It's A Cruel, Cruel Summer

I love summer.

I love the sun and the sand. I love packing picnics (with wet towels in bags, thankyouverymuch), going on hikes, strolling through the market, whale watching, swimming, lying on a lounge chair soaking up the rays... just everything.

Except bathing suits.

It's the cruelest damn time of the year for women. We are forced to expose the things we have been hiding all winter - our thighs. *sigh*

It was after my picnic by the pool last week that I realized it was time I invest in a new bathing suit. I really would rather have bamboo skewers poked into my eyeballs but what are you gonna do? A Whore can't wear her chef's coat all summer. So, to the department store I went - but only after gorging on my dinner of homemade pizza margherita and Caesar salad. Cause, yeah, every girl should load up on pizza before trying on bathing suits. (What an idiot)

The bathing suit section was packed with long-faced women. There's an underlying sense of doom when one shops for bathing suits. The only ones excited to be there were the size 2 walking mannequins who were giggling with glee over the latest in thong bikinis. (Bitches) I was hoping to find something sensible like a mu-mu but The Husband guided me in the direction of the rack he liked. He's a sweet man but I really think his mother dropped him as a child because he clearly has no grasp on the true size of my ass.

"Oh, baby, I like this one."

"Uh, no."

"Why not?"

"Seriously, you've seen me naked, right?"

"Oh yeah..."

"Ok, then, picture that and then picture two tiny pieces of yarn stretched over my body, because that's how that suit is going to fit by the time I struggle in to it."

"Oh, please. Women. *sigh*"

Bless his heart. He really meant well. But I am totally going to make him an appointment with the eye doctor because there are some serious vision issues there.

After a lot of swearing (I know, hard to imagine...) and tugging and pulling, I finally found the perfect suit. It's actually, dare I say, flattering. Possibly because my breasts are exposed to the point of distraction, which totally makes you miss the massive caboose I am sporting, not to mention those damned thighs. My arms could use a little work, too. (I can't believe I talked about my breasts in my blog - I feel dirty)

When we got it home I did what all good Whores do after facing the reality of summer - I made a nice lemon drop.

And slapped back two cream puffs.

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Good Whores Don't Come Cheap

The "What are you worth?" question was not meant in the financial sense. I didn't mean to list your assets (Though I am taking donations if you feel your worth is much to high to handle. There's a snappy pair of sandals at Nordstrom I am jonseing to have.)

That question was more of a, "What is your time worth?" or "What are your talents worth?"

I took a call from a potential client who wanted to know what I could do for a small dinner party of 30 people. Her budget? I want to keep the cost about $4.00 per person.

Now, as much as I wanted to say, Is this a prank call?", I actually carried the conversation through. After the day I had yesterday, I knew it could not get much worse.

"I am sorry, did you say $4.00 per person?"

"Well, I was hoping for a small dinner, nothing fancy, and when I added up what the groceries would cost me, I came up with roughly $120, so that is my budget."

"That is your budget?"

"Yes, that is my budget."

"So, what you are saying to me is that you want me to go buy $120 worth of food, prep it, prepare it, serve it to you, and clean it up all for the cost of the food."

"Right."

"So, basically you want me to do it for nothing."

"No, I told you I had $120."

"Right, but that will cover the cost of the food."

"Exactly."

"But what about my costs?"

"What do you mean?"

"I have to buy the food, prep it, prepare it, serve it to you, and clean it up, but I don't get paid for my time."

"Yes you do."

"How?"

"I give you $120."

"That will pay for the food, not my time, not my services - that $120 won't pay for me."

She sat there in silence. I was polite - no sarcasm, no swearing - I just laid out the facts.

"But your a caterer."

"Right - I am, indeed."

"You make food for people, and people pay you for the food."

"No, people pay me for the food AND my services - my time and work."

"Well, how much is your time and work worth?"

This was the magical question.

So I asked her, "Have you ever bought a pair of shoes?"

"Well, of course!"

"Ok, and say you paid $100 for those shoes. How much do you think they actually cost to make?"

"Well, I would guess about $15 - $20, but I don't know."

"Ok, so where does the other $80 go?"

"Well to manufacturing costs, labor, taxes..."

"Ok, so that is exactly why your $120 worth of groceries will cost you a lot more than $120."

"But you make food - and how can you mark up the cost of food?"

"Because catering, just like shoe manufacturing, is a business. I have manufacturing costs, labor costs, taxes to pay - and I also have to make a living."

"Oh."

This was her first time calling a caterer. She was very nice on the phone - albeit dumb as a post - but she sincerely thought that caterers just worked for the cost of food. She clearly could not wrap her mind around the idea that it was a business like anything else.

But she did bring up a good thought - how much am I worth?

Honestly, I am worth a lot. And I have no shame in saying that.

I have worked very hard to get where I am and I plan to continue to work even harder to make it grow. And I won't stop working hard until I stop being The Food Whore.

It's no different than any other profession such as car mechanic or custom home builder or landscaper. People who are good at what they do - who work hard for their craft - are worth every dime.

In this case, this particular woman was innocent in her inquisitions, but there are plenty out there who think, "How hard is it to make fabulous food and put it on a plate?". Some people only see the end result and can't see why it costs so much to eat so good - on someone else's time. (They are basically just cheap bastards, but I am trying to say it politely)

What people don't see is the hours of planning, mapping, meeting the clients, running all over the county for specific items, staging - none of it.

For instance, just tonight I spent an hour making a spreadsheet of quantities and costs for that monumental trick I have next week. You know, the one with 425 guests and counting? (By the way, I am supposed to dress pretty and meet the shrimp boat captain tomorrow night...)

And that's just the beginning. Next comes the task of ordering, scheduling and mapping. Then comes the actual task of the food - making sure it all gets delivered on time. Running for specialty items. Prepping, storing and holding. Then comes the actual set-up, service, clean-up, take down, loading and unloading.

It's not magic. It's hard work - hard work that I love. Hard work that I am good at. Hard work that I deserve to be paid well for.

I am not a Cheap Whore.

Damnit.
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How Much Are You Worth?

Have you ever asked yourself this question?

Think about it for a while and I will explain later.
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A Very Bad Day

It's Monday.

I had hopes for the day.

It started off fine.

But then...

Well, I am having a very bad day.

How bad?

It's so bad it's just shitty beyond repair.

It's so bad that after I dropped the salad I made for lunch I got in the car and drove to Jack in the Box out of sheer frustration.

That's right. I said Jack in the Box. That's fast food, people. I hate fast food.

It's so bad that I scanned the menu and settled on a taco with a large order of fries. I thought, "How bad can they screw up a taco?" Yeah. If you heard my stomach right now you would know. It sounds like there's an ogre in there.

It's so bad that when I got to the drive-up window there was a sign for cheesecake and I said, "Oh! Cheesecake!".

