My Sweet Lord

Attention, Easter shoppers! Screw the hollow bunnies, and look out, Cadbury’s! There’s an anatomically correct, 485,460 calorie Jesus at Lab Gallery on 47th and Lex. 200 pounds of milk chocolate. (Sounds like a Taj Mahal song, dunnit?) Never thought I’d say this about a religious icon, but… like to break me off a piece o' that.

(Pass, actually. I prefer dark.)

UPDATE: The gallery has grabbed ankles to papal pressure and decided chocolate Jesus might just spoil their dinner. Not sure what they’ll do with the masticable Messiah now. I say lock him in a room with a dozen pre-menstrual women and all evidence will be destroyed inside of twenty minutes. In other news, I ate a whole swag sized box of Godiva last night, whilst pondering the demise of the diet-y deity. I don’t care what Bill Moyers says, this brand of religion is part street gang, part Bink for the weak. (The rest of us use cocktails.) Praise the Lord and bon appetit!

PS: This is fun. Has anyone used ‘tasty totem’ yet? How ‘bout ‘yummy Yahweh’?

Butt. Fugly.

Coming to CBS this Fall. Fugly. Three siblings – two identical twins – pool their money to surgically “perfect” one of the twins, in order to live off the Hollywood earnings of the cosmetically altered one. Starring squeaky plumpette Hairspray alum Marissa Jaret Winokur, willowy gigglebox Nikki Cox (more fun to say than ‘former Bobcat Goldthwait squeeze’), and the oft-seen-around-Bleecker-and-Sixth-on-his-bike Michael Rapaport. Hmmm… wonder which two will be the fuglies.

I quite enjoy thoughtful national dialogue on the significance of physical beauty and what defines it. Or, it could suck. I’ll reserve judgement until I see it. Then I’ll judge its brains out.

Fat Girl Duds Alert

Beware, Bwear Be Gone

From their UK headquarters, Lady B Wear has been catering to trannies and genetic girls of girth for as long as I can remember. But sadly, this nana of the plus size lingerie and club wear world is closing its doors. But to soften the blow, shit’s on sale.

The Fit’s the Shit

Said I’d re-post when my new bigger size Substantia Jones T-shirt from arrived, and I’m pleased to report it’s completely b’jiggety. The feminine details – shorter sleeves, shaping (subtle, if at all), a more open neckline – are great for girl-shaped girls with girl-length arms. And the design area is much bigger than their other selections. This is not a unisex T, and I kinda miss the double-needled shoulder seams, but it maintains a classic look. And most importantly, it accommodates massive ass. I ain’t gonna give ya digits or nothin’ (pervs!), but I’ll assure you that CaféPress’ size chart is refreshingly on the nose, and my T-shirt arrived with a few inches of clearance, even. If you’re still not convinced, their return policy is as loose as a stoned stepdaughter. Downright foolish, in fact. Check out the new designs and take $5 off a $20 purchase (coupon code DUSKYPOINTS, expires 4/4/07). Then check out the new Fat Girl Fishnets T-shirt shop. (!)

Flea Bagged

The annual Fat Girl Flea Market - like the Barneys Warehouse Sale for fat girls - is looking for a new home. (The LGBT Center says no room at the inn until September, and the Flea is shooting for July.) They need a wheelchair accessible place, preferably Manhattan, at least 2000 sq. ft. for approximately $1700, and available either July 13-15 or July 21-23. A no-Sundays sitch might also be do-able.

I’m not sure it’s cool to publish the e-mail address I have for ‘em, so if you’ve some assistance or info to impart, hit me up and I’ll pass it along to the Flea Folk. Then hopefully come July, we’ll once again be sweating together, digging through the mountains of tapered jeans to find that elusive silk-lined velvet princess coat.

