Open-Minded Whore

I am very set in my ways, especially when it comes to my food snobbery.

But... I have always taken pride in the fact that I am very open-minded Food Whore. There isn't anything I won't try at least once (or 7 or 8 times in the case of the aforementioned Lemon Drops...Oye.)

I got an e-mail from The Texas Friend today. She's a Whore like me, but in a different way.

No... not that.

Well. Maybe sort of that.

But what I meant was that she's a Shoe Whore.

Anyway, her mail:

"From reading your blog, I've come to know your distaste for pre-packaged
foods. However, being the connoisseur of them that I am, I feel the need
to share one of the most delicious ones I've come across to date. It is
from the low-carb Smart Ones series and it's the Creamy Chicken Parmesan
with garden vegetables. I could honestly eat this everyday for lunch, it
is that good. In fact, the other Low-Carb Smart Ones are also very
good. I've had the Chicken Marsala w/broccoli and the Turkey Tenderloins
with green beans, both very tasty meals.

I'm currently scraping the little food container clean with my fork....LOL"

In keeping with my open-mindedness, I will give her the benefit of the doubt. She's really crafty. And she could give The Husband a pointer or two about microwave usage.

.

(Smoke 'em if you got 'em, girl.)
--------

Bleh

It is entirely possible to have too many lemon drop martinis.

--------

It's Just A Small White Box, How Harmful Can It Be?

It is becoming clear to me that replacing the microwave that The Husband blew to smithereens with the copper-bottomed pot incident was a really bad idea.

I rarely use the microwave. I melt the occasional cube of butter in it. During the holidays I make peanut brittle that I never send to friends, and even melt chocolate, but that's about it.

The main purpose for replacing the microwave was so The Husband could have a form of sustenance while I was away from home and not be forced to rummage through the garbage dumpster behind the pub down the street.

I remember the day quite clearly when we bought our current model. I stared at it for a long time and sighed as I put it in the cart. "It's just a small white box, how harmful can it be?" He asked. "Need I remind you... " I started to say. To which he held up his hand and said, "Easy mistake... I told you... easy mistake." Yeah. Kind of like Janet Jackson's "wardrobe malfunction."

We do have a stove but I am really not comfortable allowing him to use such a large, hot object when I am not in the same room. I don't know what happened but at some point during his childhood he totally missed the lessons where his mother said, "Don't touch, honey. That's hot."

No matter how many times I tell him, he just can't remember normal re-heating times for entrees and if they should be covered, or if they shouldn't. My next venture is to write a book called, "See Dick Use The Microwave". And by Dick I mean the childhood Dick that we all learned to read with, not the recently demoted doorman and instigator of The Great Tip Jar Hunt of '04.

I can't tell you how many times I have been out shopping for a trick or even setting up a trick and my cel phone will ring and on the other end will be, "Babe, I know you're busy. But this salmon and rice...how long in the microwave?" or "Should I cover the marinara sauce?" Each time I have to speak slowly, repeating myself. Once I was in line at Costco and after I hung up the lady behind me said, "That's so cute. My son calls me all the time and asks me the same kinds of questions." Out of respect for The Husband and lack of patience to explain, I never corrected her. I simply smiled and said, "Yeah. Kids! What are you gonna do?"

The problem is, he really does need to call. It's on days like today that he gets pretty cocky and self-assured and does things like put a bowl of white sweet corn in for a few minutes, failing to cover the dish. He found out the hard way that corn kernels, while tiny and sweet, pop like firecrackers on the 4th of July if you don't keep them covered and cook them slowly.

When I arrived home from my trick this evening, he was scraping what appeared to be little pale yellow squares of plastic off the roof of the microwave. When I walked by, I didn't even look. I simply said, "cover in with plastic or waxed paper and set the time for one minute. Write that down."

He started to mumble, "Write it down. I don't need to write it down. I know what I am doing. I am not a child..."

Later I found him over by the message pad on the phone desk.

He totally wrote it down.
--------

Confession of a Dirty Food Whore

I've spent the better part of my day whoring around. I had a small trick to take care of (Anniversary luncheon for 75 people catered on site) and many tasks and errands to satisfy my Domestic Goddess duties.

The Husband happened to mention in passing that he was craving red beans and rice. The Husband rarely says when he's craving something. He's perfectly content to see what I come up with in the kitchen and always licks his plate clean with a, "That was delicious, baby" like a good husband should. Well, except for the time I made honey and mustard crusted pork tenderloin. I was in one of my dancing moods and completely forgot his distaste for mustard. Even then, he simply smiled and said, "It was fine, really." Which means, "I love you and fear you enough to never, ever say anything negative about the food you put before me."

Annnnyyyhewww.....

So when he mentions something, I try to make it happen. But today was one of those days when there aren't enough hours in the day and I knew I would not have a lot of quality time in my kitchen.

So... I need a minute to compose myself, here.

Ok.

I am sure it's no shock to any of you that I do not believe in "pre-packaged" foods, hence the Tuna Helper post below. For that particular product, in my world, tuna is to come in steak form and is to be seared on the grill with something like a honey lime glaze and served rare in the middle. But even still, pre-packaged dinners are a major no-no in my rule book. No noodles in sauce, no weird meat products in a can that you cook in a biscuit crust, no alternate microwaveable instructions on the side of the box. No, no, no, no!

Well, while I was at the grocery store picking up items for tomorrow's dinner, I ran across one of those "New Item" displays. Zatarins has put out a new "ready in minutes" entree' of red beans and rice. I mean, there it was, all prepped and ready. It simply needed to be heated through and voila'! Red beans and rice. I stood there for a few minutes and bit my lip. Then I looked from side to side to see who was looking at me. And then I kept shopping.

And the "Little Red Devil of Fast Crap in a Bag" was on my shoulder saying, "Just try it. How bad can it be? The Husband will be happy with red beans and rice, he won't care how it got on his plate!" And I kept saying, "No. NO!" And again with the, "Kris, you've had a really long day. That red beans and rice would be a great side dish with the Cajun spiced chicken you have in the roaster at home."

So I rounded back over to that damned display and... and... and I put it in my cart. I shoved it toward the bottom so no one would see it. But I knew it was in there. And it was killing me.

I felt so dirty.

When I got home I stood with my back to The Husband as I read the instructions and quickly shoved it in the microwave. I had it on his plate next to that luscious bird before he knew it. As we sat eating he said, "Wow, red beans and rice. But... I didn't see you working at the stove..." And as he said those words, I gulped my pale ale and pretended not to hear. "Baby, when did you have time to make red beans and rice? You've been so busy today. I know you put the chicken in the roaster earlier but you weren't even at the stove...you didn't have to do that. You've had a long week..." I could hear The Husband's granny turning in her grave - it's her red beans and rice recipe that I make.

"Ok. OK! You caught me!" I said.

"Caught you?" He had that really innocent puzzled look on his face. (The husband gets that face a lot, actually. Sweet hunk of man that he is.)

"Yes, you caught me. I was so busy today but you had mentioned that red beans and rice sounded really good but I knew I wouldn't have the time to spend on it and I was in the store... And this display... But I said no... And then the Red Devil... and I shoved it toward the bottom...." More gulps of the ale. "And I came home, snuck past you, put it in the microwave and put it on your plate."

"Red Devil wha...? Is that why you're not eating any of it?" He asked while laughing. I nodded yes. "Babycakes, thank you for compromising your values just for me. I know it couldn't have been easy." More laughter, this time while shaking his head.

