Happy Anniversary to Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

It's been two months since I started this blog.

And now I am bored with how it looks. Actually, I was pretty bored with the looks about a week into it but I just got too darned busy to deal with it.

The orange and green just aren't doing it for me anymore.

I need color, I need pizazz... I need to perk up the look of this place.

The Leo in me needs to constantly change to keep things exciting. I mean, Leos are all about loyalty. But we're also a quirky bunch who get bored really easily. So I need to kick this place up a notch.

I actually bought my own domain name. I feel like such a grown-up. But now I need help getting that going. I am The Food Whore, people. Not a web designer.

So I need help. I need suggestions.

I NEED TO GO LAY OUT IN THIS GLORIOUS SUN WE ARE HAVING AND BE DRUNK WITH IT ALL!

So, yeah.

Comments, please.

Puuullleeeeaaassseee.
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Noodle Hair

Yesterday, like all days for me, was just crazy busy. The Husband offered to cook dinner so we grabbed the take-out menu from the Chinese restaurant down the block. (This is how it works when The Husband offers to cook)

The fun part about ordering from this particular place is that only one person at the restaurant speaks English and he's not always available to come to the phone. So when you call, and if he's not available, you go through the ritual of shouting and speaking slowly. Which, when you think about it, how completely stupid. Why is it when a person does not speak your language that you think shouting and speaking slowly will actually break the launguage barrier?

Anyway.

It's a crap shoot when you order. The only consistent part of the meal is the egg flower soup, BBQ pork, and fortune cookies so you have to have an open mind about your meal.

You really start with the best of intentions but what you order and what you actually get delivered to your door are two entirely different things.

"Hello? Yes? Help you?"

"I WANT AN ORDER OF GENERAL TSO'S CHICKEN"

"Chicken! Ok!"

"G E N E R A L. . . "

"Yes. Yes. Chicken, ok. Sheesh."

"AND I WANT AN ORDER OF MU SHU PORK, PLEASE"

"Pok. Ok. Pok."

"MU SHU..."

"Yes... pok."

"AND AN ORDER OF SUB GUM CHICKEN, PLEASE"

"Chicken. Yes. Chicken!"

"AN ORDER OF STICKY RICE"

"Rrrice. Yes."

"AND AN ORDER OF VEGETABLE SPRING ROLLS WITH PLUM SAUCE, PLEASE."

"Wegetables, ok. Ok. Thassit?"

"YES

"Ok. Order. Fibteen Minuts. Ok?"

"OK."

30 minutes later we received our order. We had pork fried rice, sweet & sour chicken, chicken chow mein with pan fried noodles and an order of broccoli beef. The beef thing was a puzzler. But, we were happy.

The Husband was working on a big project so I decided it would be nice to set up a picnic on our bed and watch a little TV. (The Bachelor - so deliciously low). Unfortunately, I was so tired that somewhere between digging my fork into the chicken chow mein and watching the Bachelor kiss three women on the same date, I fell asleep.

The Husband found me later and took the cartons away but apparently not before my spastic sleep habits took hold.

I totally woke up with pan-fried noodles in my hair.

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The Secret Rooms

At about this time last year, my fellow Whore and I were called by an associate to do a last minute catering gig for a very important client.

We're not big into last minute gigs, but we happened to have a free night and decided to help our associate out.

Apparently this very important client had been through a few different caterers of late and had fired all of them. Which, didn't make the job more enticing. Either he had bad taste in caterers or he was a freakish prick.

As you will see after reading this, it was the latter.

So we do this trick. It was a tiny one, only 25 people. When we arrived, the Client - we will call him Mr. Freak - greeted us in Spanish. We weren't told he didn't speak English so this took us off guard. But, like the fast-thinking whore that I am, I responded to him in Spanish (And they said my 3 years of Spanish in high school would be a waste...) He was surprised and very pleased.

Turns out he does speak English, though. He just did the Spanish thing as a test.

That should have been our first red flag. Unfortunately, like the good whores we are, we were blinded by the green cash...and the fact that his kitchen is a state of the art masterpiece which overlooks the ocean. (Hey, I am The Food Whore, beautiful kitchens call to me.)

After this gig, we were immediately hired as the full time Whores, or as he came to call us, "His girls." (Red Flag #2)

We had many tricks over last summer, all which usually ended with him playing his piano, Liberace style, while wearing smoking jackets.

And always with the greeting us in Spanish.

And always with the quizzes about wine, CPR, and Organic foods.

And always with the "No Other Man Rule." His entire staff was made up of women and when he had functions, he never allowed them to bring their mates. Now, he allowed other male guests to be present, but anyone who worked for him was not allowed to bring a man.

(Red flag, red flag, red flag, RED FLAG)

I could go on an on about Mr. Freak and his weird little games. But in the sake of his privacy (and your boredom) I will move on.

