Foodie Tales: I Ate a Biscuit

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You were dark and mysterious.

No you weren’t. That was dumb. Why did I write that?

You were soft and welcoming, like a first kiss. 

You were everything I imagined a biscuit would be. You see, I don’t really eat biscuits. I’m a flax seed grain kinda gal, and that’s on a good day. Most of the time I’m a hold-the-bun, can-you-just-give-me-the-meat type of lunch order. You’d hate me. 

I fronted when we met earlier. “Yah, lemme get that egg and cheese biscuit,” I said, all poser-like. I had NOCLUE that when I unwrapped you from the confines of your wrinkled paper you’d present me with a cacophony of palate explosions. Butter, then egg, then sausage, then more butter biscuit, then that perfect E-minor chord that makes you shiver.

OK, this is getting dumb. I ate a biscuit from Bojangles and it was good.

Lasagna: The Only Starter Course

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                            Not pictured: 10 more pounds of sauce and cheese.

Just what kind of hypocrite would I be if I didn’t follow up a post about being a bad cook with a detailed story about my 20-pound lasagna?

In my house lasagna is the Thanksgiving starter course. It comes after a trough of beautifully arranged antipasti and before the mains. Yes, I said mains.

Part of the fun of the lasagna, aside from watching my mom nearly drop the thing pulling it out of the oven and seeing my dog get all too excited that it might just happen this time, is what comes after it’s served. There are always groans from newbies who don’t know how to pace, and cocky smiles from those that resisted the second helping. Then we all make nice and go on a walk. The walk’s exactly 5 minutes long and the purpose of it has yet to be determined. I guess we do it in hopes that the brick of lasagna will jiggle its way down into some hiding spot in our stomachs for the remainder of the night so that we can help ourselves to turkey and the 10 desserts awaiting us.

This year I’m making the lasagna at my Friensgiving. I’ve abandoned hope that it’ll be remotely as good as my mom’s because she makes her own cheese and has an intimate relationship with each noodle she places into her pan. (Geeze I said pan. It’s not a pan. She uses a turkey roaster for it.) I just want people to eat so much that they have to go on a walk. Or at the very least unbutton their pants.

Always the Guest, Never the Host

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I am baffled by people that can cook. Parents cook. Grandparents cook. My mother can cook. Scratch that. MY MOTHER CAN COOK!

Young adults throw crap into a tray — maybe — and leave it in the oven longer than needed because they get distracted by wine and by Instagramming their efforts. But that’s OK because they’re cooking for people that came over without expectations. And the chef knows that, which is why they purchased three blocks of cheese and four bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon ahead of time.

But when do you make the jump? When do you graduate from serving your buddies overcooked plain chicken and step into the Cuisinart Stand Mixer territory? Age 35? 40? Does it happen when you get a real kitchen with a real stove and a real table, or are you destined for a lifetime of being the dinner party guest?

No Really, Look At Me

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I’ve always liked makeup. When I was 11, my then-best friend and I went to Merle Norman in the Santa Monica Place mall and bought a tube of who-knows-what color lipstick to share. Actually it was brown.

We wore it on special occasions like 5th grade graduation, and years later when we over-plucked our eyebrows to the point where they looked like wet straws of hay, we used the lipstick to fill in the patchy holes. Couple of beauties we were.

If I had to grade my makeup application capabilities as the adult person I am today I’d give myself a strong B-. I’ve put an end to wearing lipstick on my brows, but other than that I’m really sloppy. Last night’s half-ass eye makeup remover job makes for a killer smoky eye today, I always say. Similar to my sentiments about showering (three minutes or else), I keep my beauty routine short.

Every now and then, though, some ultra-talented A+ person takes control of my face and makes sh*t happen. Most recently I met makeup magician Priscilla Francine of Bare Minerals. She scrubbed me clean and fixed me up real good.

Point of this all? Oh, I just wanted a reason to post this picture.

Look At Me, I’m Free-Spirited

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I just read an article on Salon.com called The craziest OkCupid date ever. Not sure if it’s really the craziest OkCupid date EVER, but sure, let’s go with it.

I’ll save you the time and sum the piece up: Jeff and Clara met online. Three emails into their relationship they decided to travel the world for 21 days with no possessions. Not even soap.

So you get the gist. People do stuff like this all the time, I hear. They buy one-way tickets to Wherever and bring next to nothing, but I suppose the operative phrase there is next to nothing. Not actually nothing.

Why do people even do this? I have absolutely no clue, because aren’t you just forced to buy replacement items when you land? Say you got a bad headache on the flight, you’re probably gonna shell out twice the amount of money to buy Tylenol at your arrival airport, right? I guess neurotically focusing on the financial flaws of being an aloof traveler is the reason I’ve never thrown logic into the jet stream and boarded a plane to nowhere carrying nothing.

But I don’t want to make this post about me. I want to highlight what I found to be the most moronic part of this whole story. The writer (Clara) says she wore a dress without pockets so she compensated by bringing a small over-the-shoulder bag filled with the essentials. I’m actually going to include the quote because you just need to read the thing.

“My dress lacked adequate pocket space, so I substituted with a small shoulder purse that allowed me space for a few additional toiletries, an iPad Mini, and the awkward-looking retainer I’ve been wearing since my braces came off 10 years ago.” So instead of soap or a change of underwear or maybe an emergency Band-Aid, this chick thought it was more important to ensure that her teeth were aligned? You don’t even have a jacket in case it gets cold, but let’s keep those pearly whites in position while we plod around aimlessly. 

Who’s neurotic now?

I Just Realized Not Everyone Hates Showering

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So here’s something I’ve never understood. Some people enjoy showering. I’m not talking about the occasional moment when you’ve just walked back to your oceanside hotel after spending a day splashing around in the water and all you can think about is scraping the sandy scum and bacteria off so you can climb into your crisp white sheets and go to bed embarrassingly early. Because that’s actually a lovely feeling. But in order to be an accepted member of society, you need to bathe far more than that. And that’s fine. I don’t have a desire to smell bad or shove an anti-whatever agenda in anyone’s face. I want to smell clean. I want big, bouncy hair. I just don’t want to shower.

I was raised in the ’80s and ’90s by two parents who felt directly responsible for the Los Angeles drought. They did what any two self-appointed Savers of Water would do to their kids: They timed our showers. “Everything you need to get done can happen in three minutes,” my dad would say. And he’d actually stand outside of the bathroom door with a timer, or so I thought. And you’d get in a lot of trouble if your conditioner wasn’t fully rinsed or your soap hadn’t fully dissipated, or so I believed. (You can imagine how useful a product like Head & Shoulders 2-in-1 was for us.)

Maybe that explains why I’ve never felt compelled to sing in the bathtub or stare dejectedly into the stream of water contemplating the meaning of showers. Not because I’m judgmental or too uptight to find calmness in a tiled cylinder of slimy steam, but because it just never occurred to me that anyone would ever want to spend more time in there than my dad deemed necessary. And also because there’s just so much better real estate to explore in the bathroom. Like the toilet. 

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