"So is it any good?" I asked. "Well, it kind of tastes like plastic. But it will do. I love you."

I am nothing more than a Dirty Food Whore.
--------

The Reason He's Single

Big & Burly Not So Great With Women Guy called for The Husband the other night but The Husband had run to the grocery store for me so I was stuck on the phone with him.

"Hey, Kris. Is The Husband there?"

"No - he ran to the store for me. I expect him back shortly."

"Ran? I hope he drove, it's kinda far. Chuckle chuckle chuckle..."

"Yeah. Good one. You should try out for The Last Comic Standing."

"What?"

"Nevermind."

"So what are you doing?"

"Making dinner."

"What's for dinner?"

"Tomato basil soup and panini."

"Pan-what-y?"

"Panini."

"What's that?"

"It's the Italian grilled sandwich. Kind of like their version of the grilled cheese."

"Then why don't they just call it a grilled cheese?"

"Because they call it panini."

"That's dumb."

"*sigh*"

"What are you putting on your paniniliio"

"Panini."

"Yeah, that. What's on it?"

"Thinly sliced ham, Genoa salami, provolone, fresh mozzarella, tomato and fresh basil."

"That sounds gross."

"Well that's a relief, now I don't have to worry about you coming over for dinner."

"That was mean."

"Yes. But at least I am honest."

"Don't you have Velveeta?"

"You're joking, right?"

"No. That's the very best cheese!"

"It's not cheese. It's bathtub caulk in the shape of a brick."

"You can be a real food snob."

"You're just now figuring this out?"

"So when can we go to that Thai place again?"

"We've already been."

"But why didn't you call and ask me to go along?"

"Because I wanted to enjoy my meal without you staring at everyone's breasts."

"But I don't stare at yours."

"That's because you know The Husband would break your legs."

"Yeah. So was she working?"

"Was who working?"

"The waitress - you know - with the nice bazooms."

"Bazooms? Is that even a word? You're a walking idiot, you know that, right?"

"She was hot. I really think I could have had a chance with her."

"Yes. And soon Ed McMahon will show up on your porch with a check for a million dollars, too."

"Why can't you be more encouraging of me when it comes to women?"

"Why can't you step out of the cave when it comes to women?"

"So can I come for dinner?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you already said my dinner sounded gross."

"If I bring Velveeta will you make me a panorama?"

"It's a panini and no way in Hell is Velveeta allowed in my house. You should know better."

"Fine."

"So what are you having for dinner?"

"Spaghetti O's."

"Gross."

"It's got meatballs, too."

"Yeah, 'cause that makes it all ok. Hey, The Husband just walked in, do you want to talk to him?"

"Nah, that's ok. I was just going to ask if I could come for dinner."

--------

Priceless
(Petty Dick Obsession)

Dealing With Dick and Putting Up With His Arrogance As A "Food Professional": $15 For a bottle of Bolla on the way home.

The Cost for Dick's In-Laws to Feed Everyone During The Great Tip Jar Hunt of '04: $5,000

Just Finding Out Through A Close Friend That Dick Was Demoted Back to BellHop: PRICELESS!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
--------

Breakfast Taboo

I stopped over at my friend's house the other morning and when I walked into her kitchen I found her standing over the sink finishing off a piece of salmon that she was having for breakfast. The look on her face was that of a person who had just been caught doing something devastatingly dirty like reading Penthouse Forum in church.

What is it about breakfast that has people hiding out when they eat something other than what is deemed "acceptable" breakfast fare? And why is it when they get caught, they hang their head in shame and whisper? "Please don't repeat this, but I had salami and provolone on ciabatta on the way to work this morning... "

Was there some sort of sacred ceremony a couple thousand years ago where they stated that a person could only eat meuslix in the rising hours or they would face a public stoning? "He who eateth an evening meal before the first rooster crows will face the wrath of ten thousand flames at their feet!"

You don't see people showing shame when their dinner includes such items as pancakes and eggs. Just the opposite, actually. "Guess what?!?! We're having BREAKFAST for dinner! Yippeeeee!!!!!" They act all giddy as if the Tooth Fairy tucked a $50-spot under their pillow.

Further proof is something you see at cafe's all over the world. Menus proudly state, "Now serving breakfast all day!" and the waitstaff will point it out like, "Did you see??? You can have BREAKFAST FOR DINNER!!!" And they jump up and down like kids at the circus.

Never once have I stumbled upon a menu that says, "Now serving lobster before noon!!!"

Eh, I think too much.

Or maybe it's the heartburn from the chips and salsa I had for breakfast.

--------

You Spin Me Right Round Baby Right Round Like A Record Baby...

My in-laws are planning a trip to see us at the end of summer and one of their requests is that we take them to downtown Seattle so we can eat atop the Space Needle. They are fascinated with the idea that the restaurant rotates.

*sigh*

The first time I ever dined at the Space Needle was back in the day when I worked retail and attended the clothing shows down on Elliot Avenue. My then boss thought we would enjoy a "..Fun and exciting night of spinning while dining."

Spinning while dining... that's just a recipe for a big ole' hurl, isn't it?

Upon entering the restaurant you can't help but be mesmerized by the incredible view high atop the cityscape. Seattle is a gorgeous city from street level. But when you are perched high atop it all, the beauty really comes alive.

Well, until you look down and realize that the floor is moving.

There is a visual dynamic that can be really alarming when entering a rotating restaurant. I mean, these things aren't spinning fast like a roulette wheel but they are moving fast enough that you're sort of overcome by the same anxiety you faced as a child when trying to maneuver your way onto the merry-go-round at the park. Should I step now? No... wait... now? Wait... no... ok go... wait... now? Ok, go. No. Now. SHIT!!!!!

I am all about the thrill of movement. Put me on a roller coaster and I am a happy girl. Get me on a boat in the rough seas and I can ride like the best of them. But force a klutzy girl to rely on personal timing and all bets are off.

Seriously, I'm the girl that didn't master the escalator until I was about 17. Quite frankly, I think "mastered" might be a strong word. Let's just say I haven't had a blood-producing accident on an escalator since I was 17. I remember being very young and seeing the look on my mother's face each time we approached the escalator in the old J.C. Penny Store. "Krissy honey, now, mom is right here. Just step when I step, ok? When mom steps, you step... there we go... that's it sweetie...you're almost... ohhhhh, honey. That's going to leave a bruise."

And don't even get me started on those massive people movers in airports. What's that all about? You're dragging a 100 lb. carry on bag and your purse and the recent In Style magazine, which weighs about 20 lbs. And then they expect you to have all your timing down to make that crucial step on to what amounts to nothing more than a giant rubber band on pulleys. It's a lot of stress.

Anyway... the Space Needle.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. The view.

The view was stunning but there was something oddly stomach-turning about sitting at a dining table while the wall next to you is moving. The kitchen is moving. Stare long enough out the window and the scenery is moving.

Everything is moving.

It took me a while to relax enough to actually decide it was safe to eat. I had these visions that I would become violently ill and projectile vomit like a scene from the Exorcist.

But it really got better.

Your mind adjusts and evens out your equilibrium and you forget that you're moving. I lost myself in the wonderful food and conversation. The martinis didn't hurt, but it really was a wonderful treat to be able to look out the window every so often and see something totally different than the moments before. The most incredible part was witnessing the sunset over Elliot Bay.

