YOU CAN’T MAKE GROUND BEEF SEXY
I’ve tried to make ground beef appealing, but, it’s impossible, probably because it’s just ground up animal. YEAH. So let’s focus on how pretty this salsa is. It went on top of my Epic Ultimate Nachos.
It’s tomato-less, and limey.
And there you have it: Ultimate Nachos. I ate a third of that pan, and then I didn’t do anything for two days except talk about how epic my nachos were. When my mom asked me, “what did you do on Sunday?” I just said, “Nachos.” Nuff said.
ALSO, I’ve finally got my act together enough to have my first CP post up on Monday. I hope to do one a week until my life settles down a bit, and then hopefully I’ll begin posting more. BUT WE’LL SEE. I’ve been busy, doing a lot of drinking and things. And nachos.
BIG NEWS A COMING
Probably? Who knows. So I hear.
Some for sures: going to begin writing for City Pages Hot Dish blog. I’ll be covering local food news and dishing out attitude. I’ll link from here, and from my tumblr, which is way more relevant than this archaic WordPress-run thingamajig.
Also, do you ever fee like not brushing your teeth? That’s where I’m at right now. Happy Saturday.
ALIENS! DIABETES! LAMB CONSUMPTION! MY LIFE TEN YEARS FROM NOW.
I hope my life will be sparkly, and filled with lamb. I have a feeling that my weekly consumption of Zours will lead to some unfortunate malady, probably diabetes. Other than that, I see myself in the same apartment with the same cats and the same dirty floors. Some of the dishes will probably still be dirty, and most of my books will still be lying around, unread and architectural, stacked in skyscraper-like piles. There will probably be more dust.
Aliens? What about them? Oh. The title. I wrote that before I wrote the entry. I’m trying this thing called Plinky, which is a prompt service. I like and dislike it already in equal measures. You can tell that the prompts have been written with whiny bloggers in mind. I’m not really a whiny blogger, at least not here. Well, I’ll let you know how this Plinky thing goes. Or maybe I won’t!
Bacon Fat
Sometimes you need to congratulate yourself for a day well done, and almost always this is best done by clogging your arteries. I made these roasted potato, bacon, parmesan, and parsley critters last night. Sure, they look a lot like potato skins, and really they are, but I’m reluctant to call them that because then the general viewing public will be all OH LOOK I COULD JUST GET THOSE AT TGI FRIDAYS. But don’t.
Observe the way the potato glistens. That’s flavor. The secret to these beauties is roasting them in the reserved bacon fat. Now, before you get all “I’m a vegetarian/healthy person!” on me, take a moment to tastes these beasts, and then you’ll be all, “oh, nm.”
Now, I could get all technical on your and let you know how to make them, but I’m not stupid enough to believe that you’re actually going to make them. My least favorite part of food blogging is the recipes. I prefer to instead just look at the pictures and be all like OH OKAY I KNOW WHAT TO DO NOW. Plus this blog doesn’t claim to be instructive; it claims only to be an idiot quest taste explosion, which it hasn’t been for several months. But maybe it is now? Again? Is IQTE alive? Probably not. But maybe. CLIFFHANGER!
Rejection Like White Elephants
Last week was about rejection. This week is going to be about stuffing myself with things that make me feel good! Some of these things will be food. Ew. I mean, all of these things will be food. I’m not going to go on some sort of stuffing-other-things into myself rampage. What I’m trying to say is, this blog is gonna get real food-centric for a minute. Remember when this blog was about edibles? I don’t really. I pretty much created this thing so that I could make fun of people who take food too seriously. And then I quit cooking, because, ugh!, it’s just so much work! So much time! So much calories! But you know what? I say fugg you to calories, to work, to time: I’m making pot roast! Matter of fact, I already made pot roast. And I took pictures. So there’s a good chance that if you’re a faithful reader of this blog (hi, Mom!) that you will see pictures of this pot roast. Other things I’m doing: making dinner with Steph and Becky tonight. Jord will be there too, but probably acting more like a deejay and alcoholist than cook. Will there be dancing? You’ll just have to ask me tomorrow. (There won’t be dancing.)
Pills and Pasta: How Mordecai Got His Groove Back
Today is recovery day two from Strep Throat. Apparently I’m eight years old, or, as my doctor gently put it: “Have you been hanging around a lot of young children?” No, sir doctor, I have not. “Well, it’s really unusual for someone over 18 to have Strep.” Don’t know what to tell ya. Haven’t been around any children. No children. Ever. Keep them away from me.
For lunch today I wasn’t feeling spectacularly outgoing, so I heated up some canned sauce and cooked some cheese-filled ravioli. The only good thing about this situation is that I had some feta on hand, the last remaining morsels that I bought along with some spinach that I had forced myself to choke down over the weekend. This purchase occurred after I decided I was going to die from eating too many french fries and Uptown Burgers. Pretty sure I’m okay now. Except for this whole death-like illness thingy.
But onto happier things: I like feta cheese. In fact, I’m relatively certain that the path to happiness is sprinkled with feta cheese and lined with bacon. My favorite feta in Minneapolis is sold at Bill’s Imported Foods on Lake Street near Lyndale. Pretty sure they make it there, along with their mozzarella. I’ve never asked if they make it, because they scare me, but it sits in large watery vats that don’t look an inch like commercial pre-packaging. Here is their super informative Web site: Oh so much imported foods!
For those of you who did not click that link, good. Let me tell you about that Web site: it’s super low-tech and not at all interested in marketing to you. It’s more like, “Oh. Hi there. I see you must have heard about us. Here’s our store hours and our address. Do with this information what you will.” If you should decide to visit Bill’s, you will find that the ambiance is much the same. Which is why I like the place. It’s doesn’t give a fuck about you. Yet the people who work behind the counter–typically an older woman and a middle-aged man who could be her son, a pair that I’ve always assumed are the owners–are warm but not necessarily friendly. They own an imported foods store–not a Bath & Body Works–and they don’t put up pretend niceties. Plus they have aisles of canned shit that takes forever to find at huge supermarkets. Last time I checked, they have a tahini section, which is fun, and there is almost an entire aisle devoted to dried fruits and nuts. I’m a sucker for both.
You should visit Bill’s, because I’m concerned that they will one day close, and then I will no longer be able to taste their feta. So don’t ruin this for me. Thanks. Also, bring cash. They don’t accept your modern forms of payment.
A Fantastic New Kind Of Privacy Invasion
Wired reports that airport scanners actually can make you famous on the Internet, because they take pictures of your nekkidness through your clothes, and are capable of storing and transferring these highly valuable images. I am a fan of transparency and openness in society, and see this as a landmark move to increase said transparency. Also, I’ve learned that blue aliens, such as the one pictured above, will likely always be carrying guns just above their backsides, and possibly have some sort of unidentifiable explosive device near their nethers. Also Also, what a voluptuous woman! Pretty sure that this scan is NSFW.
Does anyone else secretly hope that these little machinies actually do store and transmit images? COY CELEBRITIES BETTER WATCH OUT. Airport scanner porn will probably be a billion-dollar industry in just a few months.
SPR NAKED CELEBRITIES HERE. MAYBE: Click here if you don’t want airport security viewing your bits, et cetera
A Nice Man Who Probably Smells Awful (Based On His Work)
Only once have I written a letter to a famous person with the hope that she would think I was awesome. It was to Sharon Olds, the depressing poet, who I actually rather enjoy, probably because she talks about dirty stuff. Anywho, she never wrote back, so I never wrote anyone again. Psh. Whatever. I’mOverIt. Really I wasn’t too terribly offended, mostly because I once read an interview with her where she spoke about never reading newspapers, watching television, or paying any attention to her environment, all so that she could focus on her writing and shiz like that. In other words, she is the polar opposite of everyone in my generation. Especially me.
So I found this letter from John Kricfalusi, the probably smelly but also probably really cool cartoonist behind Ren & Stimpy. It’s written to a young fan. On the one hand, Mr. John is kind of butt-head for assuming the kid wants tips on drawing and cartooning. On the other more relevant hand, this letter is totally awesome. Dude even gives out his e-mail address (along with the completely realistic explanation that he would probably never have the time to answer him.)
I may just write a letter today. Probably to Amy Sedaris, who I would like to morph into. I’ve gotta run; the cat is puking. Wish cat vomit were a marketable venture. I’d be rolling in major benjamins. I’d have like five benjamins, maybe. What’s a benjamin?
SOMETHING YOU SHOULD LOOK AT: Cartoonist is awesome to children.
Keeping Frosh With SCOPE
I’ve never liked mouthwash. But I like it now, because the bottle looks ohsosexy. Who has time to read when there are fake ads to make? I want someone to reeeeead to me, like I’m four. Four-year-olds have it made. Waaaaaah.
I like reversing little phrases. Makes them seem IMPACTFUL.
Sacrificial, Delicious: The Meat You Should Eat
Men need lamb. As a man, I know the craving well. Allow me explain or thing or two to the ladies (and please try not to blush): every month for three or four days men get a craving for lamb so bad that it sends them into an inflamed frenzy, where few people are treated respectably by the man, and even fewer are enjoyed by the man. Until he eats his meat, anyway. And so it was: my post-New Year’s Eve putrid mood swelled and lingered like a questionably emitted gas, until at last it hit me–it was that time of the month again. Of course! That’s when I put lamb on the menu for the evening.
That may all be bull shit, but it sounds right to me. It may well be true that men need lamb, but surely there are vegans and vegetarians and white-meat-only eaters among us who can easily and sassily put the kibosh on my charming little theory. To them I say, have a little heart. Let’s talk about Lamb. Or at least let’s eat it quietly.
I’m a fan of thick, goopy sauces that suffocate large chunks of barely cooked meat. Manly, right? This sauce had coconut cream and peanut butter as it’s mucky base. Other highlights: ginger, garlic, onion, green pepper, chillies, cilantro. And my favorite savory flavor of all time: CUMIN. Boy that word has legs in the multiple-interpretations-department. Don’t get nasty now.
I don’t know if you’ve figured this out by now, but I’m not going to tell you how to make it. Not that hard to figure out. Warm this, sizzle that, pour here, stir there. Directions are always the most boring part of otherwise sexy food posts.
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