One of the last times we catered, we were busy packing the last of the chafing dishes in the van and Mr. Freak asked if we would like a tour of the house. Now, normally we don't do those kinds of things but we obliged because, well, we're whores, he hadn't paid us yet and we just really wanted to see the house.

On the way up the stairs he said, "I suppose you're both married, right? All the good ones are married." In my mind I thought, "Shit, I knew this was a bad damn idea". I soooo wanted to say, "Yes, and did I mention that The Husband is a Black Belt in Karate and can crush your skull with his toes?" (The husband really is a Black Belt. He's not just eye candy, people.)

But I didn't.

Instead my partner and I just looked at one anther with that, "Great. We just sold our souls to the Devil" look.

This house tour began with a brief history of the place. Apparently Mr. Freak built the house his children were young so he had secret rooms built into, well, secret locations.

Again with the look to my partner, "Did he just say secret rooms?" (RED FLAG)

Holy Mother of God.

All I was thinking was, "Great. He's going to lock us in like Hansel and Gretel and poke us with sticks and we will never be heard from again."

My partner and I smiled, said nice things about the house and I whispered to her, "We can take the bastard if he tries anything."

When we came to the first room he said, "Go on in, girls. Check out the hiding place. It's a fabulous place to be alone with your thoughs." Yeah. Uh huh.

From there it was the room behind the mirror in the bathroom, under the floor in the loft, behind the wall in the theater... but we never went in a room. We both pulled the old "Gee, I am really claustrophobic - sorry" routine. And fortunately for me, I remembered I still had a cork screw in my pocket so we were covered. One false move and his adams apple would have been popped like a good Chardonnay.

He finally got the hint that we had to get going. He paid us, greeted us a fond "Adios!" and sent us on our way.

We drove for a while and then I pulled the van over and we got out and lit up the cigarette we found in the glove box. It was at that moment when the epiphany came to me. After that day of pretending to be interested in the game of "name the wine cork" and "guess the song I am playing now" and "check out the secret rooms", I exhaled slowly from my puff, counted the amount of the tip he gave us, and I stated, "We're nothing more than Food Whores."

As I had mentioned early on in the story, he had gone through a lot of caterers before he hired us. They claimed that no one had ever lived up to his standards. My guess is somewhere in that house is a woman in a chef's coat trying to pick her way out of Secret Room #8.

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High Maintenance Whore

I was told recently that I am very high maitenance.

If high maintenance means I like nice things, good food, the occasional lemon drop (stop the mocking), and have really impossible standards when it comes to things like Velveeta cheese, then all I can say to that statment is,

"Duh."

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That's Not Salsa

It was such a beautiful day yesterday so The Husband and I spent some time on the roof deck enjoying the sun and munching on some tasty fruit salsa I made in the morning.

As fate would have it, one of The Husband's buddies - The Worrier - stopped by and invited himself up to our private space. When The Husband greeted him at the door, The Worrier asked, "I am hungry, did she cook today?". "Of course!" The husband replied. "We're having chips and salsa right now."

The Worrier came bounding out to the patio and went straight for the chips. And then he stopped and looked at me confusedly.

"Where's the salsa?"

"Right there in the bowl. It's nice to see you too, by the way."

"Yeah. Good to see you. This isn't salsa."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not. Where are the tomatoes?"

"It's fruit salsa."

"There's no such thing."

"Uh, yes there is. It's in the bowl right in front of you."

"But where are the tomatoes?"

"There aren't any."

"Well what's in that?"

"Pineapple, mangoes, kiwi, red onion, jalapenos, cilantro, lime juice and..."

"...and no tomatoes."

"*sigh* No. It's F -R-U-I-T salsa. Say it with me... F R U I T."

"The Husband said you had salsa, that's not salsa."

"You're blocking my sun."

"You don't like me, do you."

"Yes of course I do. Don't be silly."

"Well, then, can I stay for dinner?"

"Of course you can."

"What's for dinner?"

"Well, we've been picking all day so it's going to be simple, just BLT's."

"Oh."

"Why, you don't like BLT's?"

"Yeah. Just make mine without the tomato. I don't really like raw tomato much. I mean, I like ketchup and salsa and tomato sauce. But I don't like sliced raw tomato."

I had a good sun buzz going or I would have strangled him to the ground.

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Nice Whores Finish Last

Ok so we get a phone call telling us that our friend got engaged and there was going to be an impromptu BBQ in their honor. "Just bring something and come on over!"

Ohhh, a party!

I didn't have a lot of time so I threw together a Caesar salad and made a pitcher of lemon drops (I soooo don't want an e-mail about an intervention) and we were out the door.

