So many excellent guesses for the last Frig? – except for all the people who got the “toast” part, which was fairly obvious – but none quite on the mark. What did you really see?
Nobody likes partial feeds. I don’t do the subscription thing at all, I use bookmarks like some kind of cro-magnon woman, so how was I to know?
Experiment over, full feed reinstated.
BOILERPLATE: Have you heard? I’m a finalist in the 2009 Bloggies. Best-Kept Secret Blog! No shitting. I’ve added a new page to the site specifically to showcase my best work pander for votes. Four more days!
I know there are no exclamation points in the actual name of the dish, but I’m just so filled! With joy! And delicious flavor!
And from the unlikeliest of sources: Prince of Botox Rocco DiSpirito, the Cosimo di’Medici of frozen Bertoli pasta dinners. Did you know that before he became a corporate shill and reality television famewhore star, he was a really, really amazing chef? I mean, presumably he still is and just doesn’t want us to know it, unless the botulism has spread into the part of the body required for cheffing. In which case, stick with the shilling! It’s really working for you!
Even though I know this, I still have lost most of the respect I once had for Rocco and probably wouldn’t have shelled out real cash for a Rocco cookbook had I not found it at a used bookstore for $3. But I did, so I now am the proud owner of DiSpirito’s Flavor.
Tonight: Top Chef all-stars return, where all-stars means “we still haven’t been able to get the kinds of jobs we think we deserve, because we’ve embarrassed ourselves on national television.” Which means that we’ll be subjected to the likes of Andrew and Spike. Let us all pray to the baby Jesus that Ilan is not involved.
I did think I spied Season 1’s Miguel in the preview, though. Miguel is responsible for what is possibly my favorite line in Top Chef history, a line that is still routinely used around my house: (in reference to Tiffany): “You’re like a snake. Sssssssss. (making rattlesnake fang motion with hand).” Genius. See you at 10.
Who doesn’t like a simple roast chicken, especially when you throw carrots, blue potatoes, onions and day-old bread cubes underneath so they roast basted in delicious chicken-y juices? Nobody. And nobody does it better than my husband, who is the chicken master. Chickens panic at the very mention of his terrifying name.* Granted, this has nothing to do with chicken; I was just taunting you with my dinner. Because it was really good.
On one hand, I slept like crap last night, I’m exhausted, and I know I’ll be able to spew information about pound cake at you more efficiently if the television is off, which will facilitate going to bed. On the other, I am a pathetic sucker for medieval history, and NBC is airing a terrible made-for-TV movie with Mira “Didn’t You Win an Oscar? We All Thought You Were Going to Be a Good Actress” Sorvino about the Templars (or, as they are more commonly know, the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, or Pauperes commilitones Christi Templique Solomonici, in the Latin).
BOILERPLATE: Have you heard? I’m a finalist in the 2009 Bloggies. Best-Kept Secret Blog! No shitting. In honor of this momentous occasion, I’ve added a new page to the site specifically to pander for votes.
It’s been a while since we’ve contemplated horrifying foodstuffs, has it not? I mean, except for this, but I think the jury’s still out on whether it’s actually a bad idea or not. The jury, however, is unanimous in its rejection of the following; the image below gives me the serious heebie jeebies.
The only hint I will give you: it is NOT a toast-loving slug:
In honor of this momentous occasion, I’ve added a new page to the site specifically to pander to voters, featuring some of this year’s greatest hits and a bulleted list of reasons to vote for me (my campaign is nothing if not organized).
- If you’ve landed here from the Bloggies page, wander around, check things out, stay a while. The Official Pandering Page is a good place to start.
- If you’re one of my regulars, note that you are required by the site’s bylaws to vote for me.*
A million thanks to everyone who actually takes time out of their days to read what I write, a million thanks to all those who nominated me, and a million and one thanks for those who are going to vote me for me right now*. I’d be so touched right now if my frozen black heart allowed me to experience such feelings.
THE PRESSURE ON MY EYEBALLS IS INDESCRIBABLE.
See? The stress is getting to me, and now I can only talk in quotes from cartoons. Because not only do I have to be funnier and more personable that David Fucking Lebovitz*, but I also have to be a hidden goddamned gem**. But aye, here’s the rub: I’m less “diamond in the rough” and more “foil-wrapped brick that someone hurled through your back window, and then maybe they threw a second one because the first one didn’t completely shatter the glass.” This is the double-edged blade upon which I walk.
This stress level can only mean one thing. Well, three things: (1) valium; (2) beer; and (3) goat cheese queso fundido with poblano vinaigrette; and fry-bread taquitos with jerk chicken, red cabbage-jicama slaw and mango-habanero hot sauce.
*I love you David! Call me! I will continue to say that every time I mention this!
**Scroll way over to the right, and you’ll see what I mean. Official announcement, wherein I FREAK THE FUCK OUT, coming soon. Or, you know, click on the link and steal my thunder.
Restaurant Wars is like the Super Bowl of Top Chef – you’ve thinned the crappy players out of the herd, but everyone remaining is a little too high-strung and the actual game ends up sucking. Unfortunately, more people care about the Leah/Hosea bullshit than the actual cooking, judging by today’s seventy jillion “Leah Hosea kiss cheating boyfriend” hits. Get over it, people. You’re only making Bravo think we want more of this crap, which we most certainly DO NOT.