Today is the first day back to work from Christmas and a mammoth blizