“Maybe it’s much too early in the game
Ooh, but I thought I’d ask you just the same
What are you doing New Year’s - New Year’s eve?”
—-
They looked cute while doing it,
while he was doing it better.
Yeah, yeah, yeah…
I plan on re-entering the world of blogging with a dramatic explosion of witty, hilarious posts… but until then, all I can say is I’m in Hotlanta on business and craving some GREEK. My all-time favorite. Mmmm. Missin’ my Greek.
Anyhoo, if you haven’t barfed yet, don’t worry I’ll do it for you. I’m 99.4% sure I just gave myself food poisoning; lunch at McCormick & Shits was a bad choice. Who knew I was mere steps away from the food court at CNN’s World Headquarters??? Had I known that, I’d have 17 different brands of foods in front of me at this very moment, NONE of which would contain even a spec of salmonella, cuz Lord knows Andy Cooper would never let that happen in his house. Nancy Grace, maybe. Bitch is sour. But not my silver Fox, Anderson Coopy!
I’ll be here in the ATL for a few more days, this city isn’t the most inspiring place I’ve ever been to but maybe I’ll drum up a few stories as I eat my way through my expense reports.
So lately my belly has become a bit of a meat pocket. Hmm? A meat pocket. A small-ish pouch inside my body intended for carrying delicious meats. Please don’t confuse meat pockets with actual pockets — denim is NOT a suitable to-go box alternative for your half-eaten steak dinner. Talk about learning things the hard way… I can’t take me anywhere.
Maybe it’s the swampy weather, maybe it’s the swine flu, but in the past few weeks I’ve been feeling unusually carnivorous. Case in point: on my recent trip to sleven, I was thisclose to buying a Slim Jim! Oh dear Lord in Heaven! Of course I didn’t, I bought some Chex and M&M’s instead (natch), but I seriously considered it. Oh Jessica, a Slim Jim? Imagine!
Anyway, back to filling up my meat pocket — can you imagine anything more delicious than thinly sliced beef tenderloin sauteed with onions and green peppers and then slathered with enough mozzarella and provolone to plug up even the cleanest of digestive systems for weeks on end? Somebody call Jamie Lee Curtis, STAT. That’s right. It’s always sunny Philly in Philadelphia. That city sure knows how to combine their meats and their cheeses, boy howdy. I had my first “authentic” Philly cheese steak last year when I visited my adorably adorable cutie-pie-face baby nephew, Jackson, who lives in Pennsylvania. On a side note, that kid is HUGE. Yuuuuuuge. I suspect the white substance in those bottles of his was actually a mixture of melted mozzarella and provolone… and invisible meat. Cheese steaks for everyone!
I have to admit, I was a little scared as I sniffed my way up to the street cart, trying to peak over the counter to assess the sanitation situation. There were a few possible health-code violations in my direct line of vision, but if I’ve learned anything from my own cooking, sometimes you gotta get a little dirty before you can get a lot delicious. Trust. Anyway, I was just going to be super cool and order exactly what the local-looking guy in front of me ordered, until he completely pussied out and got a salad - wait for it - a salad with Cheeze Whiz as the dressing. I don’t even have to say it. So when it was my time to order, me and the street cart guy shared an intense eyeroll and then I just asked him how he eats his cheese steaks. Since we both eyerolled a few seconds earlier, I wasn’t too worried that he’d say, “in salad form, with some whiz.” He told me he’d make me the usual and then got to grilling up some meat and real cheese and toasting my bun. Oh yeah he did. Then I ate it, and then the world was right again.
I hadn’t thought much about that fateful day in Philadelphia, until, as I mentioned earlier, my body started going all anti-vegetarian on me. I could just taste that meaty meat in my mouth. And since I’m also on this whole DIY kick - pizza anyone? - I thought I’d head to The Money Pit with my favorite Greek hottie to see what kind of damage we could do. And damage we did. As you can see from the picture up top, I effed up and bought the wrong type of bread, but then said eff it and pulled another 180 using Naan bread instead. This is exactly the type of quick-fire mistake I’m known for, because my biggest would-be mistakes always turn out to be my greatest ideas ever. The Naan was Top Notch. I filled up one side with my grilled meat/pepper/onion/cheese mixture then folded it over and pressed it in my poor man’s panini maker. The result? It was so authentic I could practically hear the Liberty Bell cracking. Mmmm hmmm.
