Got your popcorn and Milk Duds?
Dim the lights, turn off your cell phones, sit back and relax, because it’s time for Clown Day: The Movie!
If you want to watch it in widescreen, please view it at YouTube.
Enjoy!
Today my sister Marlene and her husband treated me to lunch at a place I’ve only ever gone to before for ice cream.
When we pulled up to the place, I asked Marlene if instead of a real meal, I could just have ice cream for lunch.
She shut me down before I could make my case for chocolate chip cookie dough as an entree. “No, not unless you eat something healthy first.”
Poop on you!
I said “Yeah, that’s like Mom always said when I wanted junk food. Remember? She’d say ‘First you have to have meat, cheese, tuna fish or egg.’” Apparently, protein buys you cookies later.
“No, I don’t remember and how specific is that? Geesh,” Marlene replied.
I told her I loved Mom’s stock answer for its nonsensical quality and if I ever wrote a book, that’s what I was going to call it. Meat, Cheese, Tuna Fish or Egg. It doesn’t make any sense without explanation and surely, anyone reading the title would be compelled to pick up my book and flip through its pages.
And then they would laugh themselves silly reading random portions of the gem in their hands, be in awe of all the rock star authors who gave it rave reviews and wonder why my creation was deep in the bowels of the bookstore, when it should be right at the front door all by itself on an easel, with a spotlight shining upon it and a velvet rope around it.
A dreamer I was.
What I want to know from those with mothers who say weird things…. let’s have it.
Tell us your favorite motherly sayings, admonishments, crazy rules or regulations that you remember to this day.
The less they made sense, the better.
Go!
Yo.
It’s been forever since I had an item for my Food That Looks Like Stuff series.
Today, I have a laughing rhino, courtesy of my egg and cheese breakfast sandwich.
Why do I even know what my melted cheese looks like inside?
Because I never enter the perfect heat time for these stupid things. One microwave I use takes 2 minutes, another 1:45 min, and yet another 1:30.
Because I forget which is which, I usually over-melt my cheese and it comes out scalding hot.
So I lift the lid to my sandwich and let it cool down before shoving it in my pie hole.
I give you, laughing rhino cheese head!
p.s. Rhinos are yummy.
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet
Eating her bag of Lay’s.
Along came a chip,
That she wanted to skip.
Because, really, how often do you find one with a big, fat exclamation point in the middle of it?
Or something like that.
I was incredulous.
There I was, shopping for one of my favorite kid meals. The kind of meal you still eat as an adult, but that you’d never admit to in mixed company.
Like maybe Trix cereal with chocolate milk. And a bowl of sugar on the side.
What do I jones for from my kiddom?
Steak-umms. That’s right. Steak with umm in the name. You umm when you eat ‘em.
For those unfamiliar with this delicacy, Steak-umms are thin frozen sheets of unidentifiable meat. Meat from some part of the cow, you just don’t know which one. Probably a lot of parts. Let’s just call it “Other.”
Other tastes delicious on a crispy hoagie roll, with lots of gooey cheese. And grease. And maybe peppers if you like them.
They’re so freaking good, chopped up and fried in a pan.
Now. I know we ain’t talkin’ high end steak here. I know that meat you have to peel away from paper isn’t top shelf. Not even close.
I also know that a 16-slice box should not cost a whopping $12.49.
They’re SHEETS OF OTHER MEAT!
I quickly shifted over to old people mode and started complaining aloud to no one in particular about the price of meat these days.
Since I’d already carted up all the other things needed to make my sandwiches, the Steak-umms forced my hand and I had to buy them.
But not before I asked a cashier to please check the price at the register and make sure it was really twelve forty I-don’t-wanna-pay-that.
It was.
Check again, please.
Still $12.49.
OK, so I broke my piggy bank and paid for them.
As soon as I got home, I emailed the Steak-umm people.
Hi. I just paid an outrageous price of $12.49 for a 16-slice box of Steak-umms. I had the cashier double check the price and he said it was correct. If this is what you’re charging for steak that’s not filet mignon, I have no plans to buy it again. The only reason I did was because I’d already carted all the other items I was going to make the sandwiches with.
Can you tell me if that price is really correct? I just can’t believe that it is. Thank you.
I got a quick response from someone who told me they can’t control the retail price and that “surely” I “understand that economic factors have impacted all of our grocery budgets in recent months.”
They said “surely,” which really means “You ignorant woman who must live under a rock to not realize that everything got real expensive in the last year or so and get off your high horse and just buy the damn meat if you want it so bad.”
They went on to say they don’t give out coupons and that I should look for in-store sales instead.
Something tells me they just don’t give coupons to cranky people with ‘tude.
For those of you familiar with Steak-umms, how do you make yours? Do you use Cheez Whiz? Sauce? Peppers? Onion? Toasted roll? Non-toasted?
My husband thinks somewhere in the last few months, someone swapped out his normal wife for a new one he doesn’t recognize anymore.
I’m kind of cranky this morning because, despite intensifying my workouts, I’m still only averaging a loss of 1.5 lbs a week.
When I was sitting at the laptop trying to research low-calorie meals to make this weekend, he dropped a cat in my lap and thought it was funny.
No. No, it was not.
Me: “Get him outta here! I’m cranky and I just want to shower and go to the store to shop for nutritious things!”
Him: “Wow, last year this time you were asking if we could buy two big trays of Pizza Hut mac and cheese and wanted to polish them off with cinnamon bread sticks and icing.”
Me: “Huh. You’re right.”
Him: “The grass isn’t cut yet. Why don’t you go out and grab a few fistfuls and make a sandwich?”
Me: “You’re funny. Go to hell.”
Update: So far, I’ve lost 18 lbs in just under three months. I’m changing things up with the exercise, skipping the elliptical this week in favor of 60 minutes a day of extreme aerobics. I do notice immediately that my legs and arms are more toned and tighter.
Flab bad. Tight good.
I’m also sticking to a 1,200 calorie meal plan. No cheating. I have to believe my efforts will increase my metabolism and encourage more weight loss.
Because otherwise, I may just crack and find myself at the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru waiting for them to fill my trunk with 25 dozen of their freshest glazed.
Cost of 30-pack donut holes: $3.50
Money wasted by eating only six of them and throwing the rest away: $2.80
Not digging through the trash two hours later to eat the remainder, because I was totally thinking about it: Priceless!
I’m doing well with my gym attendance and dieting and I’ve lost seven pounds. Not as much as I’d hoped, but I have confidence I’ll be successful in my journey to lose 50 pounds total.
I try to remember what my sister Ann told me after I said how I struggle with donuts and other goodies.
She said, in all seriousness, “You already know what they taste like. Why do you have to eat them again?”
I know.
Don’t you just want to slap her?
I participated in a Tribal Blogs chat last night and the subject of eggs came up. I explained how much I liked to make dippy eggs and only one other person knew what the hell I was talking about.
You may call them something else, like an egg in a basket or egg in a hole. If you’re sick of your eggs scrambled or in an omelette, here’s a funner way to make ‘em next time.
Kathy’s Dippy Egg
Step 1: Press out a hole in one slice of bread. I use a glass, some people use jar lids. Hold aside the bread you cut out, or if your pan’s big enough, throw it in to get toasted, too.
Step 2: Heat a frying pan to medium-high heat. Toss in a pat of butter (or more, the butterier, the better!)
Step 3: When the butter sizzles, toss in the bread to soak up the butter.
Step 4: Crack an egg and deposit it in the hole.
Step 5: Let it fry for a minute or two, until the egg white starts to solidify. Meanwhile, toast another slice of bread. I like extra buttered toast with my eggs.
Step 6: Carefully flip the bread/egg to “seal” the top side of your masterpiece. Allow it to fry for about a minute.
If the yolk breaks, you’re screwed and you should just start over. Feed your mistake to the dog.
Step 7: Butter the first slice of toast and place on a plate.
Step 8: Carefully scoop out the dippy egg without breaking the yolk, and flip over on top of the other slice of buttered toast bread.
I did a quick Google search on dippy eggs, and one woman said she wishes she knew what to do with the cutout. Well, duh. You dip it!
Step 9: Cut up pieces all around the egg, as well as the buttery toast underneath and dip into the egg for a savory, delicious breakfast. Bacon optional.
And there you have it. Kathy’s Dippy Egg!
Have you ever made these? What do you call them?
Anyone who’s been to the Junk Drawer before knows I have a special place in my heart for delicious bacon.
So I was over the moon when a friend sent me a link to a blog documenting the adventures of Bacon himself.
I love, love, love this blog!
Bacon’s owner, Devon Boatwright, graciously agreed to an interview so I could learn more about my new fatty best friend.
I’m Bacon’s #1 fan, possibly in a Kathy Bates/Misery sort of way. I just love him so. Where did you get Bacon and how did you get the idea for Bacon to have his own blog?
Bacon was actually kind of an accident! My mom ordered Bacon for my sister but accidentally ordered two Bacons. Not knowing what to do with the second one, she decided to give it to us as a family gift. She kept joking that it wasn’t a big deal and we could open it before Christmas and it was just a silly gift. Well, I opened up the box and completely freaked out even more than my children.
Since I opened Bacon before Christmas and my sister was also receiving a Bacon, I was not allowed to post pictures of Bacon. Despite my begging, I posted no pictures of Bacon for 3 days! Then Christmas day I managed to wrangle Bacon from my children and was inspired to pose him with the turkey. Then I thought it would be funny if he helped Ray with the dishes. And it just went from there.
When I posted all the photos, people on my Facebook loved them and someone told me I should start a blog. I figured I would do it and make a coffee table book out of it when I was done. I didn’t realize how many people would actually think Bacon was as cool as I did!
Bacon has ridden the subway, crowd-surfed on a dance floor, gone grocery shopping and helped make home brewed beer. Does Bacon realize he’s a Renaissance Man?
Bacon is most definitely an “out and about” fatty meat. He does not like to sit around at home. I had to convince him to get out on the dance floor, he was scared to get stepped on. And sometimes I’ve had to give him a pep talk (seeing all his kin packaged and eyeless was like something from a horror movie). Bacon is really open to trying new experiences no Bacon has ever tried before.
What is the reaction of people in places you visit (restaurants, museums, stores) when you ask them to hold Bacon and have their picture taken? Do you get strange looks? Also, does your family think you’re insane?
MOST people think it’s kind of funny and definitely think I am weird. Honestly, I am a little weird but I am relatively shy in real life. Asking people to pose with Bacon is really a challenge for me sometimes. I haven’t had anyone say “no” outright. Though, there was the one guy who handled Bacon like he was covered in disease. I don’t even know why he agreed to allow me to take Bacon’s picture. But his lack of humor is the minority. Many people have actually approached me asking about Bacon and what he’s doing.
My husband and kids already knew I was insane. Bacon just takes that insanity into the public. I mean, my husband and I went to Italy with my parents for our anniversary and took pictures of the toilets with the insane plan of making a book entitled “Toilets of Rome.” I sometimes wonder if Ray knew what he was getting into when he married into my family. Hee hee. Luckily, he embraces Bacon and has actually come up with Bacon ideas.
Bacon can say only two words: “I’m Bacon!” Can he express himself in other ways besides speech, where he is clearly limited?
I think Bacon can express himself in the way he stares pointedly and blankly at things. And I think, depending on the context, the words “I’m Bacon!” can have a variety of deep meanings.
I’ve seen Bacon eat soft pretzels on two occasions. Is that his favorite food? Does Bacon understand he is a food?
Bacon does realize he’s a food and it makes him really nervous in certain situations. Being in the kitchen at Counter Burger terrified him. Sometimes when I cook bacon for breakfast, he hunkers down and hopes I don’t eye him ravenously. He also realizes he’s a lovely stuffed thing and hopes the dog won’t decide to drool all over him.
To make matters even worse.. Bacon’s favorite food is actually bacon. He doesn’t care if it’s cooked or raw. He’s even been known to cook little bacons for himself on occasion.
One of my cats has a favorite spot on the back of the couch where she hangs out when she’s not doing cat things. Does Bacon have a favorite spot in your house where he likes to chill when he’s not going on Bacon adventures?
Personally, I take issue with Bacon being left around like a toy. He’s very much a family member. When he is not going on adventures, he generally sits at the 6th chair at the kitchen table. There he can see everything going on. Yes, he sits in the chair properly. I have the same thing with dolls, too. It bugs me if the girls’ American Girl dolls are laying on the floor. I always have to pick them up and put them in a proper, more comfortable position. 
One question about mechanics: How do you position him to, say, sit in seats, hang onto larger objects or bend over? Does he have special innards that allow for this malleability?
I don’t know if I should say that! It’s a secret! Hee hee. Really, Bacon has this wire along the sides of him that make him poseable. His mouth also moves when he says “I’m Bacon!” so that actually allows me to use the mechanics of his mouth to hang him on something. I have a thing about people handling Bacon for photographs so I try to make sure as much as possible that no one is touching Bacon when I photograph him.
If someone has to be propping him up, then I try to cut their hand out of the picture. Sometimes I snap really quick pictures as Bacon slowly slides down whatever I have managed to prop him on. I probably look like a weirdo posing Bacon in public. Especially at our night out where I took like 20 photos of one of my friends holding Bacon up on the pool table to play pool. I kept saying “I can see you in the picture and I can’t crop that!” So we’d repose. Heh.
Where does Bacon see himself in five years?
Bacon definitely sees himself in a coffee table book. He hopes he’ll have to wear sunglasses and a fake mustache when he goes out so people won’t recognize him because he’ll be so famous. He also hopes he won’t have been eaten or become a dog toy for an oversized canine.
I think we can learn a thing or two from Bacon. What is Bacon’s philosophy on life?
I asked Bacon what his philosophy on life was. After all, he’s read many books and must be quite brilliant by now. I waited with bated breath as Bacon thought long and hard about my question. Finally he answered, “I’m Bacon!” So there you go.
Bacon believes everyone should be like him. We could interpret that to mean he thinks everyone should live life to the fullest and go on many fabulous adventures and take lots of pictures. Or we could take it to mean that Bacon has a bloated self image and thinks everyone should be him.
—-
Devon, thank you for taking the time to help us get to know Bacon better. Also, if you get that coffee table book published, I want a signed copy (and I wouldn’t be disappointed with a Toilets of Rome book either!) I just hope Bacon remembers me when he gets famous.
Adventures of Bacon blog
Author, Devon Boatwright’s Facebook page
This week, the Internet went all knee-slappin’ hysterical when a video of a woman who fell into a mall fountain while walking and texting was posted on YouTube.