The downside was that I eventually had to use the restroom and there was a line and it took a while to get back to the table. And the table wasn't where it was when I went in. The table was on the other side and now I had to find my way back. Which seemed somewhat simple. I mean, this rotating thing was old hat, right? That is, until I looked down and realized that things were moving again and... Should I step now? No... wait... now? Wait... no... ok go... wait... now? Ok, go. No. Now. SHIT!!!!!

--------

A Food Whore and A Food Snob

Products like these violate me in ways I simply cannot describe.

*shudder*

--------

Which One?

I am having a hard time figuring out which scenario to share with you first.

Should I tell you how Dick's bartender friends weren't there at the onset of the cocktail hour, forcing my partner to take the helm, only to have Dick's friends arrive 45 minutes later, at which point Dick dug the money out of the tip jar and threw it at my partner while saying, "You're done. Shift over." (Note: The tip jar was an empty wine glass set in place by the first customer to tip - which is customary)

Hm.

Or, should I tell you how when Dick's friends arrived to bartend, Dick stormed into the kitchen demanding we find him a bigger tip jar because, and I quote, "Those guys are going to be raking it in and a wine glass would not hold all the money". (Note: My partner made $50 in 45 minutes. Dick's friends made $20 in 3 hours. Word of Dick's antics were out. His friends were punished.)

Wait.

Maybe I should tell you how when Dick came in to the kitchen he was told, "Sorry, no. Everything in this kitchen is to be set in motion for the food service." And how Dick stood there with his hand on a water pitcher insisting, and how he was told no 3 times. Which then forced him to open every cupboard in the kitchen, finding nothing, and closing none of them. (This venue does not come stocked. What we need, we bring.)

Well, no.

Maybe I should start off by telling you how Dick came in the kitchen yet again, getting the same response as the first time, but this time with a bit more "charm". (Read: Raised eyebrow)

Gosh. Um.

No... Maybe I will tell you how Dick then sent his sister into the kitchen because, and I quote her, "Yeah, um. I work in a kitchen (Goodie! Another "food professional") and I can see that we are going to need a bigger tip jar. I know this because I work in a kitchen. So, because I work in a kitchen, I am certain you will be able to hook me up." (I am not making this shit up.)

Or...

Perhaps I should start off by telling you that shortly after Dick's kitchen-working sister left, one of the members of the band (another friend of Dick's) came in asking if he could borrow a water pitcher. (That Dick, he's clever. I hope he applies for a membership to Mensa!)

Shortly after that visit, the closed-door F-Bombs started to drop. And it wasn't me who started it. It was my partner. And she never swears.

Anyway...

No.

maybe I should really start this blog by telling you how Dick came in yet again only to be told, "Dick. We've told you no. No means no. As a fellow "Food Professional" (I didn't even laugh when I said it. Well, maybe I did chuckle a little bit..) you should understand that no one but but the caterers are allowed in the kitchen. We've got a job to do. Again I will tell you the water pitchers are for the guest tables, as they requested." To which Dick asked in a tone only Dick could master, "Who are they?" To which I responded, "They are your in-laws, the people paying the bill tonight." To which he spun around like a diva and walked out the door.

(There were a couple more F-Bombs dropped after this visit. I think knives were sharpened again, too.)

Hm. That is a good one. But maybe I should start off by telling you how Dick's kitchen-working sister came back again with a wire basket, this time demanding a linen napkin because, "All the tip money will fall through the wire." At this point, we wouldn't have given her a phone to call 911 if Dick were choking to death, so the answer was no. To which she responded by spinning around like a diva (A trait that clearly runs in the Dick family) and slammed the door. (At this point, the entire kitchen erupted in knee-slapping laughter. The kitchen door is a swinging door and upon her "slam" it nearly caught her in the back of the head on the swing-out.)

Gosh, maybe I could tell you how Dick came into the kitchen 2 more times, but simply just to walk through as if to say, "I am Dick. I can do what I want." (His second time through, he slipped on some water and nearly fell face down. I have no idea how the water puddle in front of that door was overlooked by us...)

These are all such good starters but maybe I should tell you how Dick's bride was standing and greeting all the guest by herself during the Great Tip Jar Hunt of '04.

Or perhaps I should just start off by telling you how just prior to the meal service Dick came in the kitchen and unbeknownst to him, he was being closely followed by his now mother-in-law and demanded another water pitcher, then looking at her as if to say, "Good, you're here. Tell them to give me one." She was furious. With him. (A few more f-bombs, a couple of "neener neeners".)

Or I could tell you how Dick nearly tipped over the entire 3-tier cake during the traditional cake cutting service. But that wouldn't be nearly as good as telling you that when the traditional cake-cutting was over, Dick took the long mother-of-pearl handled knife and shoved it down the middle of the entire cake. (I heard a few hushed F-Bombs coming from the crowd. It was dark, so I don't have proof, but I am pretty sure it was the bride's grandmother.)

You can see my quandary. Which story do I tell you first?

--------

Totals

Total number of guests at the event: 150

Total number of catering staff, yours truly included: 5

Total number of times Dick did somethng to anger guests at event : 10

Total number of times Dick harassed catering staff: 7

Total number of times catering staff, yours truly included, uttered the word "motherfucker" behind closed kitchen doors: 20

Total number of people at the event who were upset with Dick in some way: 154

Details tomorrow.

--------

I’m a Food Professional, Too.

We have a trick tonight and I finally got a chance to meet the bride and groom in person. All correspondence to date has been done via telephone and through a local friend. The friend is our friend, which is the only reason we took the job.

The Groom, we will call him Dick, had a complete air (Read: He was a cocky SOB) about him when he walked in the room. He would not look anyone in the eye and just kept gazing around the venue as if he were sizing it up to make new draperies for the windows.

The bride, we will call her Jane, spent her time batting her eyelashes at Dick or leaning her head on his shoulder when he would stop pacing long enough to give her the opportunity.

Dick was rude, arrogant and generally unpleasant. No problem. This is just all part of being a Food Whore. You just have to smile, pretend you're somewhere else and get through it. (And remind yourself over and over and over that at the end of the night, it’s about the cash.)

So this Dick, the first thing he wanted us to know was that he is a “Food Professional”.

Fabulous! I love it when I meet other people in the 'biz. There's an immediate connection and a desire to share funny anecdotes about things like tiny kitchens and clogged drains. “Wonderful!” I say, “What is it you do? Are you a chef?”

But there was no connection with Dick. Because Dick ignored my question.

Red Flag #1.

Every person in the business or anyone with OCFD NEVER ignores a food question and they never pass on opportunity to talk about themselves. Wolfgang Puck doesn't cater the Oscars because he's a wallflower.

Here's our further exchange:

"So, what exactly is our menu, again?” He asked.

"Hors d'oeuvres will start at 5:00 p.m. Included will be fresh chilled prawns, sun dried tomato and..."

"Prawns? You mean like, big shrimp?"

Red Flag #2

"Oh, never mind. I know what you mean. Of course I know what you mean. Ok, so what else? What is the main course?"

"We are doing prime rib with au jus, roasted asparagus, rice pilaf..."

"Rice what? What is pilaf?"

Red Flag #3, Eyebrow going up. This joker doesn’t know what rice pilaf is.

"Whatever it is I don't want it. I want risotto. Do you know what Risotto is?"

"Oh most certainly. We can do whatever you like..."

"Then I want risotto.”

At this point our friend interjects and says, “They know what they are doing, I have complete trust in them as should you.”

“Fine, but I am bringing my own bartender,” He says.

