Martin Luther King, Jr. Day: A chance to celebrate the amazing accomplishments of the Civil Rights movement, a chance to cook during the day and take photos in natural light. Note that I am NOT EQUATING THOSE THINGS AT ALL. It’s just a happy coincidence. Like the light, fluffy snow that just started coming down, obscuring the city’s grit; the Barack Obama memorial only-legal-tender-in-Liberia coins that arrived today, just in time for the inauguration*; and the 10 pounds I just lost using only the power of positive thinking. The alignment of these stars could only mean one thing: individual chicken pot pies, a lunch I choose to think Martin Luther King, Jr. would have enjoyed on a snowy day.
*I did not actually buy these, although once the decades-long civil war ends and I start vacationing there I may be sorry.
The vast majority of you – DESPITE YOUR TOTAL LACK OF PARTICIPATION, NOT THAT I AM JUDGING – say that you like First Thursdays, so we will press on.
Check out the First Thursdays page for February’s instructions, and get to gettin’.
To whom it may concern: If you want to buy this marvelous machine for me, I will name it after you Coors Stadium-style. So if you’ve always wanted to see a “Jim Smith Memorial” something or other, you’ve come to the right place.
It’s fucking cold outside. For those who don’t keep track of these things, or who live in parts of the world where there are no distinguishable seasons, “fucking cold” is approximately 19 degrees. Above 20 is merely “cold,” while below 19 is “butt-ass cold.” Negative degrees, which are predicted here in the next day or two, mean those of us in the Northern U.S. will literally be in the innermost circle of hell. Don’t worry, the body heat you generate as you run to and fro dodging Satan’s 3 heads will help keep you alive. Until Satan drops Judas and eats you.
When it’s fucking cold like this, there’s only one thing you can do: BRAISE THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF SOMETHING. Anything, really. Have I mentioned it’s 19 degrees?
Hung joins us this week, as do live chickens. Toby Young continues his stint as guest judge, and it’s a toss-up whether his pithy remarks will continue to amuse me, or whether he will Bourdain-ify before my disappointed eyes. Continue reading
No one, because no one actually came here via the phrase “fuck the chicken,” which is disappointing in a bizarre kind of way. But below the jump are the top 10 most icky from the past day or two. This is what you get for having a pottymouth, kids. Clean up your acts.
Which one is your favorite?
I may have played the insanity card to wuss out on really challenging myself, but our participants didn’t. Behold, our brave souls (and don’t skip the poll at the bottom):