Yes, she was embarrassed and, of course, she’s suing because that’s what people do in this country when they should just walk away and laugh at themselves.
And that is this woman’s problem.
She does not know how to laugh like a hyena at her own stupidity.
Let me show you how it’s done, you silly woman.
I lunched with some blogger friends a few weeks ago at a very fancy shmancy restaurant. I’m more of a cheeseburger and fries kind of girl, so I was totally out of my element.
After our meal, we decided to order some dessert. The only thing on the menu that sounded exciting to me was fried ice cream.
Who doesn’t like ice cream, and holy clogged arteries, who doesn’t like it fried?
All three of us ordered it and when it was delivered to the table, the waiter approached each dish with a small serving boat, which I was hoping was full of hot fudge.
It was not.
It was full of something that set my dessert on fire when the waiter touched a flame-tipped lighter to it.
OK, so now I’m hip to the dessert. I’m getting flambéed here.
I dig it.
It’s pretty.
When my dessert flames out, I start eating. It’s good and decent, but not fabulous, as I prefer my desserts to be.
Why? Because at the bottom of my dish lay a puddle of cream mixed with alcohol.
Alcohol? Why is there alcohol in my dessert? Who puts alcohol in ice cream? I didn’t ask for it and I’m not at all pleased.
But I continue eating because my lunch mates are infinitely more refined than me and not the kind of people who go around freaking out about alcohol in their desserts.
After we say our good-byes and I get home, I immediately Google “flambé” and am surprised to learn that it’s alcohol that makes a flambéed dessert shoot up in flames when you light it.
Oh.
Oh, wait.
I knew that, didn’t I? Yes, I’m sure I knew that. I think. No, I didn’t. Did I? No. I did not.
What I’m sure of is that I’m a dumbass and my blogger friends who are just now reading about this will never invite me to lunch again because I’m just that stupid.
So, lady who fell into a fountain while texting, that is how you laugh at yourself. You do not sue someone. Instead, you realize how dumb you are and then you blog about it for other people’s enjoyment.
That should be the new American way.
People, people, people. It’s so simple.
When you stand behind me in the grocery store checkout and you inch your way ever closer to the cashier, and in the process kick my feet, you can avoid having to say “Excuse me” and I would not have to burn a hole through your skull with my angry stare.
I promise you, you will get through the line with all your stuff quickly enough, whether you’ve hopped on my back or not. I prefer you not get all up in my grill and then have to apologize for it.
Here’s today’s lesson: There is an comfortable distance that you should stand behind a person before that person gets decidedly uncomfortable. For me, that’s two feet, not two inches.
You’re not running a marathon, there is no prize for getting to the end of the line faster and all it does is make me want to squeeze your bread until it looks like one giant matzo ball.
Two feet. Not two inches. Got it?
My parents raised me right, I swear. I’m polite, courteous, respectful of my elders, and have good table manners.
But I will bare my teeth, growl and possibly stab you if you try to take food away from me. Especially if it is my very favorite dessert, The Perkins Chocolate French Silk cream pie.
It’s a treat I allow myself only once or twice a year. It’s a special thing to be preserved and protected, and certainly not wasted, for it is divine.
Which is why when I dropped a slice of it on the floor Saturday, I picked it up, plated it and ate it. The whole sad, malformed blob of it.
I did not cut off the dirty side. The side that probably spells bacterial infection.
Shut up. I did this two days ago and have suffered no ill effects.
The fact that I ate some combination of cat hair, floor wax and outside world dirt proves one thing: Mothers everywhere are all wrong. You can eat off the floor like an animal and survive.
You won’t look at yourself the same way again, but you will survive.
Bon appétit!
I know it’s not 2011 yet, but I’ve already been out to see the clock countdown to the new year.
I went to my first ever Peep Drop!
What’s a Peep Drop, you ask? Just Born, the company who makes deliciously sugary, marshmallowy Peeps, is located in my town. Every New Year’s Eve, they drop a Peep at two times: early evening (for kids and tired old people) and again at midnight, for people who can stay up past say, 10PM.
I’m a tired old person, so that meant fake midnight. My husband and I sidled up to the viewing area, and looked up to the sky to find a glowing fiberglass Peep hanging from the top of a giant crane.
As the countdown approached, screaming kids chanted “Drop-the-Peep! Drop-the-Peep!”
And then at the appointed time, Enormous Peep in all its paunchy yellow glory, was lowered to the ground to great fanfare and then fireworks.
After Mr. Peep touched down, an organizer came over to the area where I was standing and said “OK, press? You can come over now.”
OMG. She thinks I’m press. Should I go over? I can get real close and maybe hug the costumed Peep who walked around and cheeped at people.
And then I chickened out. I stayed behind while real press people got to get within inches of both real and Plastic Peep.
Sigh.
At least that’s the last regret I’ll have in 2010. Tomorrow’s a new year, ripe for plenty of new regrets.
There must be a sign on my back that fellow grocery store shoppers can see. It reads “Ask me anything. I have all the answers, even though I don’t work here.”
That sign had me shopping for baptism cards once for complete and clueless strangers.
Today it had me explaining eggs.
While I was scoping out butter, a nearby unkempt but harmless-looking young man addressed me thusly: “Can you tell me the difference between these eggs?”
Oh, God. Here we go again.
I don’t know anything about organic eggs, brown eggs, or Omega-3 eggs or the difference between them.
I don’t know if they taste different and I don’t know where they’re hatched, if they’re local or shipped-in, or if they’re more expensive or healthier than regular eggs.
I. Do. Not. Know. What about me says I know eggs?
In the millisecond it took for me to get all stressed out about this impromptu egg class, the young man followed up with this:
“The sizes. What are the different sizes? This is my first time shopping for my wife and I don’t know what I’m doing.”
I thought “OMG, dude. If you don’t know that the difference between regular, large, extra large and jumbo eggs is purely their size, then no one can help you. Ever.”
But because he was just so adorable and helpless, and I wanted his wife to have the illusion of a husband who can make egg choices all by himself, I decided to give the egg noob a straight up answer.
I said “There are large and extra large eggs. Jumbo is probably unnecessary. Just go with the large eggs and you’ll be fine.”
He grabbed the large eggs, thanked me as he walked away and I wished him a good breakfast.
Then I picked up eggs for myself. I opened the lid to see if any were cracked. Some were. At least three.
Egg noooooooooob! I forgot to tell him to see any of his were cracked!
There go my chances for becoming a Certified Egg Instructor at an accredited grocery store near you.
And I was doing so well.
Yesterday I took my oversized comforter to the laundromat. Y’all know how much I love the laundromat.
Nothing remarkable happened there except for the guy in neon orange sneakers who lifted the lid to his washing machine about twelve times during one cycle to, I don’t know, see if his socks were all getting along in there. Dude, it’s OK. They know how to mingle.
After my visit, I decided to make a run to the store. Since I didn’t have paper and pen with me, I used the Notes program on my iPod Touch to make my list.
Oooooo! Electronic grocery list. So convenient.
Except…..
When I walked the length of the store for something I hadn’t tapped out and worried I’d forget, this happened.
Apparently, my swinging hand action caused me to hit all kinds of buttons and suddenly I had a new grocery list.
Great. Now we’re having pasta for dinner, with Ld and Q on the side.
