tacogate '08: sweet potato & red chard

Yes, I still use IKEA Bubblor flatware. Is that going to be an issue?

When you work in the non-profit sector, you end up with a lot of tree-hugging vegetarian friends. They may not eat bacon, but they still deserve to be treated with respect. So when they come to my home, I hate serving them trite vegetarian fare like the portobello mushroom-as-hamburger replacement. Of course, when they come to my home they’re probably absorbing microscopic pork particulate through their pores, but there’s nothing I can do about that; I can only control foodstuffs visible to the naked eye.

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tacogate '08: pork

I wanted to attend my own party – surely, you will not begrudge me that? – so this is the only picture of pork I took.

I’m tired from a long day of cooking, Scrabbling and eating, but didn’t want to leave those of you eagerly awaiting the second installment of Cliffhanger: Pork on the edges of your respective seats any longer than necessary.

So: see above. It was really fucking good. I give this pork an A+, and would gladly do business with it again.

And now, to sleep, perchance to dream…of pork. May we all dream of pork this night!

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a thursday night smackdown of questionable methodology

It’s not meat!

Tonight’s Smackdown comes to us from Creole by Babette de Rozieres, a beautifully photographed collection of 160 classic and not-so classic creole recipes. On the menu: Creole Seafood Risotto.

On the surface, this dish seems like a total winner: shrimp, scallops, and fish, risotto finished with some creme fraiche, saffron and scotch bonnet peppers bringing the creole mojo, and more shallots (8) than I have ever used in a single dish (It serves 4. So, 2 shallots per person. Babette doesn’t fuck around with shallots.). Although the flavor is ultimately a winner, a tragic misunderstanding of classic risotto procedures leads to fatal textural compromises. Amazon informs me that Babs is a French celebrity chef, making this all the more surprising.

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The other white meat, except it’s pink, and it bled all over my refrigerator like a stuck pig. Which I guess makes sense, because it’s, you know, pork.

I know, I know, giant hunks of raw animal flesh above the fold two posts in a row. Suck it up.

You probably already have a sense of how very fun I am from reading me: very, very fun. Just how fun am I? I’m hosting a Scrabble tournament – slash – taco buffet this weekend. You heard me, Scrabble tournament. If you have something to say about that I suggest you don’t, because Scrabble fucking RULES. F-U-C-K-I-N-G = 17 points + 50 point bonus for using all seven letters, take that, muthafucka.

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i dare say, that is a dreadfully good sandwich.

Red sky in the morning, vegetarians take warning.

I guess I could have put something prettier above the fold, but I want people to know what they’re getting into here: a great big hunk of cow. More specifically, a full steakhouse on a bun. Steak, onions, stinky cheese, butter, spinach, the whole nine yards. Stuffed first into a bun, and then down my gullet. And then I called for the humidor and settled into my Louis XIV wingback to enjoy a fine single malt and peruse the latest issue of Angioplasty Afficionado. Tally fucking ho, my good chap!

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weekend breakfast blogging: now 65% more beige!

Have you met Lidia, Lidia the tattooed lady?

The leftover sausage and spinach gnocchi filling has been sitting in the fridge since Thursday night, and it hasn’t been waiting patiently. HEY YOU, it’s been yelling. YOU WITH THE COOKIE CRUMBS ON YOUR SHIRT. EAT ME. I assume it will only become more abusive as time goes on, so I had no choice but to use it in some eggs en cocotte this morning. Eggs en cocotte are also called shirred eggs, or, as they are now known around here, “the best fucking eggs in the whole entire world” or “crack in a cup.”

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thursday night smackdown: things stuffed in other things

The Great Cheez Doodle Sea (All-Natural White Cheddar) as seen from Mars.

On tonight’s menu, via the esteemed Lidia Bastianich: Offelle Triestine, or Trieste-style stuffed gnocchi.

I should say up front that I have a soft spot for Lidia Bastianich, her severe hairstyle and brusque mannerisms, having been raised by an Italian woman named Lidia with a severe hairstyle and brusque mannerisms.

I think I also have fond memories of Trieste. Although most of my time in Italy has been spent in Puglia (the heel of the boot), where my family lives, we spent one summer in Trieste (up north) staying with friends of my mom’s who ran a school for girls. My only truly clear memory is of the rows of tiny sinks in the school bathrooms. However, all my recollections of this time are shrouded in mystery, since I think I was only about 4 at the time and I’m not sure why we would have gone on vacation to a girl’s school, so it could have been a fever dream. I think we ate a lot of rice dishes. Possibly also there was a talking pig.

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Eating Out: Marco & Pepe

French Fries: They’re what’s for breakfast.

I woke up this morning sick as an old hound dog with the mange. I had brunch scheduled with some childhood friends, but had to call between hacking coughs to beg off because I knew that if I went I would probably drink too many bellinis in an attempt to forget about my various aches and pains. You’re probably thinking, “Shocking! I always thought bellinis were indicated for upper-respiratory infections. Why wouldn’t she go?” but I feel the responsibility to alert you to the fact that heavy drinking* does not, in fact, stave off illness. I know, I know.

Brian is still getting over the cold he just transmitted to me (his attempted cure: Drambuie), and we both spent the morning lolling around the apartment bemoaning our pathetic states and the lack of brunch. So we swore not to drink and went to brunch anyway, hoping that french toast might be the miracle cure that bellinis are not.

*Heavy drinking for me = 2/3 of a bellini. Shut up. No, you’re a wuss.

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