Who is the first person I see when I step on to the patio? His Wife (See below) and by God, she brought that damn salad again. Only this time, because apparently she was so ecstatic that I like it last week, she decided to "take it up a notch". Which, in layman's terms means, she combined shell pasta, macaroni pasta, rotini pasta, corn, peas, celery, Sp... Spa... breathe.... SPAM, tomatoes, TACO SEASONING, mayonnaise, cheddar cheese and "a dash of paprika on top for color!"

I totally drank the entire pitcher of lemon drops.
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"I Will Have A Substitution On The Side, Please"

Restaurants have menus for a reason. The chef and/or owner took the time to sit down, figure out what kind of food they want to serve and planned their menu accordingly.

The menu is what it is. It's not a suggestion.

It never ceases to amaze me how customers can take a menu item and completely break it down to something else - something they like better. It's as if they think the pork loin medallions in the port wine and currant reduction are better without the currants and are better served with pommes frites than they are served over wild rice like the menu says.

The Husband and I were out to lunch and the table next to us was full of people who clearly had a plan when they were seated at the table. The plan was to take the menu, break it all down to bare ingredients and make it their own.

"I will have the chicken burger, but I don't want the focaccia it comes on, I want a regular bun, but I don't want the Swiss cheese it comes with, I want cheddar, and I don't want the red onion it comes with, I want white onion. I also don't want the fries it comes with. I want the Caesar salad, but I don't want it tossed with the dressing. I want the romaine to be topped with the grated Parmesan cheese and the croutons, and I want the Caesar dressing on the side."

"I would like the chef's chop salad but I don't want the ham and the turkey that it comes with. I just want the turkey and instead of a mixture of cheddar and Swiss, I want Parmesan cheese."

The waiter was so gracious. He was doing his job. But I know he went in the kitchen and called those people fuckers and the lunch chef threw his knife on the work bench and called them fuckers the sous chef called them fuckers, because it's his job to do as the chef does, and the dishwasher called them fuckers because he knew the chef was going to be crabby all afternoon.

I know this to be true.

As I took another sip of my lemon drop (yes it was lunch time and no I don't need a lecture) I was really close to taking a $50-spot, putting on their table and telling them to take their sorry asses to the grocery store to buy their own ingredients so they could play restaurant at home. I also wanted to let them know that as we spoke, someone may be "accidentally" dropping their chicken burger on the floor before putting it on the regular bun.

But I didn't.

Fuckers.
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Idiot Magnet

I have come to terms that I am an idiot magnet.

There really is no other explanation for shit that happens to me every time I step foot in an establishment that sells food.

I can't even buy cheese in peace.

So I am in Costco last night shopping and minding my own business as a good Whore does.

I had just put a container of feta into my cart and was reaching for a package of goat cheese when out of nowhere, a woman appears. Much to my chagrin, she was a curious one.

"What kind of cheese is that?"

"It's goat cheese."

"Well, what kind of cheese did you just put in your cart?"

"That is feta."

"What's the difference?"

"Goat cheese is made from goat's milk, feta is made from sheep's milk, though it can also made from goat's milk."

"Well then why would you buy both?"

"Because they are different."

"But if they are both made from goat's milk, how different can they be?"

"Well, it's like cheddar and Swiss. Both are made from cow's milk, right? It's the aging process that makes them different."

"That makes no sense."

"Well, take that up with the cheese makers." Light chuckle.

"What?"

"Nevermind."

"Well what do they taste like?"

"Well, I find goat cheese to be a bit nutty. It's very smooth. Feta is pungent and a bit tangy and has a salty edge."

"Where would I have had feta cheese?"

"Uh, well. Have you ever had a Greek salad?"

"Yes, and I hated it. The cheese smelled like feet."

"Well that was feta."

"That stuff is nasty. Why would you buy it?"

"*sigh* Because I like it."

"Well it seems like a complete waste to me."

"Well then don't buy it." Fading impatient smile

"What will you do with that goat's cheese?"

"Well, a few things. I will probably deep fry some to put on mixed greens. I plan to roll some in herbs and serve it with crackers. Hard to say what else."

"Can you give me some recipes, please?"

"I am sorry, I really don't have the time. If you have the internet or cookbooks at home, you should be able to find something. Have a nice day!"

"So you're not going to help me? I think you are rude."

"Well I am sorry you feel that way." Smartass smile "Well, I have a lot to get done so if you will excuse me..."

"So that's it? You're not going to try to talk me into buying this cheese?"

"Um, what?"

"You're not a very good saleswoman. You should be convincing me that..."

"Saleswoman? What are you talking about?"

"You seem agitated. I should talk to your manager."

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Well, as an employee of Costco, you should try harder to convince your shoppers..."

"You have got to be freaking kidding me..."

"What did you just say to me?"

"Newsflash, lady. I don't work here. The fact that I have a cart, a purse and no Costco name tag should have been major hints to that fact. So before you go wasting people's time, check the clues, ok?"

"Well! I never..."

"That's obvious. Maybe you should..."

The Friend in Baltimore would have told me that I was rude.