“Well, ok. That will be fine. Can I get his or her name so we can touch base and go over the plan for the night?”

“Well I don’t know who it is, yet. But, I don’t know. I just want my own bartender.”

By this time my partner and I were kicking one another under the table so hard that I have it was getting harder to hide the winces.

The entire meeting was riddled with exchanges like that. Two more times he said he was a food professional and two more times he ignored when asked what exactly he did for a living.

The trick is tonight. The staff has been warned about the fact that Dick is a real dick.

And I just found out what kind of “food professional” Dick is. He works at a hotel and was just recently promoted from bellhop to room service attendant.

Dick is a room service attendant.

Let the games begin.

--------

Sweet Merciful God

Just look at it...

I really think I should be the leader of the free world because when there was a probability of war, I would take this platter of Heaven, sit down, have a talk, and make it all better.

Thank You, Eli

And Thank You, Ave
--------

Inhale...Exhale...

Let's all just take a few minutes to observe the peace and tranquiltiy that is the kitchen shop.

Inhale... Exhale...

Isn't it glorious.
--------

"Look, I am a man. I opened the refrigerator, I saw meat, and I ate it"

These very words were spoken by The Husband this afternoon when I got home.

Due to my insanely busy schedule, I try to stay three steps ahead when it comes to food. It's my OCFD. I am constantly planning our next meal; what I will buy, how I will prepare it, when I will prepare it, when we will eat it.

I took a rack of ribs out of the freezer last night and cooked them all through the night. The only way to cook ribs is slow and long (Yes, slow and long, get your mind out of the gutter, Roy darling) so I seasoned them well, seared them for about 20 minutes and then put them in a nice slow oven for the night. (The night being about 6 hours since that is the most I sleep these days) I basted them at about 3:00 a.m. since I was wide awake for some inexplicable reason, other than I was probably thinking about food.

God I need therapy.

Anyway, when I got up this morning, I took them out of the oven, and got them in the refrigerator to cool. The goal was to have them for dinner tonight with some fresh slaw, a sweet corn salad, some good cornbread and beer.

Now, The Husband is not at all handy in the kitchen. He tends to stay away from big ticket items in the refrigerator unless I am around to supervise. This may seem a big obsessive or perhaps even bossy on my part but not long ago the man put a copper bottom pot in the microwave. COPPER BOTTOM POT. I remember that day like it was yesterday. My cell phone rang and I barely said hello before I heard, "Baby, I am really sorry. I sort of, um, well there was a lot of smoke and a very bad smell, I think... well... yeah, there was fire... and smoke... and...I just heated the soup like you said and... just sparks and yeah, I think I fucked up." The deal was I had made a fresh batch of pea soup, left some in a pan, told him to heat it slowly and he took that to read, "Put this metal-copper bottomed pan in the microwave."

In all fairness to The Husband, he really is a brilliant man. He is an amazing artist, he's very musical, extremely sexy, strong, and has an incredible work history that I can't tell you about or I would have to kill you. He just can't be in the kitchen unsupervised.

We have a hard and steady rule in this house. I don't use his drafting table without help and he is never to be in my kitchen alone. My exact words were, "Sweetheart, be the eye candy, you just need to sit there and look pretty."

Good grief this story has a purpose, I swear. So the ribs, yeah. I get home today all set to get dinner started and the ribs were gone. GONE. I thought for a brief moment that I had dreamed the entire rib thing. Most people dream about sexual encounters with really beautiful people. Me? I dream about food. (I need to watch more HBO) So I turned to The Husband and said, "You didn't eat the ribs, did you?" The look on his face alone made me run to the garbage can where I found an entire rib carcass nestled between sheets of sauce-soaked paper towels. "YOU ATE THE RIBS???"

"Look, I am a man. I opened the refrigerator, I saw meat, and I ate it."

"You ate all the ribs? The ribs I cooked all night??"

"Uh, yeah. Those ribs. They rocked, by the way. The meat just fell off the bone and I went through all the napkins and had to get extra paper towels because they were so saucy, just like you baby, heh heh heh. You know how I feel about your food, I just can't resist. Was I not supposed to eat them? (Insert pathetic Husband trying to pretend to be sad face) I was in the middle of my project and I got hungry and I opened the refrigerator and I saw the meat and..."

(Cut to me, standing by the garbage can, arms folded, eyebrow raised)

"...and I ate the most delicious ribs on Earth."

It's a lucky thing for The Husband that he's so damned cute, otherwise he would have to be doing a lot of dreaming about sexual encounters with really beautiful people.

Well, and lucky for him I am The Food Whore.

--------

Hot, Hot, Hot, Hot...Stuuuuufffff...

So the Big & Burly Not So Great With Women Guy came over the other night and brought sushi to go along with the fried rice, pot stickers, and honey/sesame glazed salmon I was making for dinner.

He's trying to expand his culinary horizon and he thinks eating sushi will take him to the next level. (Read: Get him a woman)

*Insert sighing eye roll here*

So we're sitting at the table, discussion the state of the world and I see him playing with the bright green cube of Wasabi.

"Be careful", I say. "That's really hot. A little goes a long way."

"It looks like spearmint gum - how hot can it be?"

"Gum or not, it's hot. Trust me. A little goes a long way."

"Oh, I love spicy. I mean, I love jalapeno poppers!"

"Yeah, ok, I can appreciate that you enjoy a cream-cheese filled, deep-fried bar snack, but this stuff is actually hot."

"I'm tough."

I smiled knowing full well the idiot was going to try to prove his masculinity.

Sure enough. He maneuvered his chop sticks, placed the entire cube of wasabi on his California Roll and in the mouth it went...

...and the tears started to fall.

And in his dramatic way he fell off his chair on to the ground, begging for water.

The Husband looked at me, leaned over and said, "Dude, she told you it was hot".

Never doubt A Food Whore.
--------

Foreign Food

When most people think of foreign food, they think of exotic places like Mexico with their tamales, France with their escargot, England with the bangers and mash, Greece with its souvlaki and spanikopita, or Morocco with its couscous and foods baked in a tangine.

Me? I think of Canada with their French fries and gravy.

That’s right, French fries and gravy. Dipping a French fry into a luscious pool of gravy ranks right up there with dipping warm pita bread in fresh hummus, or licking chocolate ganache out of the mixing bowl. Trust me.

Growing up, my family used to spend every summer vacation in the resort town of Penticton, British Columbia, Canada. I must have been about 9 years old the first time we took the trip and I will never forget that fateful stop at Frosty’s in Hope. (Or was it Princeton? Eh, it doesn’t matter. What matters was the food!) We stopped to stretch our legs and get a bite to eat. It was blistering hot and I remember my little flip flops sticking the road as we ran inside for shelter. The first thing on my mind was something cold to drink and then I wanted fries. I was a sucker for salty, greasy fries. (Still am).

When I placed my order, the girl at the counter asked, "Do you want gravy with those?" "Gravy? You mean, with my fries?" I asked. "Uh, huh, yeah. Gravy. That’s how we like our fries here. Do you want some or not?"

I don’t have historical proof, but I was pretty sure God had opened the roof of that food shack and shined a bright beam of light on my face. HOLY CRAP! TWO OF MY MOST FAVORITE THINGS – TOGETHER!!! It did make perfect sense. French fries are made of potatoes and what better on potatoes than GRAVY!!!

