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.
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.
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.
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:
- Other than whole bone-in chicken, what food would you most like to see forced into a can?
- What food product are Germans the most likely to force into a can?
For this important message.
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.
At left: A coffeepot. Cute enough, yes? Charming in an off-kilter way, like Johnny Depp in Benny & Joon, but with no special features other than the ability to contain and then dispense coffee.
Cost? Six hundred and twenty-five dollars. That’s American dollars, not Zimbabwean dollars.
I’m pretty sure “six hundred and twenty-five dollar coffeepot” comes right between “pestilence” and “famine,” although I would have to haul out the ol’ King James to double check.