It's so bad that I got excited about cheesecake from a freaking fast food joint.

It's so bad that I totally ordered that cheesecake.

It's so bad that when I got my order and noticed they had given me a small french fry instead of a large, I knocked on the little sliding window and complained, and made The Large Sweaty Boy with the zit on his nose give me my large.

It's so bad that I had the fries eaten before I got out of my car.

Ok, wait.

I lied.

It's so bad that I had the fries eaten before I got out of the parking lot.

A very bad day.

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Drive-By Catering

It's rare that we do what we call in the business, "Prep & Drops", which essentially means we cater without having to actually serve the food. We prep it all, set it up, and leave. We like to call them, "Drive-By Caterings".

It's not our preference to do "drive-by's" as we just don't like the idea that someone else is in charge of our food while we aren't there and if something goes wrong and they don't know how to deal with it, our reputation is on the line. (A Whore's reputation is everything, you know) But yesterday was different because we knew the reception manager and The Bride's family and they wanted it to be a casual affair. That and they didn't want a big price tag so a Drive-By it was.

And oh I am so glad it was.

Our day started at the nut farm called Costco. Earlier in the week we had placed and order for fresh Artisan breads and for the second time in a month, they did not get our order right. We have had a tough time getting a decent Artisan bread locally because while a lot of people make them, very few do it right. I take that back. They do it right, but the breads are better used for smaller quantities because they dry out pretty quickly and when you're serving 200+ people, you have to have a more commercial (read: preservative filled) product. (Which, I think maybe the words "Commercial grade Artisan Bread" is an oxymoron, but, oh whatever. No time for semantics.)

And the thing is, I don't know why we continue this battle with the Costco bakery. It's never a positive experience and I am starting to think we just like the excitement the stress brings. (Much therapy is needed)

Anywa.

So I go to the bakery to ask for my order and first they couldn't find it and said I must not have placed it (counting to 10 at this point...) and then they said they did have the order but the breads did not get made because, and I quote, "The bakery did not have sugar this morning so everything got put back."

"You did not have sugar? Are you serious? This is Costco, a bulk warehouse, you people sell sugar by the ton."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"Uh, no. I am just a little puzzled as to why the bakery did not have sugar when not but 3 aisles over there are 40lb. bags of it."

All this did was piss her off. Which is normal for the bakery department at our Costco. At all times they are the angriest bunch of hair-net wearing crab-asses we have ever had to deal with. (Which says a lot considering my ever-so-charming personality)

When I asked how long it would be for the breads to be done, after a bunch of shouting (them, not me) and sighs and eye rolls, I was told it would be 2 hours.

Which wasn't going to work.

So, I dusted off my cell phone and made a few calls to a small bakery in town and we were able to get the quantity we needed. Thank God.

With that I turned to my new bakery nemesis, smiled, and told the Hair-Net Wearing Crab-Ass that I was canceling my order. I didn't swear, I didn't yell, I just smiled. This made her even more mad because they had already started our order (her story kept changing) and now, "what would they do?" (As if this was my problem...) And as much as I wanted to tell her she could take every loaf of bread and "shove it where the sun..." well... I didn't. I simply said, "Maybe in 2 hours someone else will want them." And we were on our way.

But tomorrow morning I am so totally calling the store manager.

So, we get back to our kitchen, prep, load the van, and we're on our way. The reception venue was a barn out in no-man's land. (That's no exaggeration) Apparently this place has historical value and oh, yadda yadda. It's still a damn barn and with the still-sweltering heat we are experiencing, it still smelled like a damn barn. Which I suppose is all fine if you're going for that casual thing but I can't imagine eating chicken Madeira with the smell of old manure lingering in the air. But, what Bridezilla wants, Bridezilla gets.

The smell was really only part of this place's "charm." When I went to get water for the chafing dishes, I was informed the only source of water was a garden hose down by the old grain trough. That's right. A garden hose down by the old grain trough. And when you add that fact to the fact that the electricity was provided by the bright orange generator in what used to be the milking parlor, you've got yourself one helluva investigation by the Health Department. But - what are you gonna do?

So we loaded up the tables, created the display, put the backstock in the prep room (old tack room), lit the chafing dishes, and gave instructions to the person in charge. Just as we were getting ready to leave, we noticed most of the ice had melted (93+ degrees in there) so we offered to go to the local store to get more.

After some directions and driving a few winding roads, we found the store. Holy Mother of God, walking into this store was like walking into a bad Hitchcock movie. Actually, kind of more like Twin Peaks (anyone remember that show??) The place was dark and the employees all walked around with their heads hung down. Some poor guy was pushing a broom and mumbling to himself and one of the checkers stood and scratched herself in her, uh, crotch region. At least I think it was a she...

We really didn't know whether to laugh or run like Hell. So we opted to do both. So there we were, Two Food Whores running through the parking lot, laughing like freaks, with bags of ice on their shoulders. People actually stopped to stare at us - which we're used to - but it really struck us as odd considering some of the people staring didn't have teeth.

After dropping off the ice and thanking God we did not have to stay, we were off on our treck back to the civilian world. On our way we stopped off at a farm stand and bought a flat of the plumpest cherries ever - ever - and some raspberries the size of golf balls and were on our merry way.

It was a very long, hot, and stressful day and we were so glad it was done. I spent the ride home with my arm out the window doing that hand surf thing you do when it's hot outside and when, you know, you're 12. And then we just couldn't resist the gorgeous cherries so for a little amusement, we spit the pits out the window and laughed ourselves silly watching those little suckers get caught in the wind and take flight. It was one of those moments where you had to be there, but it really was hillarious. Really.

Oh, I don't know. I guess sweltering heat and stress can do strange things to a person.

Silly Whores.
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I Am Going To Have To Whore Myself To A Shrimp Boat Captain

So we had a catering meeting last night for a trick we need to pull next month - a wedding reception. We put the final touches on the menu, went over checklists, etc. etc.

When it came down to final numbers for a total guest count, the client said, "Most of our RSVP's are in - so we're within about 20 or so people of final head count. It's not too bad, we're figuring 425+ people."

That's 425.

Four Hundred Twenty-Five.

And that's a rough guestimate at this point. It will more than likely end up closer to 450.

It's not the biggest trick we have pulled but it ranks right up there.

But it's certainly the biggest order we will have for chilled shrimp.

I am going to have to head down to the harbor and Whore myself to a shrimp boat captain.

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Ignorant Whore

I try to pride myself on never assuming too much.

You know, never "assume" the bride and groom give two shits that you created an amazing chilled prawn display with large ice chunks and glass blocks that look like ice chunks, thereby creating a virtual ice palace where the prawns lounge like luxurious morsels of goodness.