The Teeny Cipollini

With all the news of sewage tsunamis, collapsing buildings, the Sunjaya controversy (what’s a Sunjaya and why’s it getting panties in a bunch?), and of course, Britney Spears entering the customary post-rehab-painful-dental-emergency phase of her recovery, I was looking forward to spending the evening curled up with one of my five favorite redheaded sexpots. (Mario Bartoli on The Food Network’s Chefography.) And because I’ve been around this particular block a time or two, I know better than to watch an Italian cooking show or The Sopranos without a pile of corresponding cuisine at hand. (Remind me to tell you about the time, late one night and halfway through Goodfellas, I called FIVE places frantically trying to get a fookin’ meatball sub. And all the boyfriend could do was laugh at me.)

The muy molto Mario called for no less than rigatoni with pink sauce, sautéed cipollini onions, and embarrassingly copious mounds of grated Della Bona Grana Padano. Sweet San Gennaro, was it a tasty abundanza! I barely remember the Mario part of the evening.

I generally shy away from cutesy but labor laden diminutive vegetables, after once buying a buttload of baby Brussels sprouts, with no prep slave at home. They tasted no different from their more mature counterparts, and that’s three hours of my life I’ll never get back. But the cipollinis are plentiful and on sale right now, so I snagged some. And so impressed was I by what they did to my pink sauce, I later tried adapting an old James Beard recipe I thought I’d once seen (but cannot now find).

As Tony Soprano would say, y’gotta do dis ting.

Miss Pleasure Pie’s Roasted Cipollinis

pound or so of fresh whole cipollini onions
2 T. butter
1 c. red wine
½ c. beef broth
¼ c. red wine vinegar
1 T. balsamic vinegar
few dashes of Worcestershire sauce
2 T. sugar (these little mothers are bitter)
1 bay leaf
1 smidge each of salt and cracked pepper
splash of olive oil

Soak the onions in hot, hot tap water for 15 minutes, then peel. (This works for garlic, too.) Preheat to 350 and select a saucepan that’s both ovenproof and approved for stovetop use. Sauté the peeled, whole onions in the butter over medium heat until browned, about 15 minutes. Add the wine, broth, vinegars, Worcestershire, and sugar. Bring to a low simmer, then move the pan to the preheated oven for about 45 minutes, or until your cipollinis are smooshy. Remove onions from pan, toss with salt, pepper, and olive oil. Some fresh cut flat leaf Italian parsley would be nice here too, if you have it. Set aside. Move the pan back to the stovetop and reduce the remaining mixture over medium heat. Tip the cipollinis back into the liquid, and once they’re re-warmed, serve ‘em saucy. Great with a steak. It’s like the tenderloin of a bowl of French onion soup, but about seven times better.

Later that night or the next day: Write your Congressman and ask them to put wads of agriculture money toward developing a cipollini onion that comes out of the ground pre-peeled, and with a cheesy crouton at the center. I hear Alaska Senator Ted Stevens is receptive to this sort of thing.

An Open Letter to the Store Where I Bought My $60 Pants

Dear Avenue Stores, Inc.,

A couplefew weeks ago, I joined a half dozen of my co-workers in ringing the Opening Bell at the New York Stock Exchange. If you watch Sex and the City, then you know this is kind of an honor, one bestowed only upon titans of industry. Like Carrie Bradshaw. And okay, I don’t know who else. Mostly White Men in Dark Suits, I think. There’s a bit of ceremony involved. They feed you, give you a tour of the trading floor, take your picture, lead you in a short prayer to Satan, then send you off carrying heavy gifts with your name engraved on ‘em. It’s a whole fancy to-do. I figured my standard stretchy skirt / stretchy shirt wouldn’t fly. So I opted for a suit jacket and a pair of coordinating pants purchased recently at your store. Nice pants. Sixty buck pants. Second time wearing ‘em.

They ripped. Right up the ass.

There I am, standing on thuh marble balcony overlooking the Mecca of global economics. It’s the most widely viewed daily event in the world. I’m being internationally televised live. My moms is watching. And I’ve got butt breeze.