Yeah. So tell me something I don't know.

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Oh, No Thank You. I Will Pass.

Just because I am The Food Whore does not mean that I like all foods. There are a lot of things out there that I have no desire to eat. I will cook anything. But eating - that's a different set of rules.

It really all comes down to personal preference, dietary choice, and a little bit of the gross factor, depending on the dish.

I am not fond of duck. I find it to be a bit "gamey" and don't enjoy the overall taste.

I feel the same way about venison. Plus I can't, in good concious, eat Bambi's mother or father.

Liver is a no-go. For numerous reasons. Do I need to mention this is the organ of the body that purifies blood?

I stopped eating crab when at a friend's beach house a dead body washed up and a crab crawled out of the corpse's mouth.

I am fussy about my seafood in general. The fish has to be fresh caught and have a name I can pronounce. And I don't care to get involved in some of the things they cook on Iron Chef.

I will eat calimari. Good calimari. But one tentacle hits my mouth and all bets are off.

The Jamaican friend likes goat. I can't do goat. Goat's milk, yes. Goat cheese, oh for the Love of God, yes. But goat meat - no. No.

Unless I am stranded in the remote jungles and it's me or the snake - no snake.

No hopping creatures like bunnies or frogs. It's a morale issue. One brings me eggs at
Easter, one is in love with Miss Piggy - it's too much guilt. And if I wanted something that "tastes like chicken" , I will eat chicken.

Crocodiles belong on shoes or handbags, not my plate.

Bugs are to be squashed by my shoe or in the case of spiders, sucked up by my vaccuum or bravely killed by The Husband. They don't make tasty snacks.

Squab - what's the point?

This was brought on by a lunch meeting. I cook them and I serve them and we have amazing ones in our area - but oysters - at glance, look like a great big wad of snot in a shell.

"Can I interest you in a freshly schucked snot wad on the half shell? Oh, no thank you, I will pass."

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I Am A Married Woman, You Parsley-Toothed Idiot

I am really anal about my oral health. The teeth are brushed usually 3 times a day (once after each meal), I floss religiously, I use an anti-bacterial plaque rinse and I keep a supply of Altoids in my purse for those moments in between when I eat things like tzatziki and am not able to acquire the minty freshness that brushing can bring.

When you're a Food Whore, even though your business is food, you don't want to be a walking advertisement for your product. There is no need to be a live-action billboard for your spinach salad or so offensive of garlic that even vampires all the way in Transylvania drop like flies.

The hard part is when you are at something like a social function or a business luncheon and you can't spend all your time checking your teeth in the silver to make sure all is clear. The Husband and I have signals we use if we happen to be in a room full of people. I don't want to give away all of the secrets from our playbook (No need to give Greg Brady another reason to want to steal it. Again - if you got that - you're as pathetic as I am when it comes to TV Trivia)

Anyway, a run of the tongue across the teeth can mean there's food in your teeth or there's lipstick on your teeth. The lipstick reference being totally for my benefit, of course. The Husband would want me to make it clear that he might be a borderline Metrosexual, but he's not into lip care beyond the tub of Carmex he packs around.

The problem we both face is when in the company of others and are faced with someone's
"lunch in their teeth" crisis. If you know the person it's easy to say, "Sally sweetie, you've got Poppy Seed City going on in your bi-cuspids." But if you are a stranger or making a potential business deal, it's a tricky situation.

The dilemma being A) Do you embarrass the person on the spot but save them from further embarrassment down the road? Or B) Do you ignore the offending plaque buddy and let the person have private embarrassment alone in their car, but potentially making them so embarrassed that they knew you had to sit and try not to focus on their teeth the entire meeting.

It's a tough call.

I had a meeting with a potential client last night and damn if he didn't have what appeared to be a piece of parsley stuck between his front two teeth. Now, I had to ask myself how he missed this. I realize men aren't as obsessive about checking the mirror as women are. But didn't he at any time after his meal use the restroom to wash his hands and do a general once over before the meeting???

So I sat there with that dilemma - what the Hell do I do? Do I tell this man and embarrass him to the point that he might not become a client? Or do I let him go and do the embarrassed in private thing.

I opted to try and give him subtle signals in hopes that my actions would cause that subliminal place in his brain to think, "Is this woman trying to tell me something?".

It did make him think I was trying to tell him something, but it became perfectly clear it was the wrong something.

I made the mistake of casually and subtly using the "running the tongue" over the teeth trick and it backfired. I mean, it wasn't like I was wearing bright red lipstick on collagen-injected lips and behaved like a girl at a porn audition. It was casual and lady like. It was a few lip-closed teeth swipes and you would have thought I opened my blouse and popped a garter-ebmellished thigh up onto the table.

Get that Cheshire cat grin off your face, stop looking at me that way, and no I won't have dinner with you. I am a married woman you parsley-toothed idiot.