So, long story not-so-short, I make a mean Philly Cheese Steak sammich. Well, with the Naan bread it’s more of a Philly-by-way-of-India Cheese Steak sammich, but who’s counting.
Next up? My adventure into the land of DIY quesadillas! ¡Olé!
I’m on a boat. Wait, no, a quest. I’m on a quest! A quest to make the most delicious pizza my belly will ever have the pleasure of digesting. Let’s be honest, it’s been a good long while since I posted last. But damnitalltohell, I’ve been busy! Busy repeatedly burning my poor little fingers in my 500 degree oven and even busier giving my apartment a not-so-even dusting of all-purpose flour. Who knew this pizza making business was so messy?? For those of you who don’t know me, Messy Jessie wasn’t just a cute, rhymey, school-yard nickname; it was a constant and accurate reminder of my supreme mess-making skills. So when I take on a project (no, quest!) that is particularly messy, even for the tidiest of folks, what ensues is part I love Lucy episode, part Hurricane Katrina aftermath.
Ok, let me back up a step or two. I was never a pizza girl. Never really had an interest in the stuff. Even in college, on those late nights crawling home from the bars, belly full of beer and craving something to sop it all up… most kids opted for Pizza Shittle Shuttle, but not I. Nope. Probably because college is where I discovered the true magic of Chex Mix. The most perfect food in the world, and readily available at every late-night gas station/convenience store, far as the bleary double-vision eyes can see. Long story short, pizza and me had a relationship based on two parts indifference, one part stubbornness, and seven parts Chex Mix. There’s just no room for pizza with that many parts Chex. It’s math.
Flash forward… The Greek! Yes, my tall-ish, dark and handsome fella with a winning smile and an appetite to rival Takeru Kobayashi. Boy oh boy, The Greek loves him some pizza. But not just any pizza, he’s one of those people who can rattle on about the importance of cheese/sauce ratios and marvels at crust bubbles (do what now??). Just like those wine snobs with their hints of oak and grass and tannins and poop or whatever. Give me a fucking break, I’ll stick my straw into my box wine and call it a day. Frrrranzia!!!!
Anyway, I don’t know how he did it, but he got me on the pizza bandwagon. I’m convinced that rohypnol was involved, but I lack the physical evidence to prove it. So, armed with my DIY attitude and his Mr. Pizza Know-it-All attitude, we set off on this quest together. Awww.
After thoroughly researching all aspect of pizza making (i.e. watching one episode of Alton Brown’s Good Eats that happened to focus on homemade pizza…) we decided that the first step on our journey was to find the perfect pizza stone. So off we went — to the place where I imagine most culinary adventures begin and end, The Home Depot! That’s right, no fancy shcmancy store-bought crapola for these kids, no sirree. At the ‘pot, we picked out a might fine 16”x16” travertine tile. We intended to buy a terra cotta stone (hey just like Alton!) but the Lawn & Garden section was super far away from the tile section and we simply had to save our strength. Plus, the nice old lady, who adjusted her hearing aide just enough to hear our cries for help, said that travertine would work just as well. Thanks, gramma! Can’t argue with the experts.
You know what else you can’t argue with? Carpel tunnel syndrome. Hot damn this post is getting too long and my feeble wrists are starting to ache, so stay tuned for a recap of our trip to Mecca to gather the finest of ingredients and our first (and second) attempts at bakin’ up a pizza pie!
Note: The pic up top is from our second attempt, and let me just say, MMMM mmmMMMMmmmm…
Going to see Pauly Shore, aka Bud, aka The Wea-ee-sle, perform standup tonight at The Improv in Addison. I know, Addison, right? I haven’t been that far north since I lived in my old place, Getsrobbedalot Crackalley Villas, nestled between the loony bin and the freeway overpass where unsavory characters met up to swap illegal substances and/or communicable diseases. No place like home.
Anyway, I’m really REALLY pumped about tonight. Pauly Shore is sooo 1996, but I heard him on the Stern show a few weeks ago and I laughed so hard I almost peed. Then The Greek heard him on The Ticket yesterday, and though he wont admit it, he probably almost peed too. FYI sometimes I use the word almost as a synonym for definitely.
How does this relate to food? Well, it doesn’t, really, but the title of this post is one of my favorite quotes from the mid 90’s cinematic masterpiece, Bio-Dome. Ohhh Bud and Doyle, how you get trapped in that bubble? Actually, I wanted to mention that when I bought the tickets online, I noticed there was a box to check in case you planned on “dining” at the venue. I mean, I’m familiar with comedy clubs having a two drink minimum (gotta loosen up those yuppies…) but I’m a little suspicious of the food being served at such a fine establishment. Not trying to get all hung up on semantics, but I don’t think “dining” is the right word. I mean, wouldn’t it be distracting hearing all those knives and forks claking around while poor Pauly is trying to do his act? Rude. It’s loud enough with the drinks, cuz lord knows I make all sorts of noises after gettin a little booze in my belly. <—— that girl.
Anywho, here’s the menu in case you’ve got a case of the curious. You should probably get that checked out.
Question: It’s just now Does-my-ass-look-Fat Tuesday?? Jesus H. Christ, it feels like I’ve been eating king cakes and flashing my boobs for weeks! Doesn’t anyone remember the Super Bowl? I know all of you were sneaking fistfulls of purple/green/gold frosting while pretending to keep score or critique the lameass commercials. If I had a nickle for all the cake babies I’ve found in February, I could open my own abortion clinic. And then I’d burn it down and collect the insurance, because we need those babies for next year’s cakes. Right? That’s what I like to call a win-win.
Good golly, it sure has been a while since I’ve posted, no? I missed me. I mean you. I mean you missed me. Either way, it doesn’t matter, I’m back!! And, let’s not be modest, I’m better than ever. I got myself a new job (hooray for paychecks! boooo taxes!) and a new man (hooray for date nights!), so these days Laptop is one very happy, and very satisfied, camper.
So, yeah, things out of the kitch are positively positive, and even though I haven’t been blogging about it, things in the kitch have been heating up as well. I’ve actually been cooking up a whole mess of good food lately. If you all remembered one thing about me, it’s that I hate to use recipes because I think they’re bossy and rude. Has a recipe ever, EVER, included the words “please” or “thank you”? Or a simple, “I’m sorry” after it demands you chop an onion or accidentally slice your finger off? No. RUDE. Anyway… Suprise, surprise — I’ve been all about using recipes lately. And I’m not saying that I’m officially “on” any “band waggons” but I’m certainly dabbling with the idea of becoming one of those recipe people. You know who you are. Gluttons for punishment, every last one of you. So far, Real Simple has been a pretty decent resource for recipes and tidbits. And you know I hate Fake Complicated, so it works for me.
So, speaking of Valentine’s Day… me and The Greek pretty much feasted our way through those most-romantic 24 hours. There is a reason Pepto Bismol is pink — the younger-sister of red — the color of lurve. We started the day off with brunch at Breadwinner’s, - the Uptown location, although the one on Lovers Lane would have been more appropriate… ba-dum-ching! Of course there was a seventeen hour wait so we kicked it at Quarter Bar and sipped on some delicious Bloody Marys whist reading the paper funny pages / horoscopes. SIDE NOTE TO ALL DALLAS READERS: the bloody mary’s at Quarter Bar are far FAR superior to the bloody mary’s at Breadwinner’s… as The Greek put it, “I didn’t order cocktail sauce…” RIGHT?? And for 8 bucks, where’s the effin shrimp?? Anyway, we stuffed ourselves with our free pre-meal pastry treats and then proceeded to restuff ourselves on the actual meal. I had some veggie something or other and he had some breakfasty something or other… I don’t really remember because the booze and food coma were starting to kick in and it gets a little hazy.
Then we waddled home, went our separate ways for a while, then met back up in the evening for a trek to Mecca (aka Central Market). Thousands of dollars later, we set off to make the most incredible meal ever known to mankind. Well, top five, at least. Chicken stuffed with Mozzarella, basil, sun-dried tomato, and garlic — baked with veggies in a crazy delicious pasta sauce (which was later spooned onto the pasta parmigiana), served with a yummy salad and bruscetta. Oh yeah. It was dee-lish. See the pic. Nuff said. Oh yeah, and we got all boozy on red wine and I proceeded to wink at him an inappropriate amount, ‘cause that’s what I do when the vino does flow… he liked it.
