not remotely food related: I didn't get the Memo, so I'm writing one for you

MEMORANDUM

From: The French Tart, Project Manager at New Big Corporate, and avid Nine Inch Nails Fan

To: Those of you who may not have received the previous Memo, and need immediate saving lest you should feel like an outcast

The scene: Nine Inch Nails live show at Gwinnett Arena, Duluth, Georgia, August 13, 2008.

Picture one rather conservative, normal-looking chick (wearing converse low tops makes me conservative, apparently), accompanied by a male friend, a self-described "free spirit" (hippie) whose favorite band is Led Zepplin. The rest of the crowd, not so conservative and normal looking. We stood out like sore thumbs. DON'T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU!

What you can do to change this: Dig in your closet and pull out all those clothes you wore way back in the 90s when you went clubbing. It doesn't matter if you don't fit into them anymore – hell, I saw more loose flesh last night than the last time I went to a strip club.

Possible outfits you could wear, as seen last night:

• A micro-mini skirt, preferably plaid, school-girl type. Doesn't matter if your buttcheeks are hanging out. Pair this with knee-high studded Doc Marten type boots and either fishnets, ripped fishnets, or Cat in the Hat striped stockings which sag at the top and are held up by black garters. I would venture to guess about 90% of the females in the audience had this uniform on.

• For the men: vinyl pants. These never go out of style. Especially when worn with a mesh see-through shirt.

• For the men: previous NIN tour shirts, or Marilyn Manson tour shirts, or Tool tour shirts. Because these show everyone how original you are, and you just had to be That Guy.

• For the gay men: girls skinny jeans, worn with ripped t-shirt and girls sparkly sandals. Ensure that your posture looks like your back is caving in (e.g. stick your tits out and throw back your shoulders in an exaggerated pose).

• For all sexes: black sparkly pants seem to be a good basic uniform.

• For all sexes: drab matte black hair, looking like you just crawled out of bed.

• For all sexes: black clothing of any kind. Because black is so Goth, you see. And according to a girl I've known for years, Goth is not a Phase one goes through, it's a Lifestyle.

• For all sexes: really quizzical non-sensical tattoos, of all shapes and sizes. Make sure you choose your outfit to showcase your tattoos, even if that means your gut is hanging out.

I appreciate your cooperation, and look forward to serving you in the future.

Sincerely,

French Tart

(As you can tell, the people-watching was Spectacular, with a capital S. And the show was phenomenal).

eggplant smells like bacon?

the boy was sleeping yesterday while i was busy making caponata. he told me last night that while he was laying in bed, he was certain he could smell bacon cooking.

wishful thinking?

i've never associated the smell of eggplant frying with bacon. although i could use some bacon right now. damn him for putting the idea in my head!

ah, caponata.

the company i work for has several mottos, one of them being having a good work/life balance. funny that they should always try to promote that, seeing as everyone i work with, including me, has had a hard time separating work and life lately.

today and yesterday mark the first days in the past month where the temperature has not soared over 90 degrees. it's just been too damn hot to cook, even to whip together a salad or anything. when i'm stressed out, my stomach refuses food; and that coupled with the heat have made this a doozy of a month so far.

being French, the idea of my stomach refusing food really annoys me to no end. especially when it comes to spicy food, which i love but my stomach will absolutely not tolerate when tense. so i get all grumpy and shovel down a lot of yogurt and milk and soft, neutral (read: bland) foods, waiting for this time to pass.

i've had a fridge full of produce from the farm, including a bunch of little eggplants that were about to be on their way to God. i realized this morning that i had to do something with them, so i thought of the obvious ratatouille, however i did not have most of the other ingredients on hand for such a recipe. i sat down on the floor of my dining room in front of the shelves which groan under the weight of so many cookbooks. i looked through about ten of them and just about gave up. all the recipes i found involved ingredients i did not have on hand, and i didn't want to have to buy 20 bucks worth of other ingredients just to not throw the eggplants away.

and then, my hand rested on The Art of Simple Food, and i thought, Duh. there has got to be something in here.

my love of caponata is great. there have been countless nights when the boy was working where i'd pick up a container of it from the deli and just eat it with a spoon or half a baguette (and then feel totally bloated afterwards, but that's another story). i love all the flavors in caponata, all those wonderful mediterranean happy sun-drenched flavors. and when i flipped through the pages and found the recipe, i sighed with relief because i had every single one of the ingredients on hand. i always keep a stockpile of salty stuff around, like capers and olives. they revive a dish like crazy.

i ended up having to run to the store anyway for things that were not caponata-related, so i did this while the eggplant was cubed, salted, and draining. oh, and a confession. i used store-bought sauce.



yeah yeah. shoot me (I roll my eyes as i type this). i know. i've got tomatoes galore covering the top of the microwave, and what do i do but resort to sauce in a jar. we have a couple of jars of store-bought sauce handy in the pantry because you just never know when you need them. i know, i know, i'm such a fucking advocate of making your own, especially since it's really not hard to make a quick tomato sauce (especially Ms. Waters'), but i've someplace to be in a half hour and didn't want to dirty up the kitchen too much. i'm probably going to regret that i admitted this, but OH WELL.

Caponata (adapated from The Art of Simple Food)

about 5 or 6 of those smaller variety of eggplant
2 ribs of celery
half a Vidalia onion, diced (you could use regular white onion, but Vidalia is in abundance down here in the South right now)
1 1/2 cups of a tomato sauce
a handful of pitted green olives
2 tablespoons of drained capers
1 to 2 teaspoons of anchovy paste or 2 anchovies, drained and smooshed up
couple of tablespoons of red wine vineggar
couple of teaspoons of sugar
olive oil, for sautéing

cut the eggplant into cubes, put in a colander and season liberally with salt. let drain and go do something else for a little while.

when drained, heat oil in a large heavy pot and sauté the eggplant in batches until golden. you don't want to throw all the eggplant in at once because they won't sauté, they'll just steam, and ew. you don't want that. remove eggplant, set aside and add a bit more oil and the celery to the pot.

sauté the celery for a bit (she says until golden, but mine didnt get golden, just soft). remove and add to the eggplant.

add a bit more oil and sauté the onion until soft, about 5 to 10 minutes.

add the tomato sauce. if you're using a store-bought sauce, i wouldn't cook it for very long, maybe a minute or two, before adding the remaining ingredients. stir and cook for another 10 minutes. taste for seasoning. serve at room temperature with pita, or as i prefer to do it, slathered on a piece of baguette that has been split lengthwise. or better yet, shovel into your trap with a soup spoon.

being more Americanized than my mom would probably care for, i don't always use just olive oil for sautéing. olive oil has a low smoke point. if you're going to cook something on high heat, olive oil is not your friend. i normally use peanut oil, which we've got a squeeze bottle of ready and waiting near the stove; but today i decided to be a purist (and felt the need to redeem myself since i used store-bought sauce), so i only used olive oil. just make sure you don't cook things on too high of a heat.

Not remotely people-food related (but Very Much animal related)

Warning: Divert your eyes if you don’t want to be grossed out. I do not want to get your hate mail. Okay, maybe I do. I could use a good laugh today.

So Mr and Mrs B ran off to Charlotte last weekend to see some hippie band play, and we were tasked with feeding their two dogs and two cats while they were gone. We’ve done this before; t’aint no big thing. It’s the neighborly thing to do.

Saturday we were going to run down to visit Brad at the oyster place, so on the way out we stopped by the B’s to feed the animals. While there, I noticed some cat vomit on the table, so I cleaned that up. And while cleaning that up, I thought to myself, “Self: normally when there is animal puke in the house, there is bound to be animal puke outside of the house”. With that in mind, I walked towards the back door, and through the doggie door I could see that one of the dogs had dragged out some of the produce which was sitting out on the kitchen counter. I sighed, opened the back door, and saw something out of the corner of my eye that looked like it was right out of a Rob Zombie movie.

A gory bottom half of a bunny.

I closed my eyes and wished it to be a big fat fuzzy rat, but when I opened my eyes again I saw the cute little fuzzy tail and knew it wasn’t so.

The first thing I thought was, Where did the top half go? then i winced and shuddered.

I stepped backwards back into the house and said, “UM. BOY! UM... GO SEE WHAT THE DOGS DID”. And he saw the look on my face and said, “Um... NO! no fucking way!”

Way back in my yout’, I dated and lived with a herpetologist. At one point, we had about 100 snakes in the house (they’re not all crawling around everywhere, they’re caged; so get that idea out of your mind). I’ve seen a lot of carnage in my time from having to feed said snakes; mostly baby mice, rats, and the occasional rabbit for one of the biggie pythons. It has been a long, long time since I’ve seen anything like that, and I’ve kind of purposely blocked a lot of that shit out. I don’t think about that period of my life, nor do I care to.