Yeah, I know these things happen. But these were supposed to be quality pants. Not a month old. Fit me perfectly, and not even broken in yet. A girl drops a dozen fins on a pair of pants she’ll never wear, can’t she expect to have ‘em perform their prime duty – to cover her ass – at least two, maybe three times, before they become a dust cloth? I mean, true, I didn’t pay full price. 40% off. On top of a markdown. Plus I think I had a coupon. And yes, it’s possible I’m up a couple pounds since purchase. Maybe even several. Okay, actually I know I am. So. Perhaps I’m between sizes now. Or even up one size. But, Jeez. I mean, yes, everything’s been fitting a bit snug lately, but… Okay. I’m packing on the pounds, arright? Is that what you want me to say? Gyah. What’re you looking at? Okay. Screw it. Never mind.

An Open Letter To Haagen Dazs…
I love me some TV, but Sweet Suave-ay Jesus, do it suck. About 98% of it, I’d say. And I’ve rarely felt that so acutely as this week. Tabloidtainment shows refuse to let Anna Nicole Smith die. Yes, still. There’s that doctor who goes on the ladies-who-stay-home shows wearing his scrubs to show he’s a real doctor. Sally Field jumps the ad shark, getting faux-incensed that her friend “has to set aside time every week to take her Osteoporosis medicine.” Casting begins for Fit For Love, looking for “couples who want to improve their love life through a radical fitness and life changing program.” Then Calvert DeForest (Larry “Bud” Melman) dies.

And don’t get me started on The Tony Snow Show broadcasting too infrequently from the White House press room. Worst sit-com ever. It’s enough to make me wanna read a book or something.

Then, like the leathery hero stepping over smoldering dead bodies to hand me a frosty lemonade, comes Thursdays. Earl, Office, the wonderfully dooty obsessed Sarah Silverman (to hopefully return soon, as will Reno 911 in April), 30 Rock, Andy Barker, PI. (Not as good as Andy Richter Rules the Universe, but I’m patient. And devoted.) And now Ira Glass brings This American Life to life. On TV. Thursdays. And so far the visuals don’t seem to ruin it nearly as bad as I’d feared. Quite the opposite, in fact.

But the creamy dollop atop this au gratin of couch potatoism is Penn & Teller: Bullshit, launching its fifth season on Showtime last night with an episode on obesity. These Errol Morrises of cable and stage delectably debunked commonly accepted diet myths, disproved some fitness fallacies (as simplistically as the opposition proved them), and re-won my heart. Made me laugh, too. Got Little Debbie Nutty Bar crumbs all over my bathrobe.

Watch them call bull BM on the BMI here. Schedule of airings here. Later in the season they take on tits, cars, Satan, and Wal-Mart.

And all crammed into Thursday nights. Must-see TV, indeed.

New Substantia Jones

Couple months ago, some fellow fat chicks and I were asked to help CafePress choose some bigger new T-shirt cuts and sizes. I wasn’t able to make the try-on party, but knowing bigger sizes were coming has had me checking the site nearly every day since.

They’re here. And they can accommodate up to 64 inches of backtastic.

To celebrate, has pruned some of the dustier old designs (though plenty of old school fat-poz remains) and has added something new. The above little (well, big) number is on its way to me now, and no more will I have to stretch my SubJo duds over my laughs-at-XL ass.

I’ll report back. In the meantime, go. Buy. Wallow in Substantia Jones’ dewy fields of stuff for fat girls and the fat admirers who hump them, the latter of whom are advised, “If you’re gonna play it, display it.”

Eat that, closet FAs.
Naomi Campbell sweeps up at NYC Sanitation garage. European reporter says because the stilettoed trashin’ista dates German millionaires, the story’s “as important to Germans as the death of Anna Nicole." Miss Pleasure Pie’s opinion of Germans nosedives to near Hasselhoff levels. Closely followed by her opinion of Naomi Campbell.

And millionaires.