Anyway, enough about all that stuff, what I really want to say is that I’m looking forward to blogging more. I’ve got some drafts that I never posted (and will try to pass them off as BRAND NEW material) and some incredible dining events coming up, so the material will practically write itself.
Warm hearts and full bellies to all.
Last I checked I still had my own teeth. Well, almost all of them, but that freak one in the back was a baby tooth and was never going to make it through my twenties. Anyway, for the past few days my stomach has inexplicably forgotten that it is, in fact, an INTERNAL organ. Thankfully, it didn’t successfully escape, but everything I’ve ever swallowed in my life made it out in the process. that’s what she said…”
So back to my teefs. My fever is down from one zillion degrees and I’m finally feeling brave enough to test out the tummy again, so in my mind the best thing to do is deliver a massive gift basket of delicious treats down my throat in order to convince my GI system that life ain’t so bad inside my body. Right? Well, thank God I have friends who aren’t retarded like me, because they knew that food made for empty-mouthed old people is what I actually needed.
I’ve had a lot of time for soul searching during the past 36 hours of hell, and one thing I’ve discovered is that chewing is soooo overrated! Applesauce is my new favorite treat. Maybe it’s the fever still talking but that mushy mush is like heaven in my mouth. AND with no chewing, it does all the work for me! Talk about having my cake applesauce and eating it, too.
The next step is soup and crackers, which I’m ridiculously pumped about. There’s nothing like the stomach flu to bring back one’s enthusiasm and zest for life. Forget Prozac, just pump everyone full of H1N1 and see how happy they feel when it’s all over. It worked for me, and I know my logic is always sound. Except for whenever I try to think logically, of course.
Soup time, pray for me.
On the left? St. Mary’s heavenly treat. On the right? Lucifer’s Laptoppetite’s abomination of chocolate and diabetes. I just can’t help myself sometimes.
But, you know, it’s frozen yogurt — super healthy, right??
Yeeeahhh… That’s what I tell myself as I’m standing in line at Crackberry, trying (unsucsesfully) to control my salivary glands while feverishly pointing to every topping that even resembles chocolate. Wait, what? Would I like what on that? Fruit? What kind of GD question is that, young man? How dare you.
I just assume that somewhere hidden beneath my many layers of chocolate sprinkles and brownie bites and caramel and oreo cookie and hot fudge is a delicious AND nutritious frozen treat of the creamy, tart, magical, vitamin-rich variety.
When I first heard that Pinkberry was opening a D-town location, I could feel the heat rising. And not the hot/sexy kind of heat, either. You know what I’m talking about — the nervous, suffocating, crack-addict-needs-a-fix kind of heat. I thought to myself, “Great, just great. There goes my November car payment.” No joke. On my last trip to New York, I spent so much money on expiditions to various PB’s that I actually felt a little ashamed. And gassy. Gassy and ashamed. And if you remember just two things about me and nothing else, it’s that my stomach is basically an industrial garbage disposal, and that I have no sense of shame. Zero. Shameless.
Needless to say, I should start sending my rent checks to 5959 Royal Lane. Seriously. I don’t tell jokes. So damn you, Pinkberry. You send me home a broken woman and then have the audacity to move in to my neighborhood. Who’s shameless now, huh??
Oh God, I didn’t mean that. I take it all back. I love you Pinkberry. I’ll see you soon, keep my seat warm. XOXOXOXOXOXO
Okay, I know that I always sometimes use ChexMix as a condiment (they’re like delicious croutons!), but let me just say, you really can’t get lazier than the mess seen above. It may kind of look like pasta sauce if you squint real hard and then gouge your eyes out, but my gag reflex would surely say otherwise. And that shit ain’t weak. My reflex, that is.
Reblogged from lickystickypickyme:
As a poor student, I had to resort to this a lot.
It was between buying decent food or exam readers. The readers often won.
But this is, to this day, glorious food to me.