I remembered only half of the rest of the list I’d created.
And then when I got home I saw that I’d been hitting the enter key the whole time, so the rest of my list was there, just way down at the bottom out of view.
Whatever, technology. You suck.
I like cheese. A lot. When I find a cheese I love, I pretty much stick to it until I can’t get it anymore.
My husband Dave went to the store the other night and I asked him to get my favorite cheese. He asked me what it was called.
“I don’t know. All I know is what the package looks like. Take my cell phone and call me from the cheese section and I’ll walk you through.”
He gets to the store and calls me as instructed from the wall of cheese.
I tell him “OK. Are you at the display that faces the donuts?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Now the cheese I want is a sharp cheddar, in a rectangular block and comes in an opaque wrapper and has a red or burgundy label.”
“I’m looking and it’s not here.”
“Look on the right side, maybe the second shelf from the top. Maybe the middle-ish shelf.”
“It’s not here. Orange?”
“No. Not an orange label. Red!”
“No. I mean orange cheese. Orange cheddar?”
“No! It’s a white cheddar with a red label. Keep looking.”
“It’s not here. I’m looking at all the cheeses now.”
“Well, it’s gotta be there. They never run out. There’s always like a dozen of them. It has to be there.”
“It’s not here, I swear. I’m done. I’m leaving the cheese.”
Now I’m sad and mad and cheeseless. I decide to go to the store myself the next night to find my cheese. I even bring my camera so I can take a picture of the cheese for future cheese reference.
I get there and see that the store people moved all the cheese over to the other side of the display, the side facing the deli. And they moved all the meats to the side where the cheese is supposed to be by the donuts. Why?
To make matters worse, my favorite cheese is not there. Who moved my cheese?!
I get home and immediately scream at Dave for not telling me that the cheese has moved to the other side of the display and if he’d only told me that the cheese was on the side facing the deli, where it never was before, then I could have told him that they moved the cheese and I would have known something was amiss and I would have halted the looking-for-the-cheese expedition the other night!!! And now I find out they DON’T EVEN HAVE IT!!!!
And then I took a breath, stopped spitting fire balls, my eyes returned to their normal size and all the angry snakes retreated back into my Medusa head.
The look on his face. Abject fear. Like he realized at that very moment what a beast of a woman he married and is it too late to get out now?
I’m sorry about the cheese, dear. I just like it a lot. You hereby have adequate grounds for divorce.
So how much weight have you gained since blogging?
Me? A whopping 30 pounds and I’m tired of walking around with all that extra tonnage. So what am I doing to lose?
I’ve had good success during the first month. And rather than mark my weight loss milestones by a straight number of pounds, I’ve decided to mark them by the number of Stinkys I’ve lost. Stinky, my beautiful, sweet kitty, weighs 5.2 pounds.
My progress so far:
| Weeks 1-2 | Weeks 3-4 |
Every time I lose a Stinky, an angel gets its wings. Wish me luck. I’ve got four more to go! And to the guy who asked me last week if I was losing weight, you have no idea how close I got to jumping in your lap and giving you a big sloppy kiss. Thank you!
We usually consider people who live on the edge as the types who enjoy thrill-seeking adventures such as skydiving, rock climbing or race car driving.
Tonight I met a guy who could beat them all.
He was going to buy a tub of sour cream.
Let me ‘splain.
I followed him to the courtesy counter at my grocery store. He had the sour cream in hand and I figured he’d be in and out of the line in no time at all. Spotting another container of sour cream peeking out of a bag on the counter, I realized he was there to make an exchange.
He told the cashier “I looked and looked and could only find this one.”
“Let me see,” said the cashier.
“But it’s just like all the others. They’re all expired,” the man reported. “This one is the most recent. June 21st.”
The cashier, not knowing exactly what to do about the exchange, stood there for a moment and said nothing.
I figured the next move she’d make is to give the guy his money back because he couldn’t find a tub that still had some time left on the clock.
But no.
He said “It’s only four days past expiration. If I smell it, I can tell if it’s still good yet.“
No, buddy. If you smell it and deem it safe, you may just find yourself in the ER a little later on.
Either because you ate it or because the wife who probably sent you back to the store to get a new one is going to kick you in the spleen for bringing home only a slightly less hazardous one.
Dude. Livin’ on the edge doesn’t always end well.
Thanks to an alert reader, who didn’t chomp down and ask questions later, we have a new submission to the Food That Looks Like Stuff series.
Behold!
Peanut butter-filled pretzel face
Oooo! A photo shoot? Lil ‘ol me? I must be special! Wait… what are you doing?
CRUNCH.
I’m always on the lookout for food that looks like stuff, so if you find something, please visit my Contact page and email it in!
——
On another note, I want to thank everyone again for your positive response to the Windy story that aired on NPR Monday. I’ve had the time of my life and I’m so happy to have readers (and new followers!) like you. This is what makes blogging so incredibly fun and fulfilling.
You guys are THE BEST!
I think we can all agree that Monday is the crappiest day of the week.
Not today, peeps!
Our Windy celebrated her 2nd birthday today with cake and curious visitors. The only downside is that when some of them saw how ragged Windy looked in her picture, they sadly proclaimed “Awww, that’s too bad.”
See?
It didn’t help that I hadn’t planned very well for the party and couldn’t get helium balloons in time to pick up before work today. So she got the Lazy Person’s version of party decorations. Lame balloons inexplicably shaped like light bulbs and no streamers or party hats.
Hey, at least I remembered the candle.
After I filled my belleh with cake, I decided to jump on the Zazzle web site to see if my delicious custom-made bacon shoes were due to arrive soon. I’d been tracking shipment for days, knowing a package would land on my porch this week.
I give you, the most awesome shoes known to mankind.
A little too big for my feet, but maybe if I fry them, they’ll shrink up to my size.
Admit it. You’re jealous.
Tuesday will be the happiest day of the week for me, as I plan to wear these babies to work tomorrow.
How many people do you think will try to have me committed?
Probably as many as will want to cut off my feet and steal them.
Hee.
My husband Dave is doing the low-carb thing and this is what I found boiling on the stove on Sunday.
Can’t even identify it. I imagine the description on the package read “A slab of something that grunted once. 5.99/lb.”
I nearly threw up.
I’m sorry, meat just ain’t right if it’s boiled. Club it over the head and fry it, I always say. I like meat to sizzle and have a crust, not look quite so fresh and fleshy.
I can’t be a vegetarian, but I can’t do this either.
Bon appetit.
Or not.
A couple days ago on my lunchtime walk, I purposely avoided a man and his dog while crossing the street because the dog was unleashed. My walking partner asked if I was afraid of dogs and I said “Yes, the ones over 30 pounds do.” And this one looked like a 50lb pit bull mix, not the friendliest looking pooch. He said “Yeah, but he’s missing a foot.”
I hadn’t noticed right away, but the dog didn’t have a left hind foot. He could still walk easily and I assumed he could run after me easily, too, and rip my face off.
That night I had a dream wherein one of my cats’ paws fell off. I saw it a few inches from her body, lying on a pillow. She wasn’t in pain or anything. The paw was detached, that’s all.
So I took her to the vet and they gave her a replacement paw.
And what did the vet replace it with? Of course, a bacon-wrapped scallop paw.
And why did I have this dream?
Because of this video I’d watched earlier in the day:
The lesson here is if you’re going to eat your own paw, it should at least be wrapped in bacon, right?
I mentioned my dream to my co-workers and announced that I would like to have a hand that turns into a compact fist of freshly cooked bacon whenever I so desired. We discussed the ramifications of having such a hand.
Yes, having a bacon hand would be a problem unless the bacon functioned as a gripping device, but my bacon hand would not only be able to still function as a hand, but after I ate it, a new bacon hand would be instantly regenerated just like The Terminator. See? I’ve got it all covered.
In addition, my bacon hand would not be greasy when I need to use it as a hand. It would only be deliciously fatty and scrumptious when gnawed upon. I don’t mess around.
Now, what I need to know is what special powers would you like to have? They don’t have to involve food. In fact, one of my very real special powers doesn’t involve food at all. I can mentally cancel meetings that I don’t want to attend. Seriously.
Would you like a bacon hand? Not practical enough? Would you rather beam yourself places you have to go? Maybe clone yourself so you can get all your errands run at once? Turn into one of your pets for a day so you can see how they live?
Let’s have it!
You guys are always pulling through for me. Last night I was tearing my hair out trying to come up with a post. I remarked on Facebook that my husband suggested I get in the zone by drinking a beer. Which is bad because I hadn’t had a beer in ten years and a little would go a long way. And then I wondered whether drunken posts were any good.
In the end, I decided to go to bed early and hope that a post came to me while I slept.
That never happened, but look what did! I woke up and checked email to find this photo taken by my blogging bud, Moonshadow. She writes:
“Sorry I didn’t get this sent to you sooner since you were have so much trouble coming up with a post. A week or two ago I had made chef salads for supper and my husband called me to the table saying I needed to take a look at “this face.” So I told him to hold it right there so I could get a picture, that I knew someone that loved food that looked like something… so here you go.”
Thank you, Moonshadow! It’s just what the doctor ordered. I love that your husband noticed the face and that you thought to take a picture for me. If you don’t already have a Junk Drawer magnet, I’ll pop one in the mail for you as a big thank you!
Oh, and your chef’s salad looks delicious, what with all the BACON!
Tell me, did the little egg scream when you ate him?
Has anyone bought Sun Chips in the new eco-friendly bag? Ay-carumba!
They are touted as the first of their kind to be “100% compostable.” That’s great, but they’re loud as hell!
I Googled the issue and found a few discussion boards where people left the following comments:
I swear it’s capable of waking the dead if you so much as breath in its general direction, much less actually touch it or reach inside to get a chip.
Just curious about other’s comments on this ear-splitting bag. Is a fully compostable bag worth it if everyone within 1/2 mile knows you’re eating Sun Chips?
My wife was asleep upstairs and I opened the bag in the kitchen and it literally woke her up. Man that bag is loud!
Well, at least the neighbors know you are engaging in the proper consumption of said “Sun Chips”. Next time you go out and pick up your mail just say you had an excellent dip experience.
Sounds like a car crash whenever I go to grab a chip.
I’m all about snacking, but I’d like to do it in peace. Does everyone have to know I’m off my diet?
Have a listen…..
Geesh. It’s not like this restaurant was the epitome of fine dining. Actually, it’s more a bar than a restaurant. Whatever.
For the record, I ordered from the weenie drink selections with pride.
Doesn’t everyone want nipple cupcakes? I mean, come on. They’re awesome.
Step 1: Pour too much cake batter in the cups. No, not bra cups, silly. Cupcake cups!
Step 2: Don’t shake down the batter like apparently you’re supposed to do.
Step 3: Bake at 350 degrees for 15 minutes.
Viola!
Nipplicious cupcakes!
Step 4: Pile icing high, high, high and no one will notice!
Good grief. I can’t even make a normal cupcake. Don’t even try to help me. There is no helping me. But I’ll take pity. Pity’s good.
Holy cow! It’s been over a year since I last posted something for the Food That Looks Like Stuff series. It’s not that I haven’t been looking. I’m still searching for the elusive Virgin Mary on a Pop Tart.
I’m pleased to bring you a submission that ends the yearlong drought. Thank you, reader Louise Pena!
Coffee No. 4
Wouldn’t this cup of coffee go great with Bagel #9?
If you’re a new reader and want to see some past foods that look like something, check these out:
Each September my town hosts the Celtic Classic Highland Games & Festival, a celebration of Celtic culture with music, food and athletic competitions involving big burly men.
In kilts.
Here’s an example of a kilt-clad burly man throwing a 56lb. (25.5kg) block across the grass, as I stood on the sidelines hoping the officials knew when to duck.
One of the longest food lines was at this stand. If you don’t know what it is, I suggest you stay ignorant. It’s not for the weak of stomach.
If you don’t look it up, perhaps you can guess what’s in it by looking at it on a plate. And, no, it’s not impolite to ask a complete stranger if you can take a picture of his haggis. As long as you ask nicely. I didn’t even have to flash my blogger badge.
Looks a little like cat food, no? Meow.
About a thousand men walked the grounds in really gorgeous kilts, some with cute knees to match. It’s easy to get used to seeing men in skirts when they look like this.
Not half-bad!
Or this. Beautiful!
But then there’s this. GI Joe kilt!
And then ….. well. This.
Gotta hand it to this guy. Nobody’s gonna make fun of him for wearing a skirt. Nobody.
Go ahead, Miss Kathy. Take your pick.
One of my fondest memories from childhood involved Sunday morning visits to a bread bakery. Not really a bakery, but a factory, where bread was baked and packaged up for delivery to grocery stores and other outlets.
My Dad owned a tire service business and one of his customers was Leone’s Bakery in Easton, Pennsylvania. His company serviced their fleet of delivery trucks and my Dad was good friends with the owner.
One of the perks of that friendship was being invited to come in on Sunday and buy fresh bread that came right out of the ovens. A six-year-old Kathy always got to join him.
The things I remember most after I stepped into the factory were the heat, the noise and the aroma of delicious fresh bread that wrapped its arms around you and wouldn’t let go. It was intoxicating.
It could have been freezing cold outside, but the moment you walked into the factory, you were in a flour-dusted Sahara. The bakers wore thin white uniforms, always short-sleeved, no matter what the temperature outside. I pitied them in summer months.
And the noise! The machinery that processed the dough and then sent it through an open-ended oven was massive and LOUD. Clang, click, SHHHH. Clang, click, SHHHH. At the start of the assembly line, little chunks of dough were cut and dropped onto the belt where metal ice cream scoop-like arms would come down upon them, grab them and give a vigorous shake, until they formed little balls of goodness.
In perfect formation, the bread balls would move down the conveyer and into the oven, where they would bake up and fall out on the other side as crispy, delicious Kaiser rolls.
My Dad’s friend would hand me a bag and tell me to go pick out a dozen of the best rolls in the bin. I know it sounds silly, but getting to handpick seconds-old, piping hot rolls out of that bin made me feel special. It was something my friends didn’t get to do because their Dads didn’t have an “in” with a bread guy. Score!
You can probably gather by now that I was happy with the simple things in life, still am. Two more things were about to happen that were such big deals to me in my young life.
After my Dad and I said our good-byes, we got in the car and my Dad would let me turn the ignition to start it. Me! Making this big machine start up all by myself! CH-CH-CH-CH-CH-VROOOOOM!
Good job, Kathy. Good job.
When we got home with our bread loot, some Kaisers and some French bread loaves, my next little excitement was to deliver one of the loaves to our neighbor Mrs. Meyers.
A sweet old lady, she would greet me at the door with a smile. Morning, Mrs. Meyers! I have your bread! She’d take the crispy loaf from my tiny hands and deposit back two shiny quarters for my trouble. My Dad would never let Mrs. Meyers pay for the bread, but he did let her pay me for delivering it.
Thank you, Kathy. You have a good day now, OK?
I will, Mrs. Meyers!
And off I ran to my house to drop the quarters in my piggy bank and then rip into our own loot. Nothing better than still-warm, crispy rolls broken apart and slathered with butter or stuffed with cheeses or meats.
Another Bread Sunday under my belt. I don’t remember when we stopped going together, but those trips with my Dad were some of the best in my kid memory.
Thanks, Dad, for making me feel like a big girl in my six-year-old head.
I recently discovered the coolest book called Hello, Cupcake! In it is the cutest assembly of fun and whimsical cupcakes you can make easily with regular store-bought cake, icing, cookies and candies.
Here is my first attempt at making something completely non-cupcakey — spaghetti and meatballs!
First you make regular vanilla cupcakes. Then tint vanilla icing with a bit of yellow food coloring for the pasta. Use a Ziplock bag to squeeze the "pasta" out all over the cupcakes. Go crazy!
Top with Ferrero Rocher hazelnut chocolates dipped in low-sugar strawberry preserves for the meatballs. Finish with grated white chocolate for the parmesan cheese.
Are these not awesome?!
Hungry for a little Italian tonight?
If you have a sweet tooth, these are for you. They are scrumptious! A mess to eat, but who cares? They’re cupcakes! Or are they?
In my last post, I asked you to tell me what your favorite gross food combinations were. You didn’t disappoint. I told you I would pick one disgusting combination and award a Junk Drawer magnet for best worst one.
Since there were so many icky combinations, I decided to put some of them to a taste test because I’m nothing if not adventurous. Or stupid.
The ingredients:
For my journey, I started with the combinations I thought were gross, yet intriguing, and moved toward the ones I thought were sure to make me hurl.
First up, whole milk and orange juice concentrate, suggested by Babs Beetle. She says "I used to half fill a glass with orange juice, the kind you have to dilute with water, then top it up with milk and wait for it to curdle – about 10 seconds. Once it was all lumpy I would gulp it."
I put about 2ozs. of concentrated OJ in a glass and then filled the rest with whole milk and stirred.
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This stuff is delicious! It reminds me of a place that may still be popular in shopping malls called Orange Julius. I’d forgotten all about it until I drank this. My recommendation is to make sure you do use full-fat, whole milk and perhaps add crushed ice. It’s extremely rich, though. You have been warned.
Grade: A
Next items: Orange juice and Cheerios cereal, offered up by Jenny, who wrote: "I guess I discovered this next thing when one day I poured a bowl of Cheerios and then discovered we had no milk. So I put orange juice on top and … WOW! IS THAT EVER GOOD!"
I took the rest of the concentrate and diluted it to make regular OJ. Poured it over the Cheerios and dug in. It was a fairly enjoyable sweet treat for breakfast, but the OJ gave it a biting aftertaste. Think of it as a candy bar in a bowl. With a kick.
Grade: C+
Next, we have the peanut butter-related combinations.
First, peanut butter and sweet pickle slices. Heather says, "I like peanut butter & pickle sandwiches, but the pickles have to be hamburger dill slices."
I have to admit I thought this was pretty high on the gross scale. To me, pickles should only be eaten straight up or on a burger. Let me tell you, this stuff was divine. The savoriness of the peanut butter, mixed with the sweet and tart flavor of the pickles, makes for a surprisingly good combo. And who doesn’t want a little crunch in their sandwiches?
I took a good four bites out of it, but had to discard it because I had a lot more to eat. If not for the calories, this one would have been completely finished off.
Grade: A+
Our second bacon-related combination is the one I believe was mentioned most often in the comments — bacon and peanut butter. I had such high hopes for it. I think you’re all familiar with my bacon addiction. What could go wrong?
Here’s what can go wrong. Apparently my bacon addiction is so bad, I now need 10x the bacon to get the same delirious reaction to it as I once got. I couldn’t taste the bacon! Did I make it wrong? How many slices should I have put on? Five are pictured here. All I tasted was the peanut butter. I’m so depressed.
Grade I wanted to give it: A+
Grade it got: D
Damn.
Now here’s where I encountered my first feelings of trepidation. The very idea of mixing grape jam and macaroni is so completely bizarre to me, and when I combined them in a bowl, I wanted to throw it out before tasting it. But I soldiered on.
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Just look at it. Think about it. Does it look appetizing? No. Would you want to eat it? No. How did I like it? I didn’t. IT. IS. NASTY. Grape jam belongs on only one thing. Toast. Period.
A woman named Kathy suggested this and I wish she had a blog so I could link to it, and you could all go over and tell her she needs to have her head examined. Or her stomach.
Grade: F
For our last test, I spread my culinary wings. I don’t recall ever having eaten cottage cheese in my life. Why? Because to me it looks like yogurt that’s a year past its expiration date.
SewDucky suggested this concoction: "… cottage cheese, heated, with either pistachio pudding or spaghetti sauce mixed in. Everyone thinks I’ve lost my mind."
Everyone is correct.
I still have the aftertaste of this dish, and not a good aftertaste. I would characterize the flavor as sort of like manicotti filling, without the benefit of being enveloped in a blanket of pasta and being flavorfully-seasoned. Couldn’t take more than two bites. Warming it up did not help.
Grade: D
I hope you enjoyed my little taste test. You’ve all been so good waiting patiently for me to announce a winner.
******* Drumroll please *******
Winner in the category Worst Food Combination I Never Thought I’d Like: Peanut Butter and Pickles
Winner in the category Word Food Combination I Wouldn’t Eat Again For Any Amount of Money: Grape Jam and Macaroni
I’ll contact the winners shortly. As soon as I clean up my kitchen and explain to my husband why the garbage is full of half-eaten sandwiches and mushy things.
Today’s post is short and sweet. I recently told a friend how I love the taste of uncooked instant oatmeal combined with a fruit yogurt.
That fact made her sick and it got me thinking about things people eat, specifically, foods we combine that have no business fraternizing in the same cup, bowl or dish.
So let’s have it. What foods do you put together that you love, but that make others ill when they see you eat it?
Grossest combination wins a Junk Drawer magnet.
Oh, and if you remember the circumstances under which you thought to put the foods together, include that too!
Go!
In case of donut emergency, call husband.
In case husband laughs at wife’s misery, post on blog.
Anyone who knows me knows I can’t cook. Never really tried. Didn’t get the gene.
But after enjoying a delicious meal at the home of Kim and Bryan, the bloggers I met last weekend, I decided I might like to try my hand at it. You see, Kim made homemade manicotti, including making the pasta shells from scratch!
I thought it would make a nice birthday dinner for my husband, Dave, and so I slaved away in the kitchen making my own pasta. You do it by pouring a thin mixture of eggs, flour, water and oil in a saute pan and swirling it around like you would a crepe. When the top dries, you simply pop it out on a plate and instant pasta!
