I’m serious. If you’re at a fair or some garbage like that and you have the opportunity to purchase some fried cheese curds, goddamn take it. The vendor at the cheese curds stand told me they were like mozzarella sticks but better, and he was 100% correct in his assessment. They’re awesome.
Chocolate-covered bacon ain’t too shabby, either, but that’s a story for another time.
So one of my coworkers was talking to this little kid (probably, I dunno, eight or so) who had a question: "what’s in the birch beer?" My coworker’s reply was "well, it’s a lot like root beer, except that it’s made with…"
And then there was a big awkward pause. A pause which I improved upon by offering him five American dollars to tell this poor kid that it’s just like root beer, only it’s made with birch instead of roots.
My response would have been along the lines of "you know what’s in root beer, kid? That’s right: roots and beer. Now you tell me what’s in birch beer."
You know what I mean — the jars for dried herbs and spices that have the lid with the "shaker" opening and the "pour" opening. These things. Ever think you’re opening the shaker end when you’re not?
All I’m saying is this baked pasta dish I’m eating has an awful lot of oregano in it.
So everybody knows about how monomaniacal tiny little short man Michael Bloomberg is trying to make it illegal for people in New York City to eat salt. Well, not to be outdone, some hi-larious gasbag idiots in the state legislature are pushing this bill, which, to quote it in its entirety, "prohibits the use of salt by restaurants in the preparation of food by restaurants."
Now, obviously, that summary was written by somebody not of this earth. Presumably, on whatever planet the asshole who wrote this came from, a fine of $1000 does not seem excessive for the make-believe crime of salting food; it is worth noting, however, that here on planet not-shoved-up-some-congressman’s-ass, it’s downright absurd.
And, of course, this intelligent new law would ban the use of salt "in any form." Anybody stupid enough to believe the government won’t define that so broadly as to encompass the use of any food products containing salt — which is all of them — probably still thinks there’s no way the Patriot Act could be misused.
The only bright light here is that, since it’s clearly insane, it’s not going to pass. Even New York politicians aren’t stupid enough to sign this. Illinois politicians, maybe, but not New York.
Roger Ebert wrote this blog post about how he can no longer eat, drink, or speak, and what effect this has on his state of mind. It’s a very interesting read. I think I would take it harder than he does; food, and the act of eating and drinking, are of greater importance to me than they appear to be to him.
I remember when I was a kid, and I’d get sick, and I wouldn’t be able to taste anything. I could eat all I wanted, but I couldn’t actually taste any of it. I couldn’t experience it. That, to me, was the greatest torture. The thought of going through the rest of my life knowing I’d never be able to eat or drink again is very unsettling. I suppose, though, that perhaps just knowing it’s final would be a comfort in and of itself; when you can’t taste anything because you’re sick — especially if you’re a kid — part of what makes it so terrible is the anticipation. The thought that, hey, maybe this time will be different! I could see how it could be easier if you knew that, no, it would never be different. It’s over.
No real point here, I guess. Just musing.
As an exciting sequel to my hilarious story from a few days ago about how I’m too stupid to tell which people are black, I’ve now made a remarkably thorough ass of myself again in a different way.
On another blog I frequent is a thread wherein the name of Shigesato Itoi‘s dog is mentioned. It’s "Bouillon." This is the first time I’ve ever noticed that it’s spelled with the i before the ll, so I post to that effect — what a moron I’ve been thinking all this time that his dog was called "Boullion," like the cubes! Everybody laugh at me, hey?
Of course, the punch line is that the word is actually spelled Bouillon, and always has been, and I am stupid for not knowing this. So congratulations to me for going out of my way to be an ass.
We were at the liquor store tonight, since I needed to get more gin to go with my guns and gold, all of which I need for my Official Dangerous Militant Kit, and the wife spotted on the clearance rack (which I didn’t even know liquor stores had, but there you are) this "chai cream liquor" that she was way into due to her proud heritage as a coed. The back panel is pretty hilarious, so I’ve reproduced it for you here:
In case you’re not seeing it, I’ll add a convenient crop to the image to emphasise the hilarious part:
Hell yeah, relish. Pour me a nice tall glass of that action.
I think this is the dumbest news story I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I mean, I’m not doubting its accuracy, but I have to expect that "squirrel eats squirrel-flavoured potato chips" is probably the very bottom thing on the slow-news-day pile.
Wait, what-flavoured potato chips? What the fuck?
Now, I know that’s a pretty lame story — I guess there wasn’t very much to report on today over in Bend. But did you catch that last line? It’s insane, so make sure you check it out.
Hey Steve, I don’t want to be telling you your job or anything, but that doesn’t make any fucking sense. Why would only vegetarians steal bottles of balsamic vinegar? I mean, yeah, vegetarians are evil and stuff, but they’re not exactly known for their love of balsamic vinegar above all else. And what about normal people? I have a bottle of balsamic in the kitchen, and I am definitely not a vegetarian. Just to prove it, I made a ya-ya for dinner, which contains both chicken and sausage.
So, seriously, Steve. WTF?
I did something different for Valentine’s Day this year. If you recall, last year I made a fancy dinner with wine pairings and the works. This year, we went out. First, we went to the ballet, where they were doing a special Cole Porter "romance" night — it was a fun show, and I love Cole Porter, so that made up for the bit where they lost our tickets and we had to stand at the box office fucking around for fifteen minutes while they figured out what was going on. A lady I’ve worked with in other productions (back in pre-history when the earth was still young) was in the troupe, which was a nice surprise.
After the show, we went up the street a bit for dancing and a chocolate buffet; due to an allergy, I was regrettfully unable to partake of the dancing, but I certainly tried the chocolate. Man, they had everything — dark and white fondue with marshmallows, strawberries, pineapple, and pretzels, brownies, red velvet cake, chocolate-dipped cookies, petits fours, mousse, parfait, eclairs, you name it. They even had goddamn M&Ms. If you have a wife or fiancee or girlfriend or indentured servant or whatever, take her to one of these things sometime. It will be your only opportunity to hear her say she can’t eat any more chocolate.
And you can sip your tisane and eat your petits fours and feel like a complete fag. Bonus!