So we left the house because I suddenly felt like I was going to vomit, and i needed some stink-free air. And then we went to visit Brad. And then we felt guilty for having left the carnage lying about. So a little while later, fortified by many an oyster shooter and several glasses of Gewürztraminer, I put on some food-grade surgical gloves (which the boy keeps handy for handling raw meat), grabbed a couple of garbage bags, and the boy and I skipped arm in arm down the street singing, “Kill the wabbit! Kill the wabbit!” to the tune of “The Ride Of The Valkyries”.

During the time that we were gone, one of the animals (if not all) had taken that bottom half of rabbit and went to town with it. We were left with rabbit parts all over the back porch, coupled with enormous trails of diarrhea. Wanna see?



this picture really doesn't do it justice.

And in case you are wondering, all of the animals are just fine.

I taught an Irishman how to drink

Our buddy Brad, he who is one half of the duo who usually helps get me tanked when I go visit him at 5 Seasons, is currently working a second bartending job at a new place in Dunwoody. Monday was their opening night, so a few of us piled into the car and strolled down GA400 for a visit.

They had the usual opening night mishaps, such as the credit card machine and POS system not working (these things tend to happen), and the A/C seemed to be on the fritz as well. One of the owners, a female who I am sure has never worked a food service job in her life, picked out the uniforms. Brad gets to wear a tuxedo shirt, which is fine. Kind of impractical at times, but fine. Oh, but the girls outfits are ridiculous. Picture this: a halter top tuxedo shirt which is unbuttoned a bit with collar turned up, complete with bow tie, cumberbund, the teensiest little butt-twicher of a skirt (so short that buttcheeks are visible even though the girls are all wearing teeny shorts under them - although i don't think the male patrons are complaining), baby doll socks and high heels. Yes, you heard me right. The woman has all the girls running around waiting tables in high heels.

I worked front-of-the-house in restaurants and catering for many years, and lemme tell you that at the end of a long shift, regardless if you’re wearing super expensive shoes which are made for food service folks, your feet will hurt. I saw those girls (none who look to be a day over 19) and I wanted to hug them. I knew they’d be in pain later.

When I was 22 and working at a restaurant in Florida, I pitched a hissy fit because Converse hi tops were not part of my boss' “vision” (she was insisting I go out and buy an expensive pair of Reeboks to compliment my ugly-ass uniform). I wonder how much whining it will take before this owner chick caves and lets them wear whatever they want on their feet?

Anyhoo – other than the ridiculous outfits, I like the place. They have raw oysters on the menu. OYSTERS! I love oysters. That’s one more thing that waxes nostalgia for me about Annapolis. We used to go to Middleton’s for oyster shooters (the boy and j would have shrimp shooters). An oyster shooter at Middleton’s is a shot glass with a bit of cocktail sauce topped with a raw oyster, accompanied by a shot glass of Bud Lite or Miller Lite. One slurps down the shooter then downs the beer. It’s more of a novelty thing than anything, but I love them. If you ask nicely, you can get the bartenders to make you a “real” oyster shooter, which is basically similar to a very short Bloody Mary, complete with vodka, and a raw oyster. I had Brad make me one of those. It brought back another round of fleeting bittersweet memories of Annapolis again, and for a moment there I thought I could smell the salt water.

One of the other owners, who is married to the chick with the bad outfit vision, was milling around and came over to talk to us. He’s Irish, but he sounds like he’s been here a while because his accent is rather Americanized (and I’m not one to talk, since I sound as American as apple pie, unless I’ve had a drink or two and then I can turn on that Savannahian or Parisian in a heartbeat). We got to talking about oyster shooters, something he had never heard of. I told him he ought to put them on the menu, that people would really go for it (I knew I would definitely have them when I come in), and we discussed how much he could charge for them. This was all a new concept to him, and I was happy to talk about something I do love very much. Brad made us each one, and the Irishman carefully watched me dunk mine back. Then he did his... and his face turned red, and he clutched his heart.

“What is this? You’re killing me!” he croaked.
“Are you okay? You’re not supposed to sip on it, just tip it back. You going to live?”