I made 15 of those beauties and confidently went on to make the cheese filling and meatballs. Didn’t they turn out nice? Thanks for the recipe, Kim!
I basked in the glow of knowing that if I apply myself, I can pull off a decent meal and no one even has to go to the emergency room to get their stomach pumped.
And then God said "Get over yourself. It was a fluke."
The very next day I made a grilled cheese sandwich in the brand new saute pan I’d bought to make the pasta in, but didn’t wind up using.
When the pan heated, I started smelling something. I chastised my husband for not cleaning some burned food off the stovetop.
But the smell wasn’t exactly burnt food. Oh, no.
It was the smell of stupid.
We had a good chuckle over it, took this picture for proof a moron lives here and I ate my grilled cheese sandwich.
The very next day I was making an omelette in the very same pan.
Hmmmm. What’s that smell?
That’d be the smell of short term memory loss.
You’ll be happy to know I finally took the paper off the bottom of the pan and my house doesn’t smell like burning barcode anymore.
Is this universe’s way of telling me to get the hell out of the kitchen and leave it to the experts?
Yeah, I thought so.
Hubs: We’re having broccoli with dinner.
Me: Not anytime soon we’re not.
Hubs: Crap.
Note to self: When you’re hopped up on Benadryl and half asleep during a Super Bowl party wherein your sister-in-law asks you if you could make 150 chocolate-covered strawberries for an event she’s running because she knows you make ‘em real good, next time — Just. Say. No.
One hundred and fifty.
Plus a few or twelve carefully planned rejects. You know, for the chef.
So anybody free Saturday?
UPDATE: I finished! And guess what? She gave me not 150 strawberries, but 250! Nearly killed me. If you’d like to see some of my work, click here. I didn’t get all fancy because I realized how many I had to do and sometimes "good enough" is good enough.
This is a recipe for my world famous Serviceable Post. It’s what you get when I only have tidbits that don’t make real posts. Consider it the casserole of blogging.
Combine all ingredients in a word processor on medium speed and let sit. Time to prepare: 30 minutes. Serves everyone.
Ingredients:
1 observation: I have a new man in my life. His name is Brawny. I always thought Brawny paper towels were like Bounty’s little brother who always stood in its shadow. I was wrong. Thick and strong, these manly paper towels can stand up to any mess and then some. Brawny, I’m sorry I never gave you a chance until now. Forgive me?
1 question: Every morning when I get in my car to drive to work, I have to raise the rear-view mirror. When I leave work, I have to lower it. I’ve read our spines can elongate as much as an inch overnight while sleeping. I’m guessing this is why all the readjusting. Do you have to do this too, or am I the only one with a yo-yo spine?
1 celebrity sighting: A friend of mine got in line behind Paul Sorvino at the grocery store last night and got up the nerve to talk to him. She’s still kicking herself for saying she loved him in the TV comedy Still Standing. He’s thinking What? No Goodfellas?
A pinch of stupid: I bought a thin baguette at the store yesterday, still warm and crispy out of the oven. I carried it to the checkout register under my arm, it broke in half and the top part fell out of the bag and onto the floor in front of about twenty people.
A clerk was summoned to get me a new one and when he brought it over said with a wink "The crust is really crisp. Be careful." I guess my guns are stronger than I thought. Apparently you do not want to mess with me.
2 gloves: My husband’s had a cold for a week and is trying not to get his germ-ridden fingers on anything I touch. Thanks, dear. But isn’t it hard to type like that?
By the way, I’ve been downing Airborne tablets like I do whenever I’m around sick people. I know the FDA says it’s a crock of poo, but I haven’t had a cold in almost five years. Coinkydink? I think snot.
In this season of giving I bestow upon you, my faithful readers, a gift like no other. And that gift, of course, is BACON.
I found a cool site that will baconize any web site simply by adding its URL to the end of it.
Here is the site: http://bacolicio.us/
If you’d like to see The Junk Drawer in all its bacon glory, click this: http://bacolicio.us/http://www.junkdrawerblog.com
Freaky and delicious! Walk back from your screen and it looks even more realistic.
You’re welcome.
Two of my favorite things: Christmas and bacon. Does it get any better?
Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and BACON!
Note: The whole ensemble was crushed up, tossed in Thanksgiving stuffing, baked and enjoyed. Rudolph, we hardly knew ye!
Crap.
I’m pretty sure when you do the Weight Watchers thing you’re not supposed to eat this many in a day and a half, even if they are only 2 points each.
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Overindulge on laughs at Humor-Blogs.com.
Question: How do you get a big box of gourmet cheese delivered to your house?
Answer: Challenge someone to a Cheese-Off and lose.
I recently posted about my love affair with Kraft Parmesan Cheese. Or more to the point, how lazy I am when it comes to tossing out numerous expired containers from my fridge.
Carla, from Blah blah blog-o-licious, commented on that post thusly:
I will take all the cheese I have, put it on the counter and send you a photograph…I think I might have you beaten.
This prompted the Cheese-Off challenge. I didn’t stand a chance.
I emailed her immediately and asked how it is possible one person can have so much delicious cheese in her fridge, while people like me are slumming it with the kind you shake through gigantic holes in plastic. It turns out Carla is a professional food broker, a dream job if ever there was one.
Perhaps out of sympathy, she offered to send me a sampling of cheese if I would like some. Like some? Like some?
When I awoke from my blackout, I gave her my address, crossing my fingers that she wasn’t kidding. She wasn’t. A mere two days later I received this:
Behold! The Cheese Motherlode! The Rembrandt Extra Aged Gouda cheese down front is almost gone already. My husband Dave and I inhaled it immediately after I took this picture. It is divine.
I feel like a kid at Christmas and all my new toys are in the lettuce crisper. I know they are there. I don’t want to sleep. I just want to eat cheese.
If any of you are in a 20 mile radius of my house, shoot me an email and we’ll arrange a cheese party. Bring wine and an appetite! Oh, and see those Galaxy Cappuccino Chocolate Mousse Duos on the right? If you come quickly enough, there may be some left for you.
Thank you, Carla! I’m blown away by your generosity. This cheese won’t get the chance to expire.
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Check out Carla’s fun story on how she came to be known as The Cheese Lady. And be sure to take her cheese survey. I’m a Swiss girl all the way. Betcha thought I’d pick Parmesan!
Results of having cleaned out my refrigerator. You may have some questions. Go ahead. Shoot.
Soup: Tomato Tortellini
Hunger level at time of photo shoot: STARVING
Number of seconds cracker had yet to live: 4
Mmmm mmmm … crackery!
Check out my other food that looks like stuff! And don’t forget, if you see something fun in your food, don’t play with it. Send it in! (kathyblog07 [at] gmail [dot] com.)
Yeah, that’s right. We buckled up our takeout food. Got a problem with that?
First person to correctly guess what comprised our precious cargo gets a Junk Drawer magnet. Hint: There was a protein (x6) and a side (x2).
To those who were following me on Twitter two hours ago, we never got the ice cream.
We’ve been battling ants all summer. It’s harder to fight them when you’re using an organic, non-toxic spray that won’t harm our cats. It requires constant vigilance.
My husband doesn’t realize that each year I get a little closer to heart attack age.
When eating out at chain restaurants, I almost always find stuffed mushrooms on the menu. And I’ve never been disappointed. Until yesterday.
After some late morning shopping, my husband Dave and I grabbed lunch at a popular seafood restaurant, which shall remain nameless for reasons that will become apparent momentarily. If you really must know, here’s a hint: It rhymes with Dead Mobster.
I’m not a big seafood eater by nature. Indeed, when the waitress asked what I wanted, I inquired as to which items came wrapped in bacon. Only the scallops did, but I do not like scallops, Sam I am. So I opted for two standards: mozzarella sticks and stuffed lobster and crabmeat mushrooms.
I asked for the cheese sticks to come out with Dave’s soup, and I’d have the mushrooms when his scallops and shrimp dish was ready.
We plowed through our appetizers with hearty enthusiasm and devoured their most excellent seasoned biscuits. It was a good thing I got filled up on sides because one of us couldn’t eat any more after that.
Soon Dave’s entree and my mushrooms arrived.
Dave made fast work of his bacon-wrapped scallops and shrimp, while I took a stab at the stuffed mushrooms. Within milliseconds, I knew I wouldn’t be finishing it because it tasted like the lobster and crab meat was mixed ala Lucy and Ethel in the classic I Love Lucy grape stomping episode.
Why? Because it smelled and tasted like FEET.
And not just any feet. Feet that ran the Boston Marathon, their sweat marinating in socks for six hours in broiling heat. And then baked in an oven, smothered in Camembert cheese. Feety enough for you?
My problem wasn’t so much that I hated my feet mushrooms, but that Dave was enjoying his shrimp and scallops dish. I didn’t want to complain immediately that my meal tasted like sweaty socks and ruin his own meal.
So I kept poking at it, announcing that I was simply too full to eat it. I also didn’t want to have to tell the waitress that they served me funky baked, feety-cheesed feet. As I poked around more, I noticed the mushrooms appeared uncooked and resembled brain matter. Yum.
I didn’t ask for the body part special, but this is what I was served. If this were a smell-a-blog, you’d all be gagging and running for the nearest exit.
As you can see, when presented with a plate of feet and brain, the first thing any respectable blogger does is take a picture of it. Ah, but don’t be fooled. It looked delicious at the time, but I wound up taking it home and throwing it directly in the trash. (Don’t worry. I’m not taking that bag out.)
The fact is, we were fooled. How? Because we decided to eat there based on a beautifully-shot commercial for this restaurant that aired on the Food Network, better known as Porn for Fat People.
We hadn’t eaten at Dead Mobster for about twenty years because we weren’t overly excited about their food. But we let expert editing and mouth-watering visuals get the best of us.
Truth be told, Dave thoroughly enjoyed his entree, though I chalk that up to the mere presence of bacon. If we decide in another twenty years to visit, at least I won’t be ordering the ten-toe special. I recommend you avoid it as well. See, I’m always thinkin’ of you guys.
One year ago today, the Junk Drawer opened for business. I’m very excited, as I never dreamed my blog would make it this far or that I would be blessed with the readership I have. Also, there’s going to be cake.
But this day isn’t about me — it’s all about you! And cake.
Thank you for your visits here. Thank you for leaving me the most hilarious comments in The Drawer. Thank you for making me feel that it’s OK to be a little bent. Well, a lot bent.
If you commented here, put me in your blogroll, Stumbled my posts, told your friends about me, subscribed to my feed or bought me cake, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!
I’m deeply grateful to have met so many of you online and gotten to know you through your blogs and emails. I feel like The Junk Drawer belongs to all of us. We’re a community. Writing here and reading your responses has been some of the most fun I’ve had in my life, with or without cake. Toast yourselves and know that I wouldn’t keep doing this if not for you.
Please celebrate this milestone with me and give yourselves a pat on the back for being a part of The Junk Drawer’s success and remember that birthdays are a fun time to look back on the past year, examine our lives and ….. oh, shut up Kathy! Serve the CAKE already!
Pass me a fork!
Almost missed this one! Cycling through a million digital pictures, I came across this one taken months ago. I think it makes a fine addition to the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection.
Do you see the face? Or do you think I’m seeing things again?
Wrap Your Brain Around It
For the record, this turkey wrap was heavenly, despite not having a scrap of bacon in it. I know. Hard to believe. It might have actually been healthy. Don’t worry, I won’t let that happen again.
You’re all aware of my love affair with bacon, so it stands to reason that I eat my fair share of BLT sandwiches.
There are two places I get my fix. Subway and Wawa. Today we shall have a smackdown between the two sandwich giants.
There is one clear winner and it all boils down to the ordering process because the faster and easier I can get my grubby little hands on my BLT, the happier Kathy is and the less punishment the general public has to suffer for me being hungry and annoyed.
How to order at Subway:
Enter establishment and queue up to the start of the assembly line. Tell the sandwich prepper what sandwich you want, on what bread and with what condiments.
The prepper grabs your selected bread and EVEN THOUGH YOU JUST SAID WHAT YOU WANTED, proceeds to ask you at each condiment container what you want on the sandwich.
What kills me is the part where, even though I just said I want a BLT, the prepper asks me if I want LETTUCE and TOMATO on my Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato sandwich. It makes me want to cry. They do this every single time, without fail.
Yes, I would like lettuce and tomato on my Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato sandwich and if you ask me if I want bacon on that, I’ll have to give up on you and leave without my sandwich and that’s not good for the general public, remember?
Pickles? No. Cheese? No. Onions? No. Peppers? No. Olives? What? No! GROSS.
After finally making it to the end of the condiment station, my sandwich is ready and I wish I had gone to Wawa. Although Subway has the best bread, Wawa has the ordering process down to a science.
How to order at Wawa:
Enter establishment and walk up to a gloriously easy-to-use kiosk that beckons me to buy any number of happy-looking hoagies, sandwiches, wraps and subs.
I touch the screen to begin.
Welcome!
Oh, why thank you!
What kind of sandwich would you like?
I shall have a BLT.
On what kind of roll?
Hoagie, please.
Would you like that toasted?
Oh, yes, toast me, baby.
What size do you want? Shorti? 6″? 10″? Giant?
Let’s say 6″. By the way, I love you, pleasant-sounding beeping machine.
What condiments would you like on that? My selections are never-ending. Among them is mayonnaise and not just one button for mayonnaise.
There is a special button called “Extra Mayo” that should have a halo around it because it is a button made in heaven and blessed by God.
Why, yes. Yes, I would like extra mayo.
Almost finished. More bacon ($1.09 extra)?
Oh, sweet Jesus. Could it be? A button you press to get more bacon? What happens if I press it twice? Three times? Do I get a whole pig? Bring on the more!
Beep-boop-beep-boop-beep. My order is finished and out pops a receipt. And by the time I’ve paid for my delicious, bacon-packed BLT swimming in mayonnaise, the server hands it to me and I’m on my way.
The only possible improvement that Wawa could make to this process is if they incorporate the sandwich-ordering technology into the gas pumps outside. Yes, Wawa is also a gas station. Don’t knock it til you try it.
Everyone knows I’m an awesome product tester and so it makes sense that I know what I’m talking about in the sandwich-ordering, gas-pumping, time-saving department. What do you say, Wawa? Care to make a great system even better?
Also, could you install a debit card swiper so I can pay for my sandwich right at the deli to avoid annoying children standing at the register, screaming at their mothers that they want Bazooka bubble gum for dinner? Yeah, that’d be swell.
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