Praise the Lard and Piss the Ammunition

I was invited to a rehearsed table read of LARD – The Musical, “an upcoming musical play about size acceptance, love, friendship, all wrapped up in music… and bacon.” (Not to mention a very promising spoof of Grease.) I HopStopped the best Sunday afternoon route to The Knitting Factory by bus. I love me some bus, and choose it over the subway whenever possible, especially on weekends when the trains are hinky and street traffic is light. But this day we got tangled up in a clusterfuck snarl of pedestrians, stopped cars, and detours.

The March to End the War.

I campaigned in three states, last Presidential election. I’ve designed T-shirt graphics for Dems. I distributed posters, buttons, and windshield cards in the days leading up the war. I’ve held hands, lit candles, and gathered at the park. I’ve spread the word on the air, on the page, and at the top of my lungs, and I was at the massive anti-war protest held here on First Avenue and in countries throughout the globe 4 years ago. I was fiery of spirit and trashed of throat then, yet today, I haven’t opened the e-mail alerts from Move-On or United for Peace and Justice in more than a year. After countless deaths thanks to a war based upon an international lie, I wasn’t even aware there was a protest march a few dozen blocks from my home.

My anger hasn’t subsided. I haven’t become disenchanted with the fight, nor do I doubt its value. But I have become weary. And I don’t think I’m alone. Lately, when I try to talk with friends about how policies are being mishandled, or my skepticism of the Khalid Shaikh Mohammed confessions, the reckless and arrogant disregard for the Geneva Convention, the Presidential pillaging of our country’s reputation, justice interrupted by politics, they don’t want to hear about it. People who believe as I do are choosing not to discuss, or even ponder it any more. Protest fatigue. The situation is too ridiculously wrong to even comprehend. We’ve allowed ourselves to become distracted by inconsequentials. We’ve stopped paying attention. I know I have.

You may ask what this has to do with pleasure. Why am I talking about it on what’s essentially a food blog, tucked into the lighthearted touts of sugar-laden, mass-produced munchie quenchers? I don’t know, except to say that this stuff should be peppered amongst the street level fare and integrated into the absent-minded, gum-chewing aspects of life. Our eyes shouldn’t roll when someone brings it up. Discussing the war doesn’t mean you can’t also laugh or wank or watch Family Guy. And it doesn’t mean I won’t be back here tomorrow, tee-heeing over Christopher Walken and Little Richard being separated at birth, or patting my tummy over an inappropriately lustful Cinnabon testimonial. I will be. But maybe I’ll be a little less apathetic than I was yesterday.

Then again.

I figured the LARDette who’d invited me to the reading would understand my absence, considering. I got off the bus. Did I join in the protest? I didn’t.

I did go home, though, and start reading my e-mail.

Ass at the Opera

Been meaning to write about the Jeanne Lorioz show at the Opera Gallery in SoHo, and now I wish I had, ‘cause it’s closing early. More than half the pieces have been sold, and sadly, removed upon sale. (Opera’s NYC branch is a clumsily run gallery with a retail focus.) What’s left is currently occupying the forward area of the storefront, but gallery personnel tell me they’ll begin taking it down Monday (3/19/07).

Whimsical, for sure, but with surprising bits of poignancy, Lorioz’s fat women are happy, bountiful of backside, and at peace. Whether gaily clucking or in fileted repose, the seasoned subjects exhibit a pleasing self-comfort and a delicious disregard for those who gaze upon them. Or maybe that’s just a device to better display their respective badunkadunk.

I appreciate the work being shown, but damn. Hit it today.

115 Spring Street at Mercer in SoHo
11am to 7

If you miss it, and even if you don’t, here are some of the too few Lorioz links I could land:

Stephanie Hoppen Fine Art Gallery
Galerie des Femmes Rondes

And the Opera Gallery show's site (I'm told they'll be pulling these images when the show closes, the bastids) is here:;0;0.aspx

NYC Gives Cheek to St. Patrick's Day

First we schedule our 2007 race riots to begin during St. Patrick’s Day week. Then we say we don’t want drunk firemen leading our St. Patrick’s Day Parade any more. What else will New York City do to put the kip on St. Patrick’s Day? Do away with the Shamrock Shake?