Which then led to having to tell the poor sap about the parsley, anyway. And then apologizing for my poor judgment in assuming he would understand the subtle signals and then reassuring him that I was not offended he asked me to dinner even though he could clearly see my large and visible wedding ring.

It was a very awkward and somewhat tense 5 minutes of explanations.

But in the end there was a lot of laughter, a lot of apologizing, and a signed contract to feed 350 of his closest friends.

It takes a lot of people skills to be The Food Whore.

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I Am A Liar From The Pit Of Hell

It was such a gorgeous day that we had morning coffee on the patio of a friend's house. We lounged in the morning sun, sipped our coffee, and luxuriated in some good people-watching gossip and sighed that "Hot damn it's Sunday and we don't have a care in the world" kind of sigh.

We all agreed it would be a great day for a BBQ. I offered to make baked beans, potato salad a green salad and other things I happened to come up with. This was a good old American backyard BBQ so even though I really wanted the baked goat cheese with roasted red pepper salsa that I had for an appetizer last night, I forged ahead with fine patio dining.

We decided to call up some mutual friends and invite them to our firey feast. We struggled when we came to one set of friends - we will call them Bill and His Wife - and when the subject of what we should have them bring came up, we all winced and said, "Tell His Wife to just bring some chips and beverage".

His Wife is a wonderful person.

Well. Ok.

She's a very nice person.

But she has a slight penchant for lying and she's a horrible cook and a horrible housekeeper. When I say "horrible cook" I don't mean she has trouble in the kitchen and can't possible hold up to my over-the-top food snob standards. I mean she really has to have step-by-step directions for buttering toast. And the housekeeping... Let's just say that you can find cleaner bathrooms at a road-side gas station in rural Arkansas.

I am a horrible person for putting that out there but by God, it's true. The first time I ever went to their house (which, coincidentally, was the last time I ever went to their house) was to bring dinner after she had surgery. I have never in my life seen a kitchen more repulsive. In all of my Whoring, I have seen a lot of nasty kitchens. I have even had to work in kitchens that smell like dead fish covered in cat pee, so I know my kitchens.

Fortunately she's not big at having social functions at her house so we are never faced with that awkward silence of thinking of really grandiose excuses as to why we can't come over. "Oh, I am so sorry Bill. Funny thing is we have found out that our house has been taken over by crazy ghosts and we have a group of Tibetan Monks coming over to perform sacred rituals to make them flee."

Anyway, we love Bill and we do like His Wife, but we just never EVER want to eat her food. Because, as I mentioned above, she can't cook and God knows what kind of bacterium will arrive in the dish.

So on this day, we agreed in unison she should bring bags of chips and cans of beverage. That's it. Nothing more.

Not a damn thing more. We were very very clear about that.

When The Husband and I arrived to the BBQ, we found everyone waiting in earnest on the patio to get the party started. Oddly, though, there was a feeling of doom in the air and it was perplexing until I went into the house to set my food on the table.

Everyone in the kitchen was acting hedgy and tried to get me away from the food table but I had me some hot beans in my hand and they had to have a place to sit. Through some strategic eye-and-head-twisting-only conversations, I realized what the issue was. His Wife had brought a macaroni salad and proudly had it displayed next to where my hot beans were about to find their rest.

A feeling of doom came over me in a way that I cannot express. Not only did His Wife break our trust by not bringing sealed bags of chips purchased safely from the supermarket, she actually boiled noodles and added ingredients from her kitchen - and me without a current tetanus shot.

For a brief moment I considered being the martyr and "accidentally" spilling an entire glass of wine in the dish but His Wife was standing proudly next to her E-Coli Casserole and there was no way around it. I then though someone could distract her and I could have The Husband "accidentally" have a ketchup bottle mishap and shoot a few cups of Heinz into the bowl. But The Husband took one look a the salad and made a dash for the patio. Sissy Bastard.

The only option was to make His Wife get her food first, thereby not allowing her to stand guard and make sure that everyone took a big spoonfull of her creation. She gleefully took the first plate and then headed out to the grill.

Thank God, a moment to plan.

I peeked into the bowl to see exactly what we were dealing with. What I spied was something that shook me so violently that I nearly did become the martyr by vomiting right on top of the Bowl of Bile. From my best recollection the salad consisted of what appeared to be macaroni pasta, tuna fish, chunks of velveeta (I know), green olives, black olives, corn, bologna and some sort of minced root vegetable all swimming in some sort of bright orange "glaze".

We thought we were safe to hurry and fill our plates but damn if she didn't peek her head in the door and say, "Now. everyone take my salad, I made up the recipe and I want to know what you all think!"

Sweet Mother of God.

The only way to avoid this would be to trip and fall and break a bone and pray the paramedics would get there in time to save everyone else from having to take a bite. Fortunately for me, my plate was already full and I said, "Shoot! Look at me being a pig. My plate is full but I promise to get some on the next go-around!" Which immediately made me the most hated person in the food line.