"Of course I want gravy!" I wailed. I remember turning around saying, "Dad – THEY PUT GRAVY ON THEIR FRENCH FRIES!!! Did you hear me, Dad?? I said GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAVY!!!" (As you can see, my Food Whore potential was starting to show through even at the age of 9)

It wasn’t long before a huge line of family and friends had formed behind me, all ordering luscious gravy with those greasy, salt-laden fries. I can’t begin to tell you my elation as I dipped my first French fry into that vat of luscious gravy. I have no idea what kind of gravy it was, and I didn’t care. There was no better meal, even when the thermometer read a balmy 110 degrees F. (This is roughly 30 degrees C for my foreign readers.) I didn't even care when, in my lifelong battle with being a klutz, I dropped the scoop of ice cream off my ice cream cone on the way back to the car. I had just eaten French fries and gravy, man. Life was good.

From that moment on, stopping at Frosty’s became a tradition. When our caravan of cars would stop and all of my family and friends would pile out, I am certain we looked like the Von Trapp Family running through the hills to get in line for those French fries and gravy. My sister and I would actually skip and wave our arms. I think my dad did, too.

Times were so simple back then. We were so easy.

Oh who the Hell am I kidding, I am still easy. I am, after all, A Food Whore.

--------

No PDB's, Please

One of my greatest pet peeves is when people don't excuse themselves from the dining table to take care of basic bodily functions.

I am sure it goes without saying that meal times are especially sacred to me. I want my dining table to be full of incredible food, laughter, great conversation, and an atmosphere of total joy. I want people to feel relaxed in every way. I will excuse a few elbows on the table, I will excuse someone using the wrong fork. But one way to disgust me and lose table rights at my house is to break the cardinal rule of not excusing yourself to blow your nose. Nothing can ruin a good meal like the sound of nasal particles being blown into an already flimsy napkin. (Just typing those words made me gag)

I am not a fan of people blowing their nose in any area outside of the bathroom, honestly. Table or not, sinus issues should be dealt with in the privacy of a bathroom with plenty of tissue and a mirror to make sure you don't have a PDB. (Public Display of a Booger)

Without a proper way to see your nostrils to make sure they are clear, it is unfair to the rest of the world to be so arrogant as to blow your nose in a public place. I mean, how do you know if you got it all? How do you know that you don't have something sticky-icky hanging form your nose or worse, your lip?

Have you ever run into someone that you sort of know socially and seen a PDB on them and did not know what to do? You're not close enough with them to say, "Hey, pal. You've got sticky-ick hanging from your nose". On the same hand, you're kind enough to not want this person to walk around oblivious to the fact that the sticky-ick hanging from his nose is bound to attract things like airborne lint and stares from strangers.

When you come to my home, you will see a tiny little sign made of parchment paper, perched next to the cocktail shaker on my bar cart that reads, "No PDB's, Please."

For your own sake, for my sake, and for the sake of all things good in this world, no PDB's, please.
--------

Puffy Eyes, Good Drugs, Sympathetic Smiles and Fattening Food

I woke up this morning in the throes of a full blown allergy attack.

I sneezed 10 times in a row, which was followed by sever eye rubbing and then the lovely coughing/hacking which sounded like a cat trying to dislodge a hairball the size of St. Louis.

I am a very unpleasant sick person. I am a closet control freak and not being able to control the illness forces me to do completely insane things like argue with inanimate objects.

While making my way to the kitchen for my morning espresso and bagel with schmear, I called my couch a worthless SOB for looking so comfortable knowing I would not be able to recline there all day like I so desired. Shortly thereafter I dropped a large dollop of cream cheese on my big toe, to which I responded, “Stupid ass big toe”.

The Husband was standing there at the time. He sighed, looked at me and said, “You’re so pretty”, kissed me on my forehead and made his way out the door. He may have run out the door, I can't remember. Stupid ass door.

Oh sure, I have drugs. But they don’t take away all the symptoms so I still have to deal with this puffy-eyed “There are no more episodes of Sex & the City and I can’t stop crying” look. Which, when coupled with this big witch's nest passing as my head of hair, is a really good look for me. Take away my front teeth, put me in a skanky robe and nasty slippers and I would be a great candidate for an episode of Jerry Springer.

At lunch time I had a granola bar and I simultaneously sneezed and coughed at the same time, lodging a tiny piece of oat in the back of my throat, which then caused me to cough so hard that I gagged.

Yeah, that’s attractive. Stupid ass granola bar.

Make-up was a serious waste of time, too. I just got back from the pharmacy where the cashier gave me a very shocked and yet sympathetic, “Ohhhhh, I hope you feel better, Kris!” On my way out the door I understood her reaction when I caught my reflection in the sunglasses display and realized that I had lovely dark circles under my eyes from all the mascara I had rubbed off in a fit of itching, to which I responded, “Stupid ass mascara.”

I am home, now, safe in the confines of my own space. I am making a big pot of potato soup for dinner with some of my mega fattening quadruple cheese bread with olive tapenade. (Take a loaf of pugliese bread, cut it in half horizontally. Make a mixture of softened cream cheese, mozarella, provolone, cheddar, minced garlic and bit of fresh basil. Add a few tablespoons of mayonaise to the mix to make it a bit more spreadable. Spread on the two halves of bread. Place in the oven until the bread is crispy, then broil until the cheesey topping is good and bubbly/brown. This is very rich and normally you would serve this all alone but because I am in an obnoxious mood, I am going to dip it into black olive tapenade.)

Then, I plan to take enough drugs to render a large elephant useless and get cozy on my SOB of a couch.

There’s nothing really nothing more unpleasant than a puffy-eyed, super-sneezing, hairball-hacking, witch-haired, fattening food eating Food Whore.

--------

It’s Not The Size of the Kitchen, It’s How You Use It

So we arrive on site yesterday afternoon and I get the crew ready to unload and get ourselves organized for the night.

As I stepped inside and headed toward the kitchen I ran into the owner of the facility. "Oh, the main kitchen is having some work done so that space is not available. We do have a kitchen down two flights of stairs or we do have this staging kitchen right off the main banquet area. It’s a very small but efficient space with a triple sink. Well, I am running late, please call me if you have any questions!"

The kind of horror I felt at that moment can only be compared to the spring of ’02 when I stood in the 3-way mirror at the swimsuit store and realized for the very first time that I had, in fact, grown a second ass over winter.

We had toured the facility a month prior to this pleasant little conversation so my horror was well founded. The building is glorious but it’s old and the "2 flights of stairs" that she spoke of were wooden stairs with only one railing and led to the basement where the evil boiler monster dwelled along with Jack the Ripper, The Grim Reaper, and every other monstrous beast too frightening to mention. (I have a very unhealthy fear of basements). The basement kitchen is small, dark, and – well, it’s in the basement so it’s scary as Hell. The "small but efficient space" off the main banquet area she spoke of is actually a 5’x3’ alcove with a triple sink, each basin measuring a foot square. Attached to that is an 8x8 room with a huge desk and filing cabinet.

The best choice was the small kitchen off the main dining room. All fears aside, a food whore can’t do her best work if she has to constantly maneuver stairs while holding large trays of food. It’s a logistical nightmare. So, small kitchen it was.

As I opened the door to the space, the first thing I noticed was the stench of what can only be described as musty wet cat lying in a pile of rotting fish carcass. At this point I don't know whether to laugh or poke my eyes out with the shrimp forks. But, crazy laughter won out and my first priority was getting rid of that smell so I sliced 3 lemons and placed the slices in strategic places in the space. (I have a picture of the lemons, in fact, and when I can manage to offload them from the camera, I will share.)