Or never "assume" that the person standing rather impatiently next to you at the watermelon display in the produce section at the grocery store totally understands that you have to tap every watermelon until you find just the perfect one. (Yes, I tap watermelon and yes, I have a 100% success rate)

And never assume that the people you have planned an impromptu picnic dinner with fully understand the dynamics of packing a proper picnic basket.

So it's still hot here. It's not exactly 100 degrees "F" (And I mean the Big "F") but it's rounding out at about 88 and when you don't live in an air conditioned building it makes the desire to turn on your stove non-existent, even for The Food Whore.

So late this afternoon The Local Friend called.

"Hey, what's for dinner?"

"Eh, I don't know. It's hot. Maybe ice chips with a side of ice and some sauteed ice."

"Oh, I know. My kitchen is like 10,000 degrees. I think we all need a night of refreshments and joy. Let's head out to the resort for a swim. There's a private dinner going on so we need to bring our own food but we can get a table right by the pool and it will be fun!"

"Oh - that does sound nice. But the pool means I have to wear a bathing suit and the site of me in a bathing suit would scare God."

"Oh get over your bad self. I have to wear one, too, and God knows I am no walking billboard for Victoria's Secret. You look fabulous. Come on. It's hot!"

"Oh, all right. It does sound fabulous. I will throw some things together and we will meet you out there!"

Now, I don't have a fancy Williams & Sonoma type picnic basket. I probably should but I find them to be a bit ostentatious. (That's twice in one day for The Friend in Texas) Anyone can pack a nice picnic in those things but it takes someone with a little skill to pack one in a regular old basket.

And I wrongly assumed that everyone had that skill.

Since it was short notice I decided to do a little deli hopping (moustache girl wasn't working) and get some good chicken and a little fresh orzo salad with feta and sundried tomatoes.

When I got home I got my straw bag and grabbed a bottle of wine, the cork screw, a pitcher of lemon drops (just in case, you know, "someone" wants one) the chicken, the orzo salad, a couple of cheeses, crackers, grapes, breadsticks, forks, plates, napkins, cups, a ziploc bag full of ice, a few bottles of water, mini salt and pepper shakers, and a warm wet bar towel in a ziploc bag.

My mother taught me years ago to always pack a wet towel in a plastic bag. Whether I am on a long road trip or taking some snacks to the park, I never leave home without that towel. People have snickered when they see the towel. They have mocked me mercilessly. But they're always begging for it when they do something like eat honey-laden figs and have a bad case of the sticky-s.

So we get to the resort and the pool is glistening and fabulous and there's a table waiting for us and I can't wait to eat and take a nice dip.

We meet our friends and they are toting a mini cooler and out comes some fruit, some cookies, roasted turkey breast, more cheese, some bread, a bottle of wine and crackers.

There were no plates. There were no napkins. There were no utensils. There was no cork screw. There was no towel in a bag - which I will overlook because not everyone grew up with The Original Food Whore like I did.

So they are watching me as The Husband starts opening the wine and pouring the lemon drops (For, you know, anyone who happens to want one) and The Local Friend gets a funny look on her face.

"You brought all of that? It's just a simple dinner by the pool, you know. And what's with the towel in the ziploc? Are you planning on washing our faces after dinner? Ahahahaha!"

"I know it's just a dinner by the pool but you need plates, right? You need something to eat with, right? You need napkins, right?"

"You know, only you would have to go so overboard to pack like that."

"Overboard? I just assumed everyone packed a picnic like this."

"Oh, dear. You really can be ignorant when it comes to the rest of the world, can't you."

I guess I am.

But at least I can be ignorant while eating dinner by the pool and my food is on a plate and I have a fork with a pretty napkin.

And I can be totally ignorant when The Local Friend is begging for that wet towell after dropping chocolate cookie on her pretty white suit.

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Double-Standard Whore

I hate cell phones.

I mean, like that cell phones are convenient and provide a means of communication in the case of an emergency but I don't like how they inconvenience me. I resent the people who don't drive well because they are yacking away or people who hold up lines because they are yacking away or people who block the dairy aisle because they are yacking away.

I have one but it's buried at the bottom of my purse along with store receipts, a recipe I ripped out of Food & Wine Magazine, about $40 worth of change and chalky residue from the tin of mints that did not get shut properly.

My phone is on when I need to make calls or if I am expecting a call. Otherwise, it's off and in it's resting place as stated above. I am on a strictly "need to reach" basis with people who have my number. And I know that annoys them, but what are you gonna do?

So, I am at the grocery store this morning. I know, I know. Enough with the grocery store already. But in all of my whoring and feeding the masses, I forgot to get milk and after I poured my bowl of Grape Nuts I realized this fact and made a mad dash to the store.

My goal was to get in and out of the store quickly because I wanted me some Grape Nuts. AND, I didn't have any make-up on (which is scary) and I threw on the first thing I saw which was a pair of The Husband's track pants and a very hole-y t-shirt. To say I looked a bit on the ratty side would be an understatement of monumental proportions. But it was early and I really thought my chances of running into anyone were slim to none.

So when I got back to the dairy cooler some woman was standing dead center in the doorway yacking away to someone - who I could only guess had a hot date the night before and was sharing the juicy details. My thinking was this was a conversation for another place and another time, but my thoughts and The Milk Blocking Yacker were not in synch.

I tried the whole "smile while I motion that I need milk" trick, but she wasn't a strong charrades player so she didn't catch on. I then tried standing there patiently (which killed me - I have no patience) and smiling until she got the hint, and she still did not catch on. But she did turn and look at me with kind of a half scoff as she cased me over. Which, yeah, made me mad. But not because I cared what she thought of me so much as I just wanted my damn Nuts! So finally I just got bold, did the bob and weave, stepped in between her and the door, grabbed my milk, and was on my way.

I didn't even swear. Which I think is huge considering - well - that I was awake.

So, as I am heading up to the check-out stand, mumbling about The Milk Blocking Yacker Bitch and how people should not walk around grocery stores and talk on their phones it occurred to me that I have taken many a phone call at home from The Friend in Alabama and The Friend in Boston while they were shopping for food. I think maybe The Friend in Texas, too, but I don't want to drag her into my rationale unless I have actual proof.

Anway, I actually had a moment of thinking that maybe my frustration was unfounded. But then I remembered that whenever The Friend in Boston and The Friend in Alabama called me from the grocery store, they were actually calling to ask about food. Which is toootally different than just meaningless conversation. So my frustration was, in fact, founded. And as I suspected, I was right all along.

Which, yeah. I know that makes me a Double-Standard Whore. But I still really don't think people should walk around grocery stores yacking on their cell phones, blocking access to precious things like milk.

Unless they are calling me, of course.

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The Brink Of Insanity

Author's Note: This is going to be a long one, get a snack.

The food business is either in your blood or it's not.

It's physically and mentally exhausting, it's thankless, it's long days and late hours and you really have to be on the brink of insanity to enjoy it. But I do. I love every single minute of it.

So this all started Thursday night when we spent our time receiving our deliveries and running to places like the restaurant wholesale warehouse and Costco (yeah, Costco) for the items we needed off the shelves.

The first clue to how my weekend was going to go should have been when we were leaving the restaurant wholesale store and my flatbed cart hit a bump in the sidewalk which flipped a gallon of mayonnaise onto the sidewalk with a big "schpluck". (That is the best way I can describe the sound of a gallon of mayonnaise exploding on the sidewalk.) You can imagine my joy.

Actually, my real first clue should have been the asshole clerk who's always an asshole who was following us around the store whining about us watching our time and pointing to his watch. This place closes at 7:00 p.m. and they are fierce about getting out of there on time. (This guy is a real prick and we have complained about him before. And we're not the only ones who have complained but the owner of the place has made it very clear that they are in the wholesale business, not the customer service business so "just deal with him.". This is why we only shop there for emergencies.)

So anyway, as we are being stalked by Sir Whines-A-Lot it was 6:45 and we were headed in the direction of the check-out station
anyway. Finally, I snapped. I turned around and through clenched teeth said, "Here's the deal. You can either get off my back and let us get out of here or you can keep whining and I will leave this fully loaded flatbed cart right in the middle of this aisle and force you to put it all back. Choose wisely."

And he did.

But he continued to be an ass and I remembered that as the mayonnaise "schplucked" to the ground and I left it there for him to clean up. I know, I know. Not nice. But it was 97 degrees outside and after dealing with him, I just did not give a rat's ass.

Which reminds me - we are experiencing a heatwave and the average daily temperature is tapping out at close to 100 degrees F. Or as we say in these parts, "Hotter than the hubbs of Hell." Now, "F" normally stands for Fahrenheit but this weekend, it stood for "Fucking" - as in, "It's 100 fucking degrees and I cannot fucking believe we are serving 300 people in the fucking out-of-doors in this heat." Which made for a long weekend for The Potty Mouthed Food Whore and anyone who had to put up with me. (Or The Partner, she was no picnic, either.)

So it's off to Costco where things were running fairly smoothly until we were pointed at for buying 3 bunches of exotic flowers to decorate with. The Partner - the sweeter one of the two of us - actually said out loud, "The next dumbass who even looks in my direction is going to get beat senseless!" The Cute Costco Employee within ear shot said, "Oh, man. I love it when you guys are in here - you get to say the things we want to."

Ahhhh, such pleasant Whores we are.

So it's time for the big show and things were just not in our favor.

The extreme heat made foodkeeping a real challenge. Nothing says bummer like sending 300 people to the hospital with food poisoning, so we had to get our strategy in line and only get the food out at the very last minute possible. Which is fine as long as everything runs on schedule.

Which it didn't.

We were given explicit instructions as to the timing of the reception and while there are always allowances for human error, we rely on that schedule to serve food at the height of when it should be served.

(Man this is getting long, I hope you're not all face down on your keyboards.)

So food was to be ready at the specific buffet stations by 8:15 p.m. But a family friend took his time at the microphone to live out his fantasies of being Billy Crystal hosting the Oscars. The disadvantage we had was that there was no director shouting, "Cut to commercial!" So some things had to be brought back inside...and then brought back out again 20 minutes later after the last, "Did you hear the one about how the groom almost forgot his underwear..."

Dinner finally started at 9:00.

Things are flowing and our kitchen is buzzing and a lady with a baby appears. This reception was at a private residence so we were using the kitchen in the main house and apparently someone told this girl that the caterers also provided daycare in between loading platters and keeping the chafing dishes full.

So in she comes with darling baby boy and bottle in tow. "I have to help with the toast later and I want to eat first. I am watching baby for my sister so I am just going to lay him down in this room and I would love it if you could keep a watch on him. I won't be long, thanks!"

And just like that she was gone.

The Partner and I and our staff all just stood there, dumbfounded. What broke the shock-induced silence was the sound of The Darling Baby Boy crying.

So - The Partner grabbed The Darling Baby Boy and the rest of us went back to work loading and sweating and stopping at intervals to coo and make funny faces at baby.

Another strike against us was The Unwanted Sister-In-Law (for future reference, we will refer to her as The UWSIL). She's a raving bitch (who makes me look like Mary Poppins) and by all clues, no one in the family can stand her. She was apparently not given a job so she created her own title of Queen In Charge of Bugging The Hell Out Of The Caterers.

Every 5 minutes she was approaching one of our staff to ask a question that had nothing to do with anything other than to give off the image that since she was cavorting with the caterers that she must be somewhat in charge. This lasted for about the first hour of the event until I caught her rifling in our van.

(I am almost done, I promise)

I was taking a trip out to a buffet station when I saw the back door of our van open. So I made a detour over and found her going tipping over boxes.

"Excuse me, what are you doing in here?"

"Oh, I noticed there were no napkins on the cake table so I thought I would look for some."

"Cake won't be served for another hour, we will bring the napkins out then."

"Well I want them out now."

"Ok, well, you need to step out of my van, now. Go find your seat and sit there until you are asked to move. You are not in charge of this function and so help me God if you stop any member of my staff one more time for another one of your needless questions, you will be dealing with me."

She tried to retort but I lifted my eyebrow and said, "Despite what you may think, I take no pleasure out of being a bitch. So let's just save everyone a possible confrontation, ok?"

She left the van.

At least we know she's not dumb.

Anyway, after extreme heat, Billy Crystal at the mike, The UWSIL and The Darling Baby Boy, we finally packed out at 11:45 p.m. The Bride & Groom were darling and they were thrilled with us and with our work. So it was a success. But it was a long hot day and all we wanted to do was get to our shop, unload the van and go home.

And we had one more obstacle to face.

Apparently when we loaded the van, the door did not get latched properly. So as we're driving down the highway, the door flew open and a roaster oven lid that did not get packed in a tote flew out of the van and slid down the road behind us.

I pulled off the road, leaned my head down on the steering wheel while The Partner stared out the windshield. We said nothing - it was totally silent.

I got out of the van, shut the door, got back in the van, turned around, drove back to where the lid landed, pulled off the road, waited for traffic to wane, drove up to the lid, (thankfully it landed on the side of the road) The Partner leaned out her door to swipe it up, and we kept driving - still saying nothing.

When we pulled off our exit I pulled over in an empty parking lot where we looked at each other and started laughing hysterically.

I said, "Only people on the brink of insanity would do this shit for a living. You know that, right?"

"Oh I know", she said. "But we love it."

We really do.

--------

Tired Whore.

I am a very tired Whore.

Update tomorrow.

Er. Today.

Oh Hell, I don't even know what day it is.

I am headed to my fire escape with an ice-cold beer.

That's right, beer.

I am too damn tired to make a lemon drop.
--------

Whorebitch

I've got this trick on Friday night. 300 people. Outside.

Suffice to say, I am a busy whore.

I have food supply lists to check. Service lists to check. I need to make a trip to the site to create a staging and service area.

I. Am. Busy.

So, I am on my way home tonight and made a stop at the grocery store to pick up a few ingredients for dinner. It's hot and I have a lot to do so dinner was simple; polish sausage with carmelized onions and stone ground mustard on Kaiser rolls with fresh fruit. (I scored myself some ice cream bars, too.)

So I run into The Cousin and Her fiance' and we chat about their upcoming wedding (No, I am not catering), and exchange pleasantries and as I am on my way, Her Fiance' says, "Hey, can we come over? I haven't seen The Husband in a while and I would like to touch base with him."

Damnit.

I love social gatherings and I love cooking for people but I despise when people invite themselves over. Especially with my schedule. Oh, Hell. Who am I kidding. Even on a slow night I don't want people inviting themselves over to my house.

"Well, the thing is, I am just going to cook a quick meal and then I have a big trick I need to prepare for..."

"Oh, we won't be in the way. We will just see you in about 1/2 hour, ok?"

"Uh..."

"Ok, see you then!"

Damnit, damnit, damnit!

So I get home, inform The Husband (who says damnit), and I get to cooking. What was a simple dinner for two has turned into a dinner for 4, so I took out the leftover botwie pasta I had and made up a quick pasta salad to add to the meal.

So, in they come and in the kitchen I stand chopping, dicing, draining, carmelizing all the while The Cousin and Her Fiance' plop their sorry asses on my couch.

And I mumble like the Whorebitch that I am, "Sorry ass, self-inviting, lazy good for nothing, come and sit on my couch, take up my space..."

"What did you say?"

"Wha..Oh! Dinner's ready!"

"Oh, we already ate. Silly girl, did you assume we would eat with you? Ha ha ha..."

"Did you just say 'silly girl'?"

"Oh we'll just open a couple of beers and watch you guys eat."

Guess who's not getting a wedding present.

--------

Only $19.95 - Ginsu Knives Included!!!

I don't sleep a lot.

My mind is forever plotting and trying to shut it down for much-needed sleep is often futile. So, I watch a lot of middle-of-the-night TV with it's ever-ending infomercials selling the next best thing that you have got to have and it never costs you $99.95 or even $79.95 or even $59.95. No, for a mere $19.95 you can have the one item that will create a new reality for you like you have never known. AND, you can always count on getting a dandy set of Ginsu knives as a bonus.

The Father is a poor sleeper, too. He also has way too much disposable income and he is forever buying a kitchen gadget he is sure will take him to levels not quite achieved in his years. It's a standing joke in my family that when a ridiculous invention has hit the airwaves, The Father will soon have it. As it stands, he has a bread machine, an espresso maker, a rotisserie, a George Foreman grill (or 2), a milkshake maker, a juice extractor, a smoothie machine, a snowcone machine, and the list goes on. I usually get a phone call telling me that I have to see this "fabulous new thing he just can't live without." And, like everyone else who falls prey to the sales pitch, he uses the item for a month and then it ends up in a pile on top of the Nordic Track he stopped using back in '96.

I can proudly say that I have never - oh, wait - yes I have. Damn. I did once fall prey to the sales pitch by the one and only Spray-On-Hair man Ron Popiel himself. (Who could blame me, really. The man invented the Pocket Fisherman.) I bought a rotisserie and had huge buyer's remorse when I unpacked the box but The Husband convinced me to keep it - he was totally thinking of himself and all the juicy meats he would be consuming over the next month. I did keep it and I did (noticed the past tense) use it a lot - for about 6 months. Since then it's been taking up space in the bottom of my storage closet and I really need to stop pretending it's not there and sell it at a garage sale like I sold the George Foreman grill The Father bought me 3 years ago.

Anyway.

So I'm watching TV last night and the sound was down low as not to disturb The Husband (who was totally snoring like a grizzly bear in Winter) and I see this thing that looks like flexible dryer hose and it's shooting eggs out the bottom like a chicken who's been the victim of a rooster with an overactive libido.

"What in the Hell...??"

So I move closer to the TV and turn up the volume. For the bargain price of only $19.95, I could have the one item every kitchen should have, The Eggstractor.

Now I have truly seen it all.

And now I am totally expecting a call from The Father in a few days and I am certain he will be inviting us over for boiled eggs with a side of deviled eggs and egg salad sandwiches for dessert.

--------

So Close

I really have to say that if I would do a percentage of clients with "issues" vs. clients who are wonderful and a pleasure to work for, the clients with "issues" make up a very small percent. But thank God for them or what the Hell would I have to blog about, right?

So tonight we had a meeting with a client we have a trick for in two weeks and we were putting the final touches on the menu, etc. The Bride is darling. She's articulate and kind and has been a great joy to deal with.

Tonight she brought Her Stepmonster. (That would be stepmother for those who don't have fathers who re-married the village idiot.)

So we're talking and laughing and everything is going really smooth. The Partner and I gave each other the "this is going to be great" look and I went back to taking notes and asking questions from my Whoring Checklist.

At the end of every meeting I am always sure to ask the client if they have any questions.

The Bride was completely satisfied and stated how excited she was that we were doing the trick and she knew it would be fabulous.

"This is perfect", I thought. A normal Bride, a wonderful menu, this was going to be one of the good ones.

"I do just have one question", said Stepmonster.

"Oh, certainly!", The Partner replied.

"Now this is a buffet and you guys just aren't going to slap the food on the table, are you? I mean, are you going to make it pretty?"

I sighed and closed my eyes and put my pen down.

The Bride did the same.

We were so close to perfect and it slipped through our hands like butter on a hot summer day.

So close.
--------

Every Monster Known To Man...

Beyond people coming in the kitchen or dealing with psychopathic grooms, one of our biggest challenges when turning tricks is children. Or perhaps I should say parents who let their children run willey nilley around the buffet table as if it was a merry-go-round in the park.

I cannot tell you how many times I have come out to find little Timmy and his evil twin Tommy playing tag around a fruit display or worse yet, plunging their sticky lint-laden fingers into crudite'.

The problem here is that you have to be so careful. With adults you can simply say, "The master of ceremonies will announce when it's time to eat" with a raised eyebrow and they get the hint. And believe me, I have had to say that on many occasion because people are just that stupid.

With children, the either don't listen do you or they look at you, laugh, and go right back to what they are doing. And no matter how much you want to say, "One more step you little shits and I will make sure every monster known to man will take up residence under your bed and in your closet and they will haunt you all the days of your life", you just can't. Well, I mean, you can - not that I am saying I have - but chances are, not only with the little demon spawn get what you are saying, they will scream with horror and run to their parents and tell on you. And it's pretty tough to blend into the crowd when you're one of 350 people in the room wearing a chef's coat.

Anyway.

So then comes the quandary, what the Hell is a Whore do to? Once I had three little boys grabbing chilled prawns off the table like they were candy. They then shoved them in their mouths and spat them out onto a place setting because they realized that they weren't, in fact, candy.

Another time two little girls decided it would be fun to play "dunk the ice mold" in the punch bowl, lick their fingers, and do it again. All the while their parents were bellied up to the bar not giving two shits that their daughters were about to be picked up by their ponytails and drug to the kitchen for some quality time in the cooler.

And don't get me wrong, I love children, I do. But if you bring them to a formal function, keep your eye on them. Because I am totally not afraid of hanging them on hooks in the coat closet. And I am totally not afraid of telling them that every monster known to man will take up residence under their beds and in their closets and they be will haunted all of the days of their lives.

Not that, you know, I have ever done that.

--------

Chop Phooey

I just can't do it.

I have tried and tried and tried.

But I just cannot eat with chop sticks.

I can mince an onion blindfolded but I can't make two bamboo sticks come together and pick up food for all the tea in China. (Pun totally intended.)

I can remember as a child being fascinated by people who could maneuver those two wooden sticks like they were extensions of their hands. It was almost like watching a ballet.

It was about the age of 10 that I gave chopsticks a try and I ended up shooting a chunk of sweet and sour pork onto my dad's lap and it was requested by my parents that I just be satisfied with using a fork.

And I was.

And I always have been.

And until recently I didn't realize it was such a faux paus to request a fork while dining on fine Chinese.

We were in Chinatown with a group of acquaintances and the warm Sake was flowing like water. When the waiter asked if anyone would like a fork, my "I would, please" was greeted by the entire table falling silent and people looking at me like I had just shouted that I wet my pants.

One girl at our table - a friend of a friend - rolled her eyes and said, "Oh my God." (She was a skanky 'ho bitch, anyway, and I totally felt justified telling her as much while in the ladies room at the Kareoke bar after dinner.)

So I am sitting there and the waiter graciously brought my fork and I ate my Kung Pao and drank my Sake in silence, secretly hoping every person at that table would accidentally poke their eyes out with those damned sticks. (I also completely overestimated my tolerance for Sake, which is another story for another time.)

But, I am a trooper and since that time I have taken the opportunity to practice as often as I can. I even had help from a professional. My friend married The Girl From Osaka and she sat with me one meal and showed me the proper technique and style and still I shot clumps of meat and vegetables all over the table like confetti on New Year's Eve.

In all of her Japanese graciousness she said, "You need fok - noting wong using fok."

I really miss her.

Anyway.

So today at lunch I decide to give a shot at eating my chow-mein and honey chicken with the pretty red chopsticks provided. I actually thought maybe I had mastered the honey chicken until the chopsticks twisted and rolled that damn chunk of meat down into my cleavage.

The darling waitress witnessed this incident and promptly brought me a fork and patted my hand.

"Noting wong using fok."
--------

It Was As If God Himself Shone A Light Into My Kitchen

So I am at the grocery store tonight. I know, I know. I am there all the time. I think possibly the produce man thinks I am stalking him. Which, I totally am. But I am stalking him for entirely different reasons than the cute boy in the silk shirt who's always lurking by the passion fruit.

So I am meandering and it's peaceful and I am going over tomorrow night's trick in my head and I happened upon the paper products aisle, the very place they sell that bastardization of a kitchen product called plastic wrap.

And I noticed a new item - Glad Press & Seal.

Click Here For A Look

I have heard about it but I never fall for the big fancy ads promising greatness. I mean, we've all seen spray-on hair from a can, have we not?

Anyway.

So I bought a box and I am happy to say my time at the grocery store was very uneventful. Well, I did accidentally knock a bag of sugar on the floor and it broke open, but besides the security camera, no one saw me.

So I get my fancy purchase home to give it a test drive in my kitchen.

People, it was as if God Himself shone a light into my kitchen as I opened the box, tore off a sheet, and covered a dish. There was no tearing. There was no endless search for the beginning of the roll. There was no cutting of the flesh on the shark-like teeth on the edge of the box. There was nary a curse word to be heard.

It was a miracle, a true miracle.

This stuff is amazing. I started Press & Sealing everything in my site. I covered a glass dish. I covered a paper plate. I covered a plastic cup. I wrapped raw meat for the freezer. I covered a styrofoam container of salsa. I wrapped the carcass from last night's bird (no need for that, really, The Husband finished off that bad boy for today's lunch and left it looking like a remnant from Chernobyl) and I would have wrapped The Husband had he not gotten me in a death grip to get me to calm down. (He's such a spoil sport)

Now, I am not saying this stuff is a possible solution for world peace, but I am saying there's going to be a lot less swearing in The Food Whore's kitchen. That, in and of itself, is a start on the road to greatness.

I totally better get royalties for this.
--------

I Will Have A Rotisserie Chicken And OhmyGodyoureallyneedtoshave.

It was damn hot today.

The kind of hot that makes you regret you saw clouds in the morning and foolishly put on denim.

The kind of hot that makes your black steering wheel feel like you thrust your hands into hot molten lava.

The kind of hot that makes you gasp when you step outside of an air conditioned building.

The kind of hot that makes you mumble expletives every time some joker asks "Hot enough for ya? Heh heh heh"

The kind of... well... you get the point.

I knew the loft would be a mere 3 degrees cooler than the surface of the sun so I opted to stop in at the deli for dinner tonight.

I walked in eyeing the rotisserie rolling with golden amber birds. Perfect. A nice little roasting hen, some fresh slaw, a juicy slab of watermelon and a lovely lemon drop or two would make the perfect dinner.

So I approach the counter to request my bird and Holy Moses, Counter Girl had a mustache.

Not just a hint or a few stray hairs. We're talking full-on pubescent-boys-all-over-the-world-would-be-jealous moustache.

I hate it when something like that happens. I mean, you lose all focus of where you are supposed to look. I am a "look you in the eye" type person but my gaze kept averting itself to her facial hair. It's like when someone has a large pimple on their face and you know they are trying to hide it but you can't help but stare at the monstrosity and they know you are trying to pretend you don't see it but you just can't help but focus on the large red dot on the tip of their nose.

Only, I don't think Counter Girl cared so much. She clearly was not trying to hide the moustache and clearly did not care that people could see said 'stache.

Now, being a Whore of Mediterranean/Middle Eastern descent, I am all about understanding the problems that women of my heritage face when it comes to excess hair. But I am also all about understanding that there are products on the market to make sure that Jane Doe does not walk around being mistaken for John Doe.

I know I should not judge. (Though I freely do on a daily basis) I mean, maybe she liked the facial hair thing. Maybe it didn't bother her in the least. Maybe she was proud of ... Oh, Hell... she had a damn moustache, who can like that?!

After what seemed like an eternity of me staring at her moustache, I finally said, "I Will Have A Rotisserie Chicken",and then mumbled, "And OhmyGodyoureallyneedtoshave."

"You would like a chicken and what?",She asked.

"Oh, uh, I just said 'oh my God to work in this heat you must be really brave.'"

"Yeah, is it hot enough for ya? Heh heh heh."

I am totally going to mail her an anonymous package of hot wax and razors.

--------

Nothing More Than A Dirty Whore

"I never kiss on the lips, it's too personal."

Julia Roberts uttered those very words to Richard Gere while playing a Whore of a different type in Pretty Woman.

What she meant was - well - it's too personal. You have to keep things business like when you're a Whore so you don't lose your soul.

I should have remembered this before I innocently agreed to turn a trick for a very good friend. (Mr. Swedish Meatball)

Never cater for family, never cater for close friends. It's just too damn personal.

When Mr. Swedish Meatball came to me some 5 months ago I was so excited about his pending marriage that I lost all sight of what it is I do. Because he was a dear friend I offered him the world on a platter - literally - and did it for bottom dollar. It wasn't about money, it was about making sure my friend knew I would be there to make his night fabulous.

And I did.

The Partner and I rocked that reception like Wolfgang Puck on Oscar night and Mr. Swedish Meatball and His Bride came off looking like champs.

And I was thrilled.

Unfortunately, he and his family treated me like nothing more than a dirty Whore.

Normally my professionalism would have made that kind of attitude roll off like water on a duck's back. But this was too personal and I admit it hurt.

And I admit that I totally prayed he would be impotent on his honeymoon.

--------

Hell Hath No Fury Like A Box Of Plastic Wrap

Very few things scare me in the kitchen.

There are two things, really.

It is a yearly ritual that one Sunday in January - Superbowl Sunday - I break out those little tubes of Pillsbury crescent rolls to make the all famous pigs in a blanket so popular with the American football crowd. This is the one Sunday a year I make the exception for such frivolous and irresponsible behavior like using pastry from a can.

And Holy Mother of God those little tubes scare the bejezus out of me.

I don't know who invented those cardboard and tin spirals of Hell but they must have taken great pleasure in scaring poor suckers all over the world. The Husband looks forward to this one Sunday a year, not so much for the football or platters full of food unfit for normal consumption, but to watch me stand at my prep table wincing as I carefully peel the outer layer off the tube. I am so afraid of the inevitable POP that I hold the can away from my face as I squint in case one of those layers of dough would explode like a firecracker on the 4th of July. And no matter how prepared I am, I always jump and let out a little screech like the fool that I have come to be.

And then there's plastic wrap - Hell hath no fury like a box of plastic wrap.

I am a self-admitted klutz but seriously, people. Why does that stuff have to be so damned difficult? First you have to find the starting point which is much like finding the end of the roll of tape you forgot to mark when wrapping presents at Christmas. You peel and you peel and you peel and finally get lucky enough to get the thing started.

Then comes the part where you have to actually pull a sheet off and damned if I can ever get it all on the first try. Inevitably the sheet tears and instead of just stopping I keep pulling trying to force the tear line back toward the end of the roll, praying it goes into one sheet again. But no. Instead what I get is 3 feet of half sheet with 3 feet of rolled up plastic left on the roll, which then leads to me having to find that starting point all over again. And when it's all skinny on the end, it's really freaking hard to find the starting point.

So now I've got 3 wasted feet of plastic and the explatives start rolling off my tongue. So I start again, this time successful at getting a whole sheet, but by the time I actually get it over the dish, it clings to itself, forcing me to peel it apart, which then ends up with me tearing the sheet down the middle. So into a plastic ball and into the garbage it goes. And back to the roll, another tear, and then sure enough, I am so out of patience and so frustrated that I have created my own friction and the plastic sticks to my arms and then my shirt and then by the time I get it over the dish, it's clung to itself again.

Shit.

Stupid ass plastic wrap.

By this time I am usally so ticked off that I just go for the foil and throw the stupid box of plastic wrap back in the drawer. But instead of just dropping like it should, the roll falls out of the box and clings to itslef which means the next time I am brave enough to give it another try, I am going to have to squint and find the end and peel and peel and peel until I get it all back over that sharp jaw-toothed edge used for cutting.

And those little sharp jaw-toothed edges will cut human flesh. Trust me.

Oh, you know, there is one more thing that scares me in the kitchen - turkeys. But I am really not prepared to talk about that until Thanksgiving when I have the morale support of The Friend in California.

*sigh*

--------

Stupid Balls

So I've got this trick tomorrow night and at the last minute the client decided he wanted balls - of the Swedish kind.

Because I'm a Whore, my job is to make the customer happy.

Always with the making people happy...

It was too late to get anything from my supplier so it was off to the restaurant supply depot. I'm not going to make enough Swedish balls for 250 people by hand. As I have said before, I'm a Whore, not an idiot.

So we go to the depot and the balls are in a self-serve freezer in the back of the store. This freezer is huge and, well, cold. So in I go and I can't find those stupid balls. While in there, I had flashbacks to the Brady Bunch episode where Greg and Bobby accidentally get locked in Alice's boy toy Sam the Butcher's freezer. (Way too much TV as a child).

I didn't find the balls.

So out I come. I ask the store clerk and he says there's balls in the freezer (doesn't show me where, mind you) so back in the freezer I go.

Some other poor Whore was in there with me and we gave each other that "hello" head nod that all Whore's give to one another when delving into places like the restaurant supply depot's freezer. Both of us thinking, "So much hassle, being a Whore".

Still no balls.

So I ask again, and again I am assured there are balls in the freezer "just passed the french fries and shrimp up against the wall", so back I go. But by this time the extreme temperature change has caused my nose to run so on my next entrance into the freezer, I have a little frozen cube of "nose run" on the tip of my nose.

So not attractive.

So very gross.

But finally I found the balls way in the back on the bottom shelf under the breakfast sausage (stupid clerk) and the shelf was so big that I had to do a belly crawl on frozen metal to retrieve them.

The Client better like his balls or he will be drop-kicked to Sweden.

Stupid balls.

--------

People Are Freaking Pigs

So we went out for dinner the other night to a very nice steakhouse. The atmosphere was lovely - dark woods and deep red fabrics.

Dinner was divine. I started with the wedge of iceberg topped with blue cheese dressing and my entree' was the bacon-wrapped filet, topped with gorgonzola cheese and roasted garlic. I am on this blue-veined cheese kick lately and I think I have mold spores growing out my ears.