Yup. The greater NYC regional McDonalds outlets have voted against carrying the nearly 40-year-old mint milkshake this year. While the rest of the free world enjoys this seasonal touchstone, New York City Micky D’s have decided to maintain their current focus on coffee products and sticky tables.

I can't do anything about the race riots. And bolloxed Bravest are easy enough to find. But a better-than-you’re-used-to Shamrock Shake can pretty much be duplicated at home by dropping vanilla ice cream, milk, mint extract, and food coloring into a milkshake maker. (NOT a blender.) Just like McDonalds', except with actual dairy products.

In the meantime, you may lodge complaints of your ShamrockShakelessness by filling out this bitch form, or by hitting the grassroots (get it?) site Bring Back the Shamrock Shake. Displeasure at the looming race riots should be directed to Queens District Attorney Richard A. Brown. (Ask him to cool it with the last minute fake mystery witnesses, will ya?) And send your kiss-me-arse about the drunk firemen dis to Parade Chairman John Dunleavy. Or you can just boo him at the parade. Like the drunk firemen will be doing.

I will follow hiiimmmmm...

God help me if I’m violating a trust, but I’ve just gotten an e-mail from Kenny Shopsin, with the above maze attached, and the subject line “permits maze almost over.” The body of the e-mail contained no text. Of course.

“Shopsin’s will be open in early April” means the home of the thousandish item menu and the angry handfuls of flour -wielding owner closed its Carmine Street doors in December (Ho Cakes, we hardly knew ye) and will be reopening as a sandwich counter at the Essex Street Market on the Lower East Side. Essex Street Market, stall 16 120 Essex St., between Rivington and Delancey. In early April, apparently.

I imagine we’ll be lining up all Wii like, the night before.

The Cookies Are Here!

Actually, mine’ve been here for about a week, but I can’t type so well with Samoa-sticky fingers. Girl Scout cookies are as American as Antonella Barba Syndrome, and my contribution toward ending the East Coast / West Coast Hip Hop rivalry is I get my cookies from out West. (Actually, it’s ‘cause NYC Scouts are shot on sight by bored cops, so a West Coast sweetheart sends me some every year. But the Hip Hop harmony would be a fine by-product, no?) Since the Girl Scouts use two different bakeries, I’ll try to provide the names of the East Coast versions, as well.

Do-Si-Dos / Peanut Butter Sandwich – Tasty and crispity, but as with most filled things, not enough filling for me. Maybe if I dragged one through some peanut butter…

All Abouts - Taste like childhood. Frilly shortbread cookies that sat in chocolate for a sec right before packaging. They have sayings on them, but mine have all been et, so I can’t tell you what they were. Oh, wait. There are pictures on the box… “Girl Scouts are about friendship, leadership, values, fun…” Hmmm. I thought Girl Scouts were about googies. (Awfully similar to the East Coast Thanks-Alots, which just say Thank You. A lot. But not as interestingly as a Mickey Avalon tattoo.)

Café Cookies (not available in the East) - I can imagine some 12-ounce Midtown girl sitting with her half-caf sugar-free soy cuppa and breaking one of these into teensy slivers, savoring each one whilst she debates having a second. Me, I get halfway through a sleeve of ‘em, then go forage through the fridge for something to spread atop the rest. Lemony cream cheese, maybe? Sarabeth’s Blood Orange Marmalade? Peanut butter? Delicately cinnamony and pleasingly Euro looking, these may indeed go well with coffee. But the rivety button shape and gooeylessness just cries out to be dolloped with something fattening.

Sugar-Free Little Brownies – Now, why would I put such a thing in my mouth? (Also not available in the East.)

Tagalongs / Peanut Butter Patties –
Others do the chocolate/peanut butter/cookie combo better, and in less cloying versions, but these are perhaps the most texturally complicated (!) of the Girl Scout goodies. Bite into it and your teeth sink (sink, I tells ya!) through the soft layer of peanut butter goo and are halted by the cookie, which snaps and crumbles into your mouth. Then you wanna see what that feels like upside down, then popping a whole cookie into your mouth, then two at a time, then… Before you know it, you’ve got an empty box and a fond memory.

Trefoils / Shortbread – Not interested.

Lemonades and Cartwheels – Sounds like an Oprah’s Book Club selection, dunnit? “Uncle Daddy touched me! Watch me cry on TV! Then read all about it at the beach!” Sadly, these two newish additions are only available in the East, and therefore foreign to New Yorkers who don’t have a Scout mom in the office.

Thin Mints – A classic. A lovely little tug-of-war between warmth and cool. Great with vanilla ice cream.

Samoas / Caramel DeLites – My abso-favorites. Stripy lug nuts of luscious, with cookie at the center, a dark chocolate bottom, an abundanza of toasted coconut atop, with occasional peeks of caramel sheen shining through. Any cookie that’s covered, dunked, topped, AND drizzled is my kinda cookie. The memory of these things keeps me going, April through March. Worth buying a freezer for.

Meet the cookies. Girl Scouts have strict rules prohibiting online sales, but you can visit for more glisteny close-up cookie porn photos, and to see about a local hook-up. Or you can find outlaw moms peddling them on Ebay.

Outlaw Moms. Next month's Oprah's Book Club selection.

The REAL Real Thing

Without “benefit” of US Government subsidies promoting the production and use of high fructose corn syrup, our Coca-Cola lovin’ neighbors to the north and south enjoy a more old school (post-cocaine old school) version of the bubbly treat, made with pure cane sugar. And once a year, we Gringos can get our grubbies on MexiCoke, too.

So elusive, even some Members of the Tribe think it’s a myth. Coke that’s kosher for Passover. This shiksa gets schvitzy running around town trying to find the stuff every year. In addition to not being widely available (even in NYC!), one reason it's hard to spot is that the bottles aren’t labeled any differently, including the nutritional information, which lists "high fructose corn syrup and/or sucrose" among its main ingredients. What identifies it is the yellow cap with a “KP” and/or a marking in Hebrew with an "OUP" symbol, guaranteeing it to meet all Passover requirements by not containing grain products. If your market has a special Passover section, it may be there, but also scan the soda aisle for yellow caps. Stockers don’t always know from Passover Coke. Your best bet is to look in markets found in ‘hoods with large or largeish Jewish communities. I’ve also found it at FreshDirect, the Upper West Side Fairway, and that skinky smelling place over by the 92nd Street Y on the Upper East Side. (Attention NYC grocers! Stank drives customers away. Do something about it, eh?)

I’ve heard fables of 12-oz. cans with “KP” on the bottom, the Hebrew lettering on the top, and sucrose listed in the ingredients in place of HFCS, but sadly, I’ve only found it in the 2-litre bottles. If you see kosher cans in Manhattan, help a bitch out and tell me where? ‘Cause once Passover passes, so do these Cokes.

I have to talk myself into thinking it tastes different, though those with more sophisticated pop palates say it does. It does seem more fountainy, the foam is finer -- downright Guinnessesque -- and it’s a bit less guilty a pleasure, being that sugar won’t kill ya quite as quickly as high fructose corn syrup will. That, and any chance to thumb my nose at the government’s subsidizing ill health, I’m gonna do it.

What few shelves it will hit, it’ll hit ‘em around 3/15/07. And hey, yo Gentiles! Don’t be greedy. Observant Jews need this stuff more than you do. If any bottles remain languishing on the shelves after Passover, back the truck up and drink le'chaim. But until then, oneworldonelove, Brothers and Sisters.

And mark your calendars for next year.

Paradise by the Icebox Light

To open one’s fridge and find a stack of quality pre-made edibles in those black plastic containers, or better, the crimped foil somethin’s-gonna-get-bubbly-in-the-oven things with the peek-a-boo lids? Bliss. SO much better than having children.