From there it was creative arranging. The desk was pushed back and cleared, a sheet tray on the filing cabinet created a prep island. It was a blur of trays, food haulers, buckets of ice, knives, more lemon slices, a bit of creative sink usage and a lot of prayer.

The last thing I did was fashion a sign on a piece of paper towel that read, “It’s not the size of the kitchen, it’s how you use it” and hang it above the sink.

It was our mantra of the night.

After we had cleared most of the dinner service, I noticed that my sink was draining slowly. I was too busy to care and too busy to realize that a slow sink was not a good sign.

20 minutes later it was at a full stand still. My sink was clogged.

It was at that point that I grabbed my partner, walked outside, ran halfway down the block and screamed “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkk” at the top of my lungs. It was such a high-pitched girly scream that I am pretty sure only dogs could hear me.

When I regained composure and went back in, I was reminded that everyone outside of our little kitchen alcove was clueless to what was going on behind that door. They had no clue that the delectable meal they enjoyed came from a tiny little kitchen that now smelled like lemony cat with a slight hint of fish and that due to all the rinsed dishes, now had chunks of smoked salmon and shrimp tails floating in the backed-up sink.

People were having a blast, they were none the wiser.

It was a job well done. The guests were thrilled and compliments were all around.

And the big bonus is that I only had to glare at one child all evening! (Another post for another time)

At the end of the night the drains were running smoothly, the kitchen smelled like a fresh lemon tree, we had another satisfied customer who booked us for another trick and they even gave us an extra tip and told us to go out and buy ourselves something pretty.

And that is exactly what I plan to do.
--------

First Things First

I'm home, finally, and I am exhausted.

I was going to sit down and tell you all about the trick but The Husband got the mail this afternoon and waiting on my desk is the latest issue of People Magazine. (I'm a sucker for celebrity gossip). I wouldn't put you off for a simple magazine.

But, She is on the cover.

Who is she?

I haven't written my thoughts on her plight just yet.

I'm just not ready to talk about it.

*Sigh*

More tomorrow.
--------

Do A Little Dance…Make A Little Sauce… Get Down Tonight

"I always thought I was more about the dance" ~ Jack McFarland.
(My favorite Will & Grace character)

Cooking is not just about the end result for me. It’s about the process. When you come to my house for dinner, you won’t find a proper lady with a pretty apron in the kitchen. Instead you will find a wild-haired temptress (love that word) chopping, stirring, tasting and yes, dancing.

Now, it’s not really in my gene pool to be a good dancer unless there’s copious amounts of liquor involved (I get that from the Irish father’s side) or some sort of camel trade (I get that from the Middle Eastern mother’s side), so I can’t exactly say the dancing you will see is pleasant to the eye. I, however, think I rock the world with my moves and anyone who tells me differently will have to eat on the porch.

Seriously people, I can do the rump shake like nobody’s business.

This past Monday night was no exception as I opted to make chicken Parmesan with a thick marinara sauce. The husband was working on a project in the office so I cranked up the stereo to a funky little hip-hop station and got down with my bad self.

I learned a few valuable lessons this particular meal coupled with that particular style of music:

1.) Marinara sauce will splatter like fire all over Hell if shortly after stirring you, “raise your hands like you just don’t care”, with the stirring spoon in hand. (I actually found some marinara in my hair)

2.) You have to be really careful when you’re trying to moonwalk over to the sink to drain the pasta. Nothing puts a downer on a good meal like scalding burns to the chest. (Yes, moon walking; I know what you’re thinking. But I was serious about the eating on the porch thing so watch yourself.)

3.) The bump and grind should only be done when The Husband is done testing the salad dressing for the right amount of vinegar. No need to have the man choke to death over a move you learned on MTV.

4.) Beyonce’ ain’t got nothing on this girl. (Well, yeah. Maybe that was a slight exaggeration)

So if you come to my house for dinner, be prepared to eat like kings, people. And in the words of the Ying Yang Twins, be prepared to, "Shake it like a salt shaker".

'Cause The Food Whore is all about the dance.

--------

You Will Pull Back A Bloody Stump

Those actual words were spoken in my house this morning.

Every woman knows that at a certain time of the calendar month, all bets are off. The mood is unpredictable. There can be a Tourette's-like explosion of expletives at any given time and the desire to eat things outside of the norm can overtake you like a swarm of bees on a hot summer day.

My "outside the norm" happens to be Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. I like it straight from the pan and I like to eat it with a large wooden spoon.

And I like to eat it for breakfast.

So this morning as I was perched on my couch watching Al Roker give the weather report, The Husband arose from his bear-like slumber and stood in the doorway of the bedroom rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Is that macaroni and cheese I smell?" He asked.

As I took another bite of the creamy goodness, I watched him sleep-shuffle across the loft over to the silverware drawer and pull out a spoon. As he turned to walk back toward me, I could see little droplets of drool forming at the corner of his mouth.

Before The Husband took his last step, I looked at him with arched eyebrow and said, "Put that spoon in this pan and you will pull back a bloody stump."

He bit his lip, walked over to the drawer, put the spoon back, and went back to bed.

"I love you, pookie!", I hollered from the couch.

It's a tough job, living with a Food Whore.

--------

Like A Biblical Plague of Locust

Ever been to a buffet?

I am sure it won't surprise you to know that I am not very fond of this type of communal eating. It's not so much the food as it is the fact that 2500 people have picked through the chicken before I have had a chance to navigate my way around the salad bar. I just can't love watching other people fingering through what could potentially end up on my dinner plate.

On a not so recent trip to Las Vegas, the husband and I were instructed, "Do NOT miss out on the buffet!!!" Like suckers at the craps table, we fell for this advice, a moment we will always regret.

Upon descending into what we would later call, "The Dungeon of Doom", we were actually pleasantly surprised. The room was really quite beautiful and the food actually looked pretty fabulous.

We found a cozy table and decided to innocently meander our way around the buffet to see what we would pick first. The fruit looked amazing, the prime rib was done to perfection. The selection of desserts was simply too much to take in at one glance.

We decided to split up and surprise each other with what we came back to the table and share our found treasures. The husband started toward the carving station and I had my eye on the salad bar.

We simply were not prepared for what would happen next.

Like a Biblical plague of locust descending upon Egypt (we stayed at the Luxor, this word picture seemed really appropriate), we were inundated by nearly 150 geriatrics from Tour Group #9. I have never seen so many yards of polyester or brown socks in sandals in all of my days. We were pelted by pleather purses full of nickels and the scent of Ben Gay as we tried to fight our way back to our table in fear of losing one another in the stampede. I was tempted to shout for the husband to run and save himself but I lost sight of him behind a woman with the Marge Simpson bouffant. (Same color as Marge's, too) All I could hear was the tour group leader shouting, "Ok ladies and gentlemen, we're on a time crunch so let's keep things moving!"

By the grace of God (and some strategic elbow shots) we made it back to our seats. Once safely in each other's arms, we sat in horror-filled silence as these people poked and prodded at Cornish game hens, fingered through the fruit like they were hoping to find gold bouillon, and heaped their plates so high with bread pudding someone was bound to go into a diabetic coma.

While the men insisted on bigger shavings of ham "Because By God, I want my money's worth!", the women fussed over the salad. One woman asked what all the purple stuff was and upon being told it was raddicchio, ("Radicka What?") she actually picked through the entire salad display to remove it, deeming it unfit for consumption since she "had no darned idea what that is."