The night went on and she was completely preoccupied with feeding the family dog from her plate which gave everyone ample time to ditch the uneaten salad and gave me enough time to ditch my plate without ever having to have any of "the dish" come into my air space.

Later, as I was meandering over to the Bocci game she rushed over and said, "Sooooo did you like it?? Was it seasoned enough?? It's really important that you tell me!"

I grabbed her hand and said, "It was wonderful!"

I just bought my condo in Hell.
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Krike, That's A Big One!

I love to watch people. You could put me in an airport with a nice array of snacks and I could sit there for an entire year and not be bored.

I am completely fascinated by human nature.

(Well, and I like to mercilessly mock what they wear, but that's not really what being a food whore is about, is it.)

My second favorite place to people watch is in a restaurant. Since my life revolves around being the Great Whore of all things Food, watching people interact with food is completely fascinating. If I am the person who made the food, it can be a very gratifying experience to watch people enjoy the fruits of my labor.

If I am another patron in a restaurant, it can be funny, wonderful, or even something like an episode of National Geographic. Sometimes just to amuse myself and those around me, I take on the voice of that Austrailian crocodile guy, Steve Irwin, and narrate when people are eating. "Krike that's a big crouton, how will I eva get it in me mouth???" (This usually only happens after the third lemon drop, however, and I am pretty sure that the only amusement at the table is my own.)

Anyway.

We went out for thick and juicy steaks with The Family tonight and had a bit of a wait, which is perfect for The Sister, The Mother, and I. (Fellow people watchers that they are.) The Husband and The Brother-in-Law were talking about something, oh, manish like politics and the economy (Or perhaps our hostess who was completely - and I am allowed to say this - hot), and The Sister and The Mother and I were watching people in the bar.

There were martinis and high balls and bottles of beer. The people in the back had the proverbial nachos supreme while the ladys by the bar had nice salads and lovely bread. Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time and we were enjoying watching them.

(***I would like to add the disclaimer that we're not stalkers. We manage to watch people without them ever noticing we are watching. Which, I guess does sound like we're stalking, but we're not galkers or stalkers, we're more of the "silent but knowing" type.***)

And then three guys in business suits came in and were seated at the table directly across from were we were sitting in the waiting room. They were very handsome men. All toting briefcases and very intense "business-like" looks. They all removed their jackets and placed them neatly on the banquette beside them and proceeded to roll up their shirt sleeves and let out consecutive sighs of relief.

A short while later, their drinks arrived with a large martini glass with succulent chilled prawns haging over the side of the glass.

"Good choice" The Mother and The Sister and I agreed in unison. What better way to end the day than with a lovely martini and some succulent shrimp. And then, my God, it was like a scene out of a Hitchcock movie. Those handsome, well-dressed men ripped into those prawns like they were raw meat in a lion's den.

The first guy plunged his prawn so deep into the sauce that he came out with it all the way up to his second knuckle. Vulture #2 didn't even bother with the sauce but instead plunged the shrimp so deep into his throat I thought certain he would swallow it whole. Business man #3 actually double-dipped his shrimp and then used the tail to scrape even more cocktail sauce out of the dish.

This ritual ensued until every last one of those suckers was sucked, schlepped, ripped and dipped. At the very end of it all, Vulture #2 had a big schlop of sauce on his tie and business man #3 looked as though he had experienced the best sex he ever had. Guy #1 just kept sticking his finger in the sauce bowl, then taking it out and licking it, then back in the bowl, then more licking.

"Krike, these are beeg fellas. If we can sneek up on 'im and plunge him eeento this beeg pool of sauce, you will see him start to geeve up 'is fight..."

We were all pretty grossed out. And yet, I was oddly attracted to guy #2.

Could have been the way he handled that shrimp.

Also could have been the lemon drop(s).

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What I Learned 5 Minutes Ago

When you're in your office people are around and The Husband calls and you decide it's ok to put him on speaker phone, make sure he isn't re-heating leftovers and doesn't ask, "Honey, how long do I heat my balls? I don't want them to explode."

Those damned balls.

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Things I Learned Today

1) When attempting to fry tofu to replicate the nummy Thai dish you had last month, don't drink too much beer and get cocky, thereby forgetting to completely dab the tofu chunks with a paper towel to remove all the moisture.

Wet Tofu + Hot Oil = Oil splattering in the style of 4th of July sparkler sparks.

2) When The husband announces he's craving "your spaghetti with big meaty balls and famous dancing marinara sauce" and you make said dish for him, don't make him a plate and set it before him announcing, "Be careful, your big balls are really hot" while he is on the phone with his mother.

3) Dove dark chocolate Easter eggs are really really good when dipped in crunchy peanut butter.