Cooking with The Greek tonight… it’s fucking freezing outside so I’m going to attempt to warm things up from the inside out. And then maybe we’ll prepare some food.
Mee-yow.
Updates to come — I’ve had all kinds of crazy delicious meals in the past few days. Lots of napkins.
Snow?! What frigid asshole woke up this morning and decided it was December? Oh, it’s already December 2nd? Well, in that case, by all means….
I mean, you guys know how much I love cocoa and equally cozy-inducing hot beverages. And you know how much I love surprises. But, good God, there’s a limit! When you go from runnin’ around in flip flops, drinking micheladas on a patio whilst wiping sweat from your forehead with those coaster napkins (you do it too, shut up) and then BOOM! You wake up one December morning and it’s snowing?? Hey Roker, give a gal some fair warning!
It’s not my fault that I passed out before the 10:00 news last night — I was exhausted after an evening full of stuff and things, and just because I’m unemployed doesn’t mean I can stay up all hours of the night watching infomercials & porn the news and then sleep it off the next day… No, no sir. It’s all early-bird-gets-the-worm-in-the-tequila for this young lass.
Anyway, what was I yammering on about? Oh yes, the snow. I apologize, cold weather gives me temporary early onset Alzheimer’s. The only time I want to be suprised by white powder is if/when I’m awoken with suprise french toast. Or maybe just once on New Years Eve, but that’s another story for another time, kids.
To be honest, I think I’m just depressed about finally having to retire my cutoff jorts for the season. I mean, 2009 was chockerblock full of swampass hot days, and those jorts really let my lower half breathe. So, understandibly, I’m a little upset, a little gassy, but mostly just sad that for the next few month I’ll have to wear mittens and sweaters and woolen everything. It’s all just so GD itchy. I’m getting hives just thinking about it.
Stay warm, my friends.
*tap tap tap*
…is this thing on?
How ‘bout I skip right over the awkward, “So sorry I haven’t posted in five months…” jibber jabber and get right back to bullshit business? Cuz lord knows I’m all about the business. Great, let’s go!
The break-feast you see above was enjoyed on this lovely fall morning at Garden Cafe with my nearest-and-dearest, Mary and Rachel. Just three gals, eatin’ in the sunshine and chatting about macroeconomics and micropenises and whatnot. The image and occasion pretty much sums up how my life has been over the past few months. Not the micropenis part, thank God, but you get the drift. Great meals with great friends (some new, some old, each amazing) and LOTS of time outdoors. Nourishment, of both self and soul, is a many splendored thing. And like they say, there’s no time like the present — and no present like unemployment!
So yeah, I’ve been very much out-of-commission when it comes to those pesky little things such as gainful employment and health insurance and keeping up with this here weblog… but I have to say, with a full belly and an even fuller dance card, I’m having the time of my life, and going back for seconds, thankyouverymuch.
The “we’re going to have to let you go” speech (aka loveyou-butnotinlovewithyou) happened on July 20th, not long after my big work trip to NYC. What can I say? Wasn’t meant to be. Blessing in disguise. Yadda yadda blah blah STFU. I do miss my paycheck job, but the past few months have been life changing.
SImply incredible, actually.
I’ve used the “time off” to travel (and travel, travel, and travel!) and reconnect with all the people in my life whom I’d lost touch with because I was always too damn busy doing some such nonsense. My defibrillated sense of interpersonal communication has also led to a few new cast members being introduced in my off-off-broadway production of Life. And though I haven’t been blogging about food (my keyboard has been uncharacteristically grease-free as of late), I’ve certainly been having my fill.
So with about five months of slowcooked material, and with Fatpants-giving just around the corner, I think I can take this blog off the back burner and set it to BROIL. Because if you know anything about me, it’s that I like my puns and I like my char.
Well folks, it certainly has been a while. I’ve taken some much needed time off to travel, and since I’ve practically eaten my way across this fine country of ours - gotta love those frequent flyer miles - I figure I’ve got plenty of material for some new posts.
Come back soon, ya hear?
So, Laptop’s going to be ‘out to lunch’ for a bit. I’m posting from Cruz Bay in sunny St.John, and I’m quite thankful for the hit-or-miss internet access. Sometimes you just need to unplug for a while. A good, long while. Much love.
