Thursday Night Smackdown: I'm a grown up and I do what I want

And that includes eating Sticky Toffee Pudding for dinner. Which I just did, and I could not possibly be less sorry. In fact, I’m feeling so magnanimous after eating it that I’m willing to overlook the ridiculous length of this book’s title AND the fact that (as listed on Amazon) it has TWO COLONS: Desserts by the Yard: From Brooklyn to Beverly Hills: Recipes from the Sweetest Life Ever, by Sherry Yard (GET IT?), official pastry chef of Wolfgang Puck’s Spago empire.

I Wonder: Are all the colons necessary?: A grammatical conundrum: That I can top: Suck on that.

Wow, when you exaggerate it like that it almost becomes poetry. Really terrible poetry.

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Cheap Ass Monday: Which way to the bread line?

Thank god for Cheap Ass Monday, which I predict will soon become “Cheap Ass Every Damn Day” because the hourly rates of New York City psychiatrists are INSANE.  Nationally known expert, schmexpert; I’ll need another drug just to counteract the shock of the bills.  I’ve totally gone down the wrong path in life: I should have become a psychiatrist.  Based on the hourly rate of the guy I’m seeing for a second opinion this Friday, I could see four patients a week and still be making hundreds more than I do in my current job.  It’s too bad you have to actually go to medical school and can’t just apprentice with ye olde barber-surgeon anymore.

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I'm too sexy for this post.

That chunky grayish liquid dripping out of my left ear? Is my brain. For today, I watched six entire episodes of an America’s Next Top Model marathon. Then, during a bathroom break, I looked into the mirror and tried to “smile with my eyes.” You know, to see if I have what it takes to be America’s Next Top Model. And now I have a headache and am possibly cross-eyed, so the answer, apparently, is “no.” It seems that I suffer from a severe dearth of fierceness, and lack the ability to “bring it” almost entirely.

This post is brought to you by my need to keep up with the requirements of NaBloPoMo, because after watching all that reality television I ran out of both time and the will to write up the roundup of champagne flutes I’d been planning. To make it food-related, here’s what I ate today: a bowl of Kashi Heart-to-Heart cereal, a Little Debbie Fudge brownie with a glass of milk, and my Father-in-Law’s chicken stir-fry, made with “Mr. Yoshida’s Stir Fry Sauce” and including corn kernels because that’s what Grandma Ruth wanted.

Smackhead, Revisited: You can't rush reverse osmosis

Yes, I know I said I was going to make this chicken on Friday night.  But Friday nights I’m usually too beat to deal with all the cooking and photographing and writing Claudia’s comment in the post postponing this shamed me into giving the chicken another day to salt, EVEN THOUGH the cookbook itself said “one to three days”, not “one day is completely unacceptable and offensive why would you even think such a thing.”

Thus, tonight found me eating The Zuni Cafe Cookbook’s roast chicken with some celery root-potato puree courtesy of Bittman (there’s a tenth anniversary edition, it’s red and pretty) and some quickly wilted spinach.

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T. G. I. Frigday

We live in scary times: were you aware that there are multiple brands of canned whole chicken? Apparently, it’s quite a lucrative market.

Before leaping below the jump, I want you to close your eyes and think about your responses to these two questions:

  1. Other than whole bone-in chicken, what food would you most like to see forced into a can?
  2. What food product are Germans the most likely to force into a can?

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Liveblogging Top Chef: Episode 1

50 minutes from now, right here: liveblogging the new batch of cocky, befauxhawked cheftestants.  Who will throw who under the bus first?  What kind of strangely inappropriate clothing will Padma wear?  Is Tom Colicchio capable of not being a total dickwad?  Why are reality show contestants so much more prone to fatal bus accidents than the rest of us?  Will I actually have anything to say? Join me – this post will be contiually updated, assuming this 8-year-old Toshiba laptop can take it, and the comments are ready and waiting for your expletive-laden judgment.  See you after the jump!

ETA:  Can’t keep this year’s mondo cast straight?  Check out Skillet Doux’s weekly power rankings.

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