About a half hour later, as I was walking back from the bathroom, he grabbed my arm and wondered aloud at how I was still walking around without falling down drunk. “That vodka will kill you! And you had two of them!”, as he drank his Guinness.

Silly Irishman.

We’re going back on Saturday. I’ve got to plead my case to get him to put oyster shooters on the menu.

There’s a first time for everything

Tonight marks my first time at making ravioli. I was inspired by this post by Michael Ruhlman, and thought, “I can do that”. I have made fresh pasta countless times, and it’s really heavenly and light-tasting. But filled pasta? Never. I didn’t even remember that I’d never made ravioli before – it didn’t occur to me. Sounds pretty silly, I know; but I just saw that picture on Ruhlman’s post, and j’en avais envie.

I’m always up for trying new pasta dough recipes. So far this year, my favorite technique has been Jamie Oliver’s. but today I needed a little manual labor, a little aggression taken out in the form of kneading by hand. Not that today was particularly hard on the workfront, but we do have some looming deadlines and a new internal product rolling out very soon at New Big Corporate, so by the time I was done dealing with Corporate Suits, I felt the need to come home and get kneading. And then pressing through the pasta rollers. (so very therapeutic. Makes me feel like Ken at the end of A Fish Called Wanda, who runs his steamroller right over Otto and then proceeds to chant “How much wood could a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?” which I tend to chant a lot, much to the boy’s annoyance. In fact I annoyed the boy so much with this chant that he actually LOOKED up how much wood a wood chuck could chuck. The answer to that question is 600 pounds {or 700, say some sources}. And there, folks, is your Useless Trivia for today).

So I used Ruhlman’s recipe for the filling as a guideline, adding to the ricotta some minced red jalapeño, minced shallot and chive, a little bit of tangerine zest, lemon zest, lemon juice, salt and pepper. The eggs are from Moore Farms, which is the only place I get my eggs from nowadays. Fresh egg yolks stand up higher than ones sitting in the grocery store for a month and a half. In fact, these yolks stood up so high that I had some difficulty folding the pasta over them.



It was about this time when I realized that I’d never made ravioli before and that I had no idea what the heck I was doing. But I didn’t let that stop me. I tossed a couple of them in salted boiling water, where the pasta proceeded to stretch and become the Incredible Expanding Ravioli. I hauled them out, splashed on some brown butter and chopped parsley, handed the boy a fork and dug in.

The verdict? The boy said it was “frou-frou” but not in a bad way. "For a refined palate", he says. He ate a couple of bites then left the rest to me, which I happily dug into. I really liked this a lot, and I just loved the yolk oozing out all over my fork when I cut into the pasta. It had incredible lemon flavor, and I think maybe next time I’ll hunt down some lemon thyme and sprinkle that on top of the plated pasta instead of parsley. It’s definitely a dish I’ll make again, and probably for a bunch of chicks, the next time any of my degenerate friends come over, that is.

play with your food

do you play with your food? well you should. at least, in a sanitary way.

i havent posted much at all lately, so i figured i'd bring you up to speed with a couple of choice photos....



.... starting with this first one, taken on my birthday. the boy made me King crab legs and a ribeye steak. i love me some Surf 'n Turf. that coupled with several glasses of good champagne, and i turned into a huge dork.

Thanks to Sig & Friends for procuring the crab. You guys are fantastic, and not without a certain je ne sais quoi sex appeal (although that Wikipedia photo is absurdly not attractive).

Up next! Bastille Day. i came home from work to find the house smelling amazing, like Good Beef Stock amazing. the boy wanted me to have a full-on Fronch day, so he made Fronch dip sandwiches and Fronch onion soup for dinner (recipes adapted from this and that). He considered making Fronch fries, but thought it would be too much. At least he didn't make Fronch toast, and I didn't ask him for my two dollars.

(oh man i 'm such a geek)



I call this photo The French dip eating French dip. if you want to see more photos, email me and i'll send you the link to my flickr account. there's all kinds of photos on there, most of them bad photography of food, but most are silly. but hey, that's my life. i'm one big Silly.

Your eyes do not deceive you. that is a Californian wine there, not French. but hey, i heard some story years ago about crops not surviving and French vines shipped in to replace them, or vice-versa. something of that sort. and frankly, i prefer Spanish reds to American and French reds, so there.