4) If you should happen to get cocky and put wet tofu in hot oil and it splatters all over Hell like 4th of July sparkler sparks, be sure to mop the floor in front of the stove. 'Cause the floor will get slippery and you will fall on your ass and that big bruise on your thigh will take a long time to heal. (And it will hurt like a 'mo 'fo)

5) When your aunt tells you she's going to make her famous (and disgusting) "weenies in au gratin" dish for dinner and you wrinkle your nose, you will offend her. *sigh*

6) When someone says they are having "Corn Chip Pie" for dinner, don't feign interest and ask the recipe because they will tell you and you will regret it.

7) When you take a double dose of allergy medicine and the only thing in your stomach is a big slosh of espresso, you will end up bouncing around like a pinball while singing the theme song to The Brady Bunch. And people will stare.

8) Fresca hurts when it's blown out your nose. (Long story)

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I'm Getting Verklempft - Get A Tissue

Two young girls, whom I love dearly and try to influence as much as possible (much to their mother's chagrin), have done something to make me so proud.

Then went to spend the night at a friend's house last night and the friend's mother said, "Is anyone hungry? I have spaghetti?"

The girls looked at one another and said, "Spaghetti? Oh, yeah! Cool!"

Friend's Mother: "Great, I have a couple of cans of it right here..."

Girl #1: "Uh, we don't eat spaghetti from a can."

Girl #2: "Why would you eat spaghetti from a can???"

My little food snobs in training. The pride is a bit much, I need a tissue...

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Use Your Inside Voice, Please.

The weather was so incredible yesterday that we decided to have lunch on the deck at the golf & country club.

Now, I know the phrase, "...to have lunch on the deck at the golf & country club" sounds incredibly snooty. So let's just be clear - a snobby whore I am, a snoot I am not.

The country club is both private and public. If I had a spare $100,000 I could join up and have free run of the place. Or, I could be smart and pay for my meals and green fees like the rest of the common folk.

And, I don't golf. Well, I have. But watching me golf is like watching Edward Scissorhands trim the hedges - arms flailing everywhere while chunks of foliage soar helplessly through the sky. I have been told I have a better "short game". I don't know if that means I look really good in my shorts or if my putting is exceptional. Whatever. In my opinion, my best game is spent looking pretty while driving around in those fun little carts with a drink in my hand.

Annnnyhew... lunch.

As I said - gorgeous day. The deck overlooks the 9th green and the fountain courtyard with the mountains in the distance. It was breathtaking. There were only 4 other tables with patrons at them so it was set to be a quiet and luxurious lunch in the sun.

Until we sat down, that is.

I don't know what it is about eating outside, but people suddenly lose their inhibitions. The volume of their voice raises a few decibels and the topics of conversation they might not have inside the restaurant suddenly become fair game.

In essence, they lose their inside voice.

We barely had our water glassed filled before the gentleman at the table to the left of us blew his nose. And I think we all know how I feel about This Topic. I tried to ignore it but after he went through the 3rd napkin, I had to give him the raised-eyebrow-over-the-sunglasses-glare.

And then while I was perusing (I think that's a word) the menu, the gentleman at the same table as Mr. Snot Nose started to share about his cousin who has a large mass of mucus in his right lung and how he has coughing fits that produce large chunks of the stuff. Gee, thanks Mister. I think you just changed my mind about ordering the clam chowder.

If that wasn't insulting enough, the gentleman at the table on the right of us started sharing about his prostate exam. This was the same gentleman who lowered his sunglasses as we walked by and said, "Hellloooooo ladies." and laughed like one of guys who wears stained wife-beaters and rents motel rooms by the hour. (Not that I have ever rented a hotel room by the hour, I am just going by how I have seen them portrayed on shows like NYPD Blue. Really.) Had I known Mr. Thinks-He's-Hot was having erectile disfunction, I might of said something witty on our walk to our table. Having trouble saluting the flag, Mr. Johnson?

We considered moving back inside but opted to stay when those gentleman paid their tabs and were on their way to golf the back 9. It seemed we were out of the woods until the Varsity boys team from the local high school came out for a Coke. Apparently golfing the first 9 creates a sort of panic among the young boys and they use their sunning-on-the-deck break to make sure Mr. Winkie is scratched and still in place...

*sigh*
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WE WERE ON A BREAK!

If you recognize that quote from Friends, you're as sad and pathetic as I am. (Or a kick-ass TV trivia player.)

I am taking a few days off, see you when I get back.
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I Am Soooo Not A Bitch Anymore

It was such an amazing day.

I would share all the juicy details but I think I want to savor it for a while.

I will say that the day started out by eating a pizza made with sweet smoked salmon in a creamy garlic sauce on the flakiest pizza crust I have ever eaten in my life. And just this very moment I licked a drop of fresh hummus that was oozing out the bottom of my chewy pita bread. After this, it's baklava.

Life is good.

