any suggestions?!?! I haz a Nikon D50.
Babies are fun because gravity is still new to them. This makes it easy to impress them. All you have to do is hold them high in the air and they’re all “THIS FEELS DIFFERENT!” and then they either smile or throw up on you. Or poop themselves.
The above pictures were taken 3 seconds apart.
Olivia with our new friend Sullivan, Nicki’s babe.
I realize that this post is more baby than “Mexican food.” Here’s why: if you’re in a room with two babies under 3 months they kind of preoccupy you. It’s like you have to keep checking on them to make sure they really exist. Above, Sullivan appears to exist. He also looks like a gentleman, even when adorned with skulls.
Olivia has learned the art of rolling over. This is fun for grown humans, because it’s an opportunity to watch the child really struggle with something.
I have a new post up on the City Pages food blog. Check ‘er out. Also, I was too busy this week to finish a single blog entry for IQTE, aside from this one. That means there are twice as many hot, hot photos for next week. Be excited. There are even baby shots. Also, I made the above graphic a year ago. I had to turn the photo into a graphic because I looked too fat in those clothes to just let that photo fly solo. Also also, I’m still too pudgy for those clothes. Time to throw?
I made this cake for Madeline about six months ago when she came home from Israel for a couple of weeks. I remember that we went out to eat with her family at the Indian place on Grand Avenue, and the restaurant was nice enough to let us serve this Star of David-embellished creation at the end of our meal. This cake is very multi-cultural, as it is actually my famous tres leches cake (Latin America!) with just a touch of David’s shield (Um, Jews!). Also, in the above photo you can get a glimpse of the table in the background; it’s full of random garbage and mail. Presentation is an integral part of food photography.
Here it is from the top. Part of my really wants to go into joke cake making for a living. But then I think: What would Amy Sedaris do? And I realize: She would do that. So I’ve decided: I’m going to make joke cakes for a living. Sorry, amazing new job, there are joke cakes to be made. And with the global marketplace and the Web 2.0 I’m sure my joke cake business will take off in a snap, right, Jay M. Boller?
My plan was to eat donuts from A Baker’s Wife while watching Twin Cities Marathon. This didn’t quite work out, and we ended up eating our pastries at the apartment, and then going on a walk along the Twin Cities Marathon path. Here’s something I found out: Just watching marathoners make me feel physically ill.
Jordan got and ate this caramel cake thingy. He seemed pleased. I think you can call the above photo an action shot, as the innards are dripping at a ferocious pace.This monster is something they called an American Teacake. It was amazing. I should note that the other side is coated in powdered suga’, natch.
Here’s an angry young citizen. One day he will be an angry old citizen.
Let me guess: God hates runners? What would a marathon be without some extreme Evangelism?
This post is about what I didn’t eat in Vegas last March. I’ll be honest: the food I had there was un-delicious. And I became horribly sick one night after meeting with a piece of “supreme” pizza. To wit: I heaved and ho’d until I was depleted of vitals. We’re talking ILLNESS. And lots of it. Spewing from me. BUT I’M NOT GOING TO TALK ABOUT IT. Above: My mom and sister ride an outdoor escalator. It’s early morning, and Vegas is sleeping, except for the people who are not sleeping and probably never will, not until they hit the pool at 11 a.m. and purchase a 4-foot-tall tropical rum-spiked beverage, the kind that comes in a plastic tube.
Above: Here we see something just heartbreaking. Vegas is known for its homeless children who have Pre-gambler’s gambling addiction. It’s quite sad: they come out of the womb with a thirst for craps. They usually don’t become full-blown crappers until they turn legal, 21 here, and until then they wander the streets lying, looking sweet, telling people they’re “midwestern.” It’s estimated that Vegas has over 40,000 vagrant pre-gambling-addicted children. It’s not hard to snap a photo of one. Or two.
Above: Though Vegas is more known for hookers-n’-blow than stunning modern architecture, this structure proves that Sin City is looking to get EXPENSIVE by adding straight lines and trippy skyscrapers that lean like Pisa, or a homey.
A long time ago, perhaps in pre-Obama America, I had friends over for stir fry. Weird things happened. Because we drank a lot. But that’s not my point; I don’t have a point.
Here was the final product. I remember it being a 4.5 out of 10 on the scale of amazing tasty things. Which is weird, because with all the stir fry gunk I keep around my house, there’s nary a fry where I feel as though the final product is under-developed, flavor-wise. BUT WHO CARES?! We had Stoli, and Jordan pouring Stoli, and posing with it.
Steph was there! Becky was there! Was anyone else there?
Dead chickens were present, until we consumed their dead asses. Maybe not really their asses though. But maybe. (Does a chicken have an ass? Is a chicken really just one big breast? Questions only a farmer might be able to answer.)
Becky brought candy, OBVS. She looks possessed. I believe that more drinking happened after this? Maybe I shouldn’t have waited 8 months to post these photos.