While the Beast was still cooking, i turned on the tv to find exerpts of Duran Duran's latest concert playing on VH1 Classic, so i danced around the living room, still in my work clothes, while the boy shook his head and made fun of me.

I can't believe that July is half way over; I just don't want the summer to end.

because i'm just that much of a geek

i love this!!

Millennium Falcon Cake

The tale of Chicklet and the sad end to a Dungeness crab

A couple of years ago, out of the blue, i got a phone call from a long lost old friend of mine who lives in Seattle. i met said friend when i first moved to Atlanta in 1999. in fact, she was one of the first people i met when i started at Old Big Corporate. lets just call her Chicklet for sake of ease while i tell this short tale.

A brief history of my friendship with Chicklet:

when i first met her, she stuck to me like glue because, for one, i'm a likeable person (I’d like to think) and i was quite lonely at the time having just broken up with my ex. and for two, she's a very butch lesbian and to this day thinks that i'm a closet case. she has told me on numerous occasions that one of her main goals in life is to get me out of the closet, nevermind that i have no interest in women whatsoever.

Chicklet doesn’t do things without ulterior motives. if Chicklet is nice to you (and i mean, overly nice), it's usually because she needs a favor. don't get me wrong, i like Chicklet well enough - from afar. she lives in Seattle now, so my dealings with her are rare. One time she hopped online and IMed me, asking if i could be a reference for her. i said yes, she hopped offline immediately, and not 13 minutes later the phone rang from a large corporation with offices in Seattle asking for some background information on Chicklet. that kind of pissed me off a bit because i was taken off guard. i hate that shit. at least give me a day to try to remember what kind of coworker you were.

at any rate, a couple of years ago when we were still in Maryland, Chicklet called me. It had been about 3 years since I’d last heard from her, so i knew something was up; i could smell it. we chatted, we caught up on old times. after a half hour of conversation, i knew that she was leading up to some Big Favor, because she kept asking me obscure questions ("do you remember Brian So-and-So in Atlanta? Do you remember that party i had at my house when so-and-so was there?"). so i sighed and said, "Ok Chicklet, what's up?" and she got startled, said she had to go, and hung up.

Friday evening a week later I was sitting at home in front of Fatal Attraction and a very frosty, very dry, very dirty Grey Goose martini with three olives, and the phone rang. i recognized the number as Chicklet's. part of me didn’t want to answer the phone, but the other part of me had morbid curiosity and picked up. Chicklet was at some big Seattle fish joint (not Pike's, not the one where people fling fish at each other and is always a backdrop for movies and The Real World) and was buying Dungeness crab and having it FedExed to me. my jaw dropped.

"Why?", I asked. "and what did i do to deserve this?"
"Nothing, i was just picking some up for my girl and thought that you might like some. Hey, can you send me some Old Bay?"
"Uh.. yeah, but what is up, Chicklet? why are you sending me crab? not that i'm not grateful, but..."
"Can't i send my friend some Dungeness?"

and it left me wondering when Chicklet would get to the point and finally ask me the Big Fat Favor that she was building up to.

so i'm at the grocery store the next morning, when i had to call the boy at home to ask about a particular item, and while we were discussing canned cocktail weenies versus the ones in the deli aisle, he told me, "Oh by the way, Derick just dropped off some packages" (Derick was our postman in Maryland). curious, i asked him if Chicklet's package was amongst the new arrivals, and he said, "Um, yes". and a pause.

Me: "So, did you open it?"
The Boy: "Derick walked up to the door holding a plastic postal carrier with Chicklet's box in it dripping all through the bottom and he wanted to know if we would refuse it or take it".

so the Dungeness crab arrived, and promptly ended up in the garbage. Chicklet took the crab, stuck it in a plastic grocery bag, and stuck the grocery bag in a box and spent 30 bucks shipping it Express Priority Overnight. which proves the theory i've held on to firmly for years that money can’t buy you brains (or luck, or love for that matter).

I can’t remember now what Chicklet’s ulterior motive was that time, and I never did tell her about the crab’s demise. i just emailed her saying that it had arrived (i wasn’t lying; it had arrived and was sitting wrapped in many a bag on top of the trash can out back. i purposely neglected to tell her that part though).

thank you

to mrs B for shlepping down to the city and taking me to lunch today.

i had two glasses of chianti (no fava beans) and coffee with a shot of baileys with lunch. and now i'm listening to a boring conference call.........