Really, really good.

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I Am A Chef, Not A Grammar God.

The Friend in Boston is brilliant, so is her Cute Husband (hence the Law Prom). Picking her brain is one of my greatest pleasures in life.

She took one of those on-line quizzes ( Quizilla ) and she was crowned a "Grammar God."

Not surprising.

So I took the quiz, knowing it would probably be in the negative (which should be obvious by the way I write in this blog).

My results?

And I quote: "You are a complete and utter BASTARDIZATION of the English tongue! Unless this is your third language, there is absolutely no excuse for your ignorance. You shame us with your speech. Go back and finish your schooling, bastard."

I laughed so hard I shot mimosa out my nose.
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Spamarama

That's right, I said Spamarama.

Wamma lamma ding dong. (Don't ask)

If only I lived in Texas I could spend my weekend doing this.
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I Am A Free Whore!!

I have no tricks this weekend!

I had two this week but we scheduled ourselves out for the weekend so I have an entire, glorious weekend to do as I please!

Hm.

What the Hell do I do, now?

A Food Whore rarely has a weekend off so knowing what to do with one is a bit daunting. I am not really sure what to do on a weekend with absolutely nothing planned.

I have tried to gain inspiration so I asked a couple of friends what their plans were.

The Friend in Boston is set to go to a Law Prom.

That's right. Law Prom.

I have mocked her mercilessly for this. I am sure it's a wonderfully fabulous time. But just the image of a bunch of brainy law students in their formal best has me in fits of laughter. "Hey everybody, let's go mess up the Dewey Decimal System in the Law Library!!!" (I am not just a Food Whore, a Food Snob, and a bitch. I am a horrible mocker. It's a good thing she loves me.)

The Friend in Texas is getting her hair cut. Apparently Mr. Scissorhands is a hottie so I pray she can maintain and not try to play a game of grabass while he's giving her color a boost. Nothing says bad dye job more than a colorist who's been voilated by a client. "Wow... your hair... it's... different...."

I don't know.

Maybe I will have a tapas party.

Or maybe it's time to get the patio furniture back on the roof top deck and string up some party lights. It's a glorious warm and sunny day. And then I could make myself a few shakers of Lemon Drops and heckle passers by on the street.

I would like to head to the waterfront and shop at the farmer's market for fresh foods and funky jewelry.

Wow, the ideas just get more and more exciting, don't they? *sigh*

What to do... What to do...

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If You Can't Stand The Heat, Get The Hell Out Of My Kitchen

I think my experience as a Food Whore has made me a bitch.

Oh, wait. No.

I am a Leo.

I was born a bitch.

But you have to be a bitch to be in this business because you deal with so many idiots.

No matter how many tricks I get under my belt, people never cease to amaze me. You meet a lot of rude people in this biz, dumb people, too.

As much as I would love to go off on people, I have to remember that I am a business woman, first. A bitch second. (This is tough for me to remember sometimes.) Because of that, I have to deal with people with tact and a level of professionalism so that it can never be said I was anything less than top notch. That doesn't mean I won't curse your name into the ground when your back is turned or run outside and scream explatives behind a laurel bush. But it does mean that to your face I am nice, curteous, and skilled enough at being a smartass that you will never know what hit you.

I have never been a guest at catered affair where I was so full of myself that I felt important enough to walk into the catering kitchen. I would never be so bold, so rude, or so dumb to push through the swinging doors.

I wish more people felt the same.

It never fails that when we pull off a trick, some yahoo finds there way to the kitchen to be rude or ask something of us we are not required to do. If you are paying me, by all means, come to my kitchen, talk to me, give me instruction, make a complement, whatever. But even then, keep it short. The kitchen is no place for someone in satin.

These are actual things that actual guests at actual tricks have actually said when they have found their way to the nirvana that is our work space.

"I have a dirty baby diaper, can you please dispose of this?" Your joking, right? You want me to put baby feces in a place I am stirring your risotto?

"I noticed you only have caffinated coffee. I don't like coffee with caffiene. Will you please get me some de-caff?" Yeah, I will get right on that. When Juan Valdez rides up on his burro, I will be sure to see if he's got some weak beans.

"This Caesar salad has parmesean cheese. I don't like parmesean." Then have the spinach salad, dumbshit.

"I don't like the sauce that is on the chicken, can you please scrape this off?" Sure! Would you like your car waxed, too?

"It's really hot in this kitchen. How can you stand it being so hot? I am dying in here." THEN GET THE HELL OUT.

"Can you cook these beans a bit longer and then mash them for my baby." See this here? This says Chef. Not Nanny.

"I like my meat really well done so that it's tough. Can you put it in the microwave or something?" How about you run to the store and get your own beef jerky, idiot.

"Is there any way you can take the stems off these grapes?" Sure, Caesar. We will send Brutus right out.

I need a vacation.

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