Anyhew.

The Sister had the fresh dungeoness crab as did The Flower Shop Friend. (Nothing says good meal like crab carcass flying in your face.) The Flower Shop Friend's sister had the prime rib. Lovely, lovely food.

And it was a lovely evening until I had to excuse myself to use the restroom.

I don't know what is wrong with people but here I am in a perfectly lovely restaurant dining on perfectly lovely food and the women's restroom looked like someone had a water fight, tried to clean it up with toilet paper, and peed on the seat of the first stall like a dog marking it's territory. I despise - D E S P I S E - public restrooms of any kind. But when I walk in expecting a little soft lighting and pretty smelling soaps and instead find a scene from the Exorcist, I get a tad irritated. (I know - hard to believe I get irritated, right?)

People are freaking pigs.

Seriously, what the Hell is going on? Short of having a bathroom attendant - which I hate the idea of someone having to listen to me tinkle and then have to smile at me and give me a towel - you can't patrol these regions. I feel for the restaurant owners of the world. The Mother deals with this and you would be amazed what the most "upscale" people are doing behind the door marked with a W. And that's not to mention the men's room.

I don't know what some men do but it appears they have sword fights or play "I am Mr. Firehose" and pretend that the floor is full of flames. "Uh, oh...we've got a wildfire under the sink! All hoses on deck!" Seriously? Keep it in the urinal Sgt. Wee One. I feel sorry for the poor bastard who walks in on that scene and has his fancy wing-tips get treated like a fire hydrant.

Is it really too much to ask for a person to do their business in a calm and adult manner? Sit, stand, whatever it is you do but do it in a way that leaves no trail of bodily fluids. And for the love of God, pick up after yourself. Do you know how nervous I am about walking back into the dining room with a square of toilet tissue on my shoe?

Sheesh.

By the time I got back to the table I was in quite a mood. But the sweet little waiter boy had just delivered a fresh Orange Slice martini and dessert of lemon mousse cheesecake in a flaky pastry drizzled with caramel cinnamon sauce was on the way.

Amazing how a little culinary treat can save the day.

I'm so easy.

I'm such a Whore.
--------

Saturn's Rings

Sometimes I feel like Saturn.

The planet.

I am Saturn and all of the rings surrounding me are the normal people of the world. They never land on me, they just orbit around me like pie in a retro display case at truckstops all over the nation.

I can see them, but gravity keeps me from actually being in the presence of normal. And the only time one of them ever lands on my planet is when an odd piece of matter gets kicked out of the normal ring and sent to me.

I stopped by the grocery store on my way home tonight. I hung out for a while in the produce section enjoying all the pretty colors. I don't think people really appreciate the beauty of the produce section with it's bright peppers and plump peaches and brilliant green herbs. Or, maybe they do appreciate it but I am the only one weird enough - correction - brave enough to actually verbalize that I enjoy spending time in the produce section.

As I made my way around the watermelon display - speaking of - do you all have those new hybrid melons? They are called "personal watermelon" and they are about the size of, say, Pamela Anderson's breasts after her breast implant replacement, but before the gargantu breasts she has now. So that would be two implants ago.

Anyway.

So I am walking around the store gathering up items for tonight's meal - The Husband had a craving for homemade sirloin burgers with peppered bacon, avocado, tomato and onion on ciabatta rolls - when I heard this man bitching in the cereal aisle. I decided just to avoid that aisle and explain to The Husband that he will have to go Cuckoo for His Cocoa Puffs another day. But he had one of those voices which carried all over the store.

So I simply got the basics and cut my trip short. Nothing was important enough to have my peaceful meandering ruined by some Mr. Loudmouth Crabby Pants.

As I got to the check-out line, Mr. Nice Checker said, "My God. Do you hear that jerk? I don't know what's up lately but all the wakcos of the world have been crawling out of the woodwork." "Yeah", I said. "I am starting to take it personal."

Just then Mr. Loudmouth Crabby Pants and his poor spouse got in the line next to me. As I turned around to get a good look, I had the pleasure of seeing a very large man in a very small threadbare tank top, which was stained, and button fly running pants of some sort.

And the fly was open.

And he wasn't wearing underwear.

Saturn, people.
--------

There's Enough Whore To Go Around

Fresh Squeezed Orange Juice
Absolut Mandarin or Smirnoff Orange Twist (Whichever vodka you prefer)
Cointreau (Can substitute simple syrup)
Candied Orange Peel

Mix equal parts orange juice and vodka. Add a splash of cointreau or simple syrup. Garnish with candied orange peel.

They call this the Orange Slice.

I call it, "Oh my God that's fabulous".

The Lemon Drop will have to be ready to share me. There's enough Whore to go around.

--------

Duh, Figs

Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I begin talking to myself. Which I suppose could cause some people to think I am certifiable, which, honestly, I probably am, but I think the insanity gives my personality the edge it needs.

Anyway.

I get so wrapped up in my thoughts that I start talking out loud to myself or whomever else is listening. (And I think it goes without saying that the thoughts I have 99% of the time center around food.) Usually it's The Husband and he's very in tune with where my head is at and can tell if I am just verbalizing a thought like, "You know, I wonder if I used my Chinese slicer and made long thin spirals of sweet potato and wrapped them around big juicy prawns and flash fried them...plum sauce...arugula...", he is kind enough to say, "Sounds fabulous, dear" without ever really knowing what I am talking about.

Tonight I was catching up on some reading and read over at the Very Good Cooking blog and one of the posts was about figs. I love figs. I love them plain or I love them grilled or broiled with cambiozola cheese on top. But I especially love them drizzled with honey with a hint of orange flower water.

So, Big and Burly No So Great With Women Guy came over for dinner tonight (homemade pizzas with chicken, mushrooms and fontina) and while I was cooking I just started talking about figs and how they are sensual and delicious and are one of my favorite foods.

"Oh, I agree. Figs are great." Said Big and Burly No So Great With Women Guy.

"You like them? Cool. How do you like them?"

"Well, I like them plain. I don't know how you can like them with honey on them, doesn't that get messy?"

"Well I suppose, but that's half the fun of eating, right?"

"I guess. But doesn't that crust get all mushy and gross?"

"Uh. Crust?"

"Yeah, you know, the crust. It's kind of like "bready", sort of."

"What are you talking about?"

"Duh, figs."

"Did you fall and hit your head today? Figs don't have a crust."

"Hello, yes they do. I just bought some last week at the grocery store and had some for a snack. They are flat with that little "bready" like crust all around them."

"Oh my God."

"What?"

He totally thought I was talking about Fig Newtons - the cookies. The man had no concept that a fig was an actual fruit. He just thought they were a damn cookie.

Moron.
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