I began my day yesterday with an undeserved reward. I rescheduled my annual gyno exam. I’m diligent about going every year, but it usually takes me two or three attempts to actually go through with an appointment, so canceling yesterday’s was no surprise. But since I couldn’t come up with even a pretend reason to justify it, guilt sent me into Reprieve Mode. You know Reprieve Mode. When you reschedule A in order to do B, then you think, I reeeeally should get off my ass and actually do B now.

Yesterday I really got off my ass and did B. Did freakin’ half the alphabet, in fact.

So when I got home to find an assortment of heat-n-eat containers stacked in my refrigerator like the welcoming crew at a whorehouse, I wanted to do the happy dance. But I was too tired to do the happy dance. Which is where the pre-mades come in.

I’ve fawned about them before, and I’m gonna sound like an ad here, but this is where FreshDirect really has it goin’ on. Last night I enjoyed perfectly pink pan-seared coriander and peppercorn crusted tuna (second time in a week) with a gingery soy dipping sauce that’s not at all shy, aromatic cucumber and seaweed salad, buttery hot brioche with the mouthfeel of chewing angels’ wings, and a warm-from-the-oven chocolate soufflé, waiting to be poked so it could swallow up a slippery dollop of whipped cream. All made in an industrial kitchen in Long Island City, clicked on by me, then delivered to my fridge by not-as-giddy-as-the-ones-in-the-commercials-but-still-plenty-pleasant delivery dudes.

Their reasonable grocery prices and clickety convenience remain the primary selling points, but in the several years since FreshDirect’s launch, I’ve also enjoyed their various and sundry quiches (the wild mushroom and goat cheese is downright godly), a farmy-tasting French cassoulet, steamed whole wild lobster, countless par-baked almond croissants, a fondue or two, rock crab claws with mustard sauce, bleu cheese and cranberry empanadas that made me wanna move to a bog, gazpacho, jambalaya, some damn respectable meatballs, fiery red Texas chili attributed to a gentleman called Mean Mike, assorted sauces, spreads, hors douvres, and deli salads, some not-as-good-as-mine-but-still creamed spinach, numerous shrimp cocktails and seafood salads, some tasty Moroccan meatwad things, potato gratin with rosemary and garlic, a reassuringly rustic chicken cacciatore with Yukon Gold potato gnocchi, green curry chicken with Thai basil and rice noodles (mmmkay, this one was a dud), a wonderfully scallopy Coquille St. Jacques, some wish-they-weren’t-so-good bleu cheese burgers, a delightfully decadent Shrimp Romesco with Paella Risotto & Chorizto (an FD exclusive made by Chef Terrance Brennan of Picholine and Artisanal), a tastytasty toasted almond frangipane tart, a dark chocolate pudding I wanted to bathe in, about a bazillion Asian salads with grilled chicken and Mandarin orange, and several surprisingly life-affirming stuffed cannelloni in red sauce dinners. With the exception of maybe one or two of those things, everything fell somewhere between mighty good and full-out fabulous. All were tablecloth worthy.

It's just plain lovely to eat Coquille St. Jacques in your undiepants. And the sight of those containers stacked in combat formation in my fridge? A warm combo of comfort and promise, that.

Urban Thaw

I’m CRAVING birdsong. And a Bananas & Cream FrozFruit bar. Mostly the FrozFruit bar. Yeah. That bird thing can wait.
Woke up this morning and squeezed my avocados. Ah, yes. Today’s the day.

There is almost nothing finer than having your avocados peak on a lazy Sunday, as Billie Holiday steps into the stereo/confessional and laments her lows at unreasonable volume.

The Birds and the Beeswax

Uncle Bill comes home drunk and talks sex with his wee wards. Sissy’s relieved to learn that “babies come from love,” not from porking frat boys for meth money. Then Mr. French flirts mercilessly with his Brandoesque employer, who cruelly disregards his advances. (This keeps houseboys submissive and willing. That Uncle Bill is one smart broham.)

Ten bucks if you can spot where French is wanking.

I’ve watched this video nearly every day since December. Some people smoke. Or bite their nails. I watch middle-aged men in suits explaining the non-cabbage version of sex to ill-fated little children.