Some of the people didn't even make it to their seats before they had gotten down to the bones on the chicken legs.

I don't exactly know how long the foraging took place, for a moment time seemed to stand still. Even our table attendant stood in silent wonder. I only know that what was once a buffet of potential, all too quickly became a buffet of horror.

With unspoken words, I grabbed my purse, the husband grabbed my hand, and we bolted for the stairs, hoping not to be noticed by what now were the sticky-fingered, greasy-faced vultures of the night.

We didn't stop running until we reached the casino floor.

Dinner that evening was spent in our hotel room and consisted of Ritz Crackers and bacon-flavored squeeze cheese purchased from the gift shop, accompanied by 10 tiny bottles of liquor from the mini bar.

We ate in silence and never spoke of that night again.

--------

Actual Recipe Instructions Or A Page From The Kama Sutra?

Place your probe into the thickest part of the loin to get the most accurate reading.

Spread the legs apart and reach your hand deep inside the cavity.

Massage the breasts to distribute the spice evenly.

Trussing the legs keeps them tighter against the body, ensuring juicer meat.

Cold air will cause the meat to shrink and all the juices to stay at the surface, cover loosely with foil to keep warm and help the juices distribute evenly.

Grab the upper part of the leg, near the thigh, and give it a wiggle. If it moves freely, it's done.

Stretching prevents shrinkage during the second rising.

Is that a turkey baster in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

(Ok, that last one was mine. *Blush*)

You dirty talker, Betty Crocker.
--------

Hey, Nice Melons

As I was shopping last night in prepration for this Saturdays trick, a gentleman uttered those words to me. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be flattered or offended.

Then I rembered I had just put a case of cantaloupe on my flatbed cart.

Ooops, my bad. He was actually talking about the melons.

I get this a lot, actually. Whenever I shop, not only do people attach themselves to my hip in the check-out line, they seem to always find the contents of my shopping cart fascinating. Which isn't so bad, I suppose. The comments, however, seem to always inspire me to make some sort of smart-ass comment accompanied by a smart-ass smile or some dead serious face which always seems to render the commentors speechless. (I love that power)

My business partner (fellow Whore) is much more subdued than I. Well, verbally anyway. She can shoot a look across the room that can melt an ice sculpture in 5 seconds flat. It's amazing, really, that we have the client base we do. Between my mouth and her stares it's a wonder we have any buisiness at all. Oddly enough, we're known as the nicest whores in the biz.

Here's a few samplings of actual comments by passers-by and actual comments fired back by yours truly:

1) A recent trick involved us making 100 sack lunches for a corporate picnic with the request that a Snicker Bar be placed in each bag. Upon observing the quantity of candy in our cart a passer by said, "Wow. That is a lot of candy. Do you plan to eat all of that candy? Because that is a lot of candy for one person."

My response, "I have a wicked case of diabetes and at any given moment have to consume approximately 3 candy bars or I flail to the ground in unstoppably convulsions. This candy will save my life."

2) Yet another shopping excursion required us to purchase 25 loaves of artisan bread. Passerby comment, "Goodness. That is a lot of bread. What could you possibly need all that bread for?"

My response, "The store has hired us to provide communion for each shopper on their way out. We're stopping in the wine section, next. So we will look for you at the exit door!"

3) Over the weekend I purchased a bag of lemons, 24 lemons to be exact. Upon checking out, the person in line behind me (who was damn near standing on my shoes) said, "Wow. That really is a lot of lemons. Why would you need so many?"

My response, "The husband is starting to show signs of scurvy. I really want to head that off."

It's a lot of work, being a food whore.

Remind me to tell you the story of the client with the secret rooms...

--------

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

A succulent fig swimming in clover honey.

Salty prosciutto wrapped around a dewey slice of sweet melon.

Taking a bite of fresh-from-the-oven baklava forcing the rose water infused syrup to drip between my fingers.

Roasted garlic and cambiozola cheese entwined on a chewy chunk of baguette.

Golden fried haloumi cheese on a bed of crisp greens sprinkled with sea salt and tart lemon.

A thick tenderloin steak with a port wine reduction cascading over it's seared crust.

A fresh slice of d'Anjou pear dredging the last drop of gorgonzola dressing from my plate.

A thick, buttery slice of pound cake slathered in a delicate lemon curd.

Fire grilled asparagus drizzled with hot garlic butter.

Caramelized Sea Scallops enveloped in a sweet basil infused olive oil.

Fresh hummus.

Briny kalamata olives with pungent feta cheese on warm pita bread.

A hot sweet potato smothered in melted butter and golden brown sugar.

Red, juicy strawberries drizzled with way-to-expensive balsamic vinegar.

It's nothing more than food porn, people.

I feel like I need a cigarette.

--------

Having a party? Check Out the Latest In Finger Food.

Gives an entirely new meaning to "giving someone the finger", don't you think?

From www.thedenverchannel.com:

CANTON, Ohio -- The Red Robin Gourmet Burger chain is apologizing for a really bad salad.

A 22-year-old woman had eaten most of her lunch salad at a Red Robin in Jackson Township, Ohio, Tuesday when she put a morsel into her mouth that turned out to be the tip of a human thumb.

An employee chopping lettuce the night before had sliced off part of his left thumb, along with part of the nail.

He was rushed to the hospital, but restaurant workers were apparently unable to find the piece of finger.

On Tuesday, that finger and nail ended up on a patron's plate.

The health department says the woman actually consumed part of the fingertip, thinking it was a piece of gristle , TV station WEWS reported.

Red Robin said that other workers, in their haste to get the injured employee to the doctor, overlooked the missing piece.

WEWS went to the restaurant for answers, but the manager would not comment on the incident. The Red Robin Corp. did not put the blame on a specific employee, but admitted that what happened on the food line was wrong.

Red Robin said it actually has a policy for what do to in such cases -- throw out all the food in the area. Instead, the lettuce, and the thumb tip, were put in the cooler and served up in salads the next day.

Red Robin has been cited by the Stark County Health Department for serving adulterated food and not having proper supervision.

All its employees will have to undergo mandatory food handling training.

I was so grossed out after reading this that I had no desire to eat.

And then I remembered what I brought for lunch... hummus!!!

Finger, schminger - I have hummus!
--------

Tofu, Lemon Drops, and the Big Drunk Guy.

According to www.tofu.com, "The protein from Soy is complete. It has all eight essential amino acids. In this respect, the soy bean is no ordinary bean. It is truly a gift from God."

Eh. I don't know. I have always found it to be nothing more than a white gellantaneous mass with no special qualities whatsoever. The selling point is always, "Tofu takes on the flavor of whatever you are cooking", well that seems like a complete waste of time to me. I mean, if I am cooking with black beans, why would I waste my time on adding an ingredient only to get, well, more black beans?

But, since I have a very open mind in my quest for knowledge of all things food, I have turned my attentions of late to the art of tofu.

A couple of weekends ago I had planned to make a meal with a recipe given to me by a friend and when I mentioned it to my husband the look on his face was that of a man who had just been told to lay his "manhood" on the guillotine.

The husband is a bonafide "I could eat red meat every day" kind of guy and I realized the tofu would have to wait until I had the chance to dine alone.

Suffice to say, the tofu is still in the refrigerator - there's been no chance to dine alone.

Last night, however, I had a change of luck.

A new Thai place has opened up in town and we figured it was time we gave it a try. On our way out the door the husband's friend stopped by without calling first, (a major peeve of mine) and it was clear it was going to be dinner for 3.

Upon being seated at the restaurant, the buxom (I say buxom because this has point in the story) waitress took our drink orders. I ordered my usual lemon drop, the husband ordered his straight-up-something and the friend, in his geeky attempt to attract said buxom waitress ordered a French Kiss. Now, the geeky friend is a really great guy but he has nothing but women troubles and part of the reason is his lack of being reasonable when it comes to approaching a woman. (That and he never calls them back after the third date - but that's another story for another time.)

The French Kiss is a martini made with Grey Goose vodka, lemonade and cranberry juice - absolutely nothing manly about it. But he spotted it on the drink menu and in all of his wisdom, thought it would be an ice-breaker with the buxom waitress. Nothing is more embarrassing then dining with a big and burly single man who has absolutely no skills when it comes to the ladies and watching him say, "I would like a French Kiss, please" while trying to seductively tilt his head. Wanting so bad to say, "Are you kidding me?" I opted simply sigh, close my eyes, and shake my head slowly. The husband smiled and gave him the thumbs up.

Idiots.

When the drinks came I was so distracted by the fact that we got the entire cocktail shaker with the glass (THE ENTIRE SHAKER!) that I was able to erase the memory of his stupidity.

It was time to order our entree' an I opted for a dish of who's name I cannot spell nor pronounce but it was rice noodles, peanuts, broccoli, peppers and my choice of meat. I opted for vegetarian and the waitress suggested I try the tofu. Perfect! (Mind you, at this point, Big Geeky Single Guy was now tipsy as he's not much of drinker and was staring intently at the buxom waitress' buxom area. I decided to ignore it by pouring another glass full of lemon drop and licking the sugar off the rim.)

When dinner came, the tofu portion of my dish was piled neatly off to the side, done so by the chef just in case I decided I didn't' like it. It appeared that it was fried in some way, possibly deep fried, and had a caramel-like quality that was very appealing to the eye. Which is a really great start. Food Rule #1 - the food must always look appealing.

After a few more lemon drops, crisp egg rolls, jasmine rice and conversation, I realized the tofu on my plate had disappeared. It was that good. It truly did take on the flavor of the rest of my dish but added a great texture to the overall theme. I don't know if it was the way it was prepared, the sauce or just maybe the third lemon drop that made it so great but I am ready to try it again. The husband even enjoyed it and is now willing to give it a whirl.

Oh, when we were finished eating the buxom waitress came over, leaned her buxom-ness over the table and asked if we would like to see the dessert menu. We all said a polite, "No thank-you" and as she was walking away, big-geeky-bad-with-women-and-now-stupid drunk guy slurred, "I think I just saw the dessert menu, heh heh heh". If he would have said, "Yeeeesth, I will have a glaasth of Courvoisier" it would have not surprised me one bit.

So much for tofu alone.
--------

OCFD

I have OCFD - Obsessive Compulsive Food Disorder.

It took me a while to become brave enough to verbalize those words but I realized that I was not fooling anyone.

Anyone who knows me well understands that I am unable to carry on a conversation unless it leads to the topic of food.

"It's so cold today. The news said to watch for black ice on the roads"
"If I leave now, I can get to the grocery store on time. I am out of feta cheese."

"Did you see the story about John Kerry's campaign tour last night?"
I wonder what they eat on that campaign bus?

"I had a really stressful day at work. I just want to go home and relax."
So what are your plans for dinner?

"The City is putting in for a bigger road budget. They had to resort to using salt for the roads and the damage..."
Oh my gosh that's right - I need Kosher salt!

"Did you get invited to Karen's wedding?"
I did, which means I am not the caterer. Karen wanted me to be a guest, not a worker. Blah blah blah... So whomever is catering better do a good job or I will be mad. I am not getting all dressed up and buying an expensive gift for Karen and Whatshisname only to have a crusty bun and potato salad.

"It's so great to see you, Kris!"
I need to hurry home, I have a prime rib begging to be seasoned and put in the oven.

"I got the cutest dress today."
That reminds me. I need to stop by the bakery and ask for day-old breads to use in the dressing I am making for this Sunday's dinner...

While most people are suffering for their art or fretting over politics and the state of the world, I am pondering what time the artisan breads will be ready at the bakery down the street.
--------

Put The Margarine Down and No One Gets Hurt.

One of my greatest culinary gifts is the ability to spot a cube of margarine from 100 yards out.

The manufactured color is unmistakable and is easily spotted from a great distance. Upon closer inspection, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that "doesn't occur in nature" texture.

l friend once sent me a picture of a cake she so proudly made. Nestled on a plate in the back of the picture was that non-mistakable colored cube and the first words out of my mouth were not, "What a gorgeous cake", but instead, "Why are you using MARGARINE?"

More than being a food whore, I am a food snob. Which is most certainly the worst kind of food whore out there.

I can think of 1000 uses for margarine and none of them include baking, cooking, spreading on toast, or trying to pass as a delicate sweet cream butter. My thoughts go toward things like greasing a squeaky cupboard hinge, removing stickers from glass, general engine maintenance and other uses not involving food preparation.

Perhaps John Kerry could benefit from the moisturizing qualities of margarine in between his botox treatments.

My plea to everyone is to delight in the sweet creaminess that only fresh cow's milk can bring. Revel in the smooth and wonderful texture brought forth by nature and all that is good in the world.

Embrace the butter.

--------

Why a Food Whore?

My mother would have a heart attack if she knew I called myself a food whore. While she does love my self-depreciating humor, calling myself a whore may be a bit too much.

When I tell her about this blog she will say, "Oh, honey. A whore? Why would you call yourself a whore? You don't want people thinking your an actual whore, do you? You're nothing even remotely resembling a whore. Oh, I hope people don't think you're a whore..."

It's not the most complementary title. I certainly don't want to actually be a whore

But at this stage of my life it fits.

By definition a whore is a prostitute. A prostitute is one who sells one's abilities, "talent", or name for an unworthy purpose, a person who comprimises themself for money.

My "talent" in this case is that of a caterer.

I make food for money.

Any caterer has a client or two they wish they could dodge but the money is simply too good.

Every caterer has a great love of food, but they're not fools. They don't get into catering only for the enjoyment of it all, it's also about the money.

So you compromise yourself.

You become that person who smiles pretty, who laughs at the ridiculous humor, and who serves fabulous food.

And at the end of the night, you pick your check up off the table and you go home.

You become, in essence, a food whore.
--------

Can I please Check-Out Without Having You All Up In My Face?

Why is it people can't respect personal space when waiting in the check-out line in the grocery store?

Every time I get in line to pay for my groceries, I eye the person who gets in line behind me, wondering if they will be all up in my space when it's my turn to put my items on the belt and try to have a conversation with the checker.

Invariably, said person will find a way to crunch up in my space making it impossible for me to take even so much as a step back for fear of stepping all over them.

Is there some sort of fear about checking out that people need me as their check-out buddy?

Is my vibe so warm and loving that people feel the need to get so close to me that they can see the balance (or lack thereof) in my checkbook?

Are my foodstuffs so enticing that they must get an up close look at the things I will be taking home to put in my pantry?

I like my personal space and have no desire to co-mingle so closely that I can detect their brand of deodorant.

I have had to take drastic actions by keeping the grocery cart between me and said person, frustrating the bagger at the end of the line for not having the ability to reach my cart.

I am not an unfriendly person. I will gladly give you a smile and a hello.

Just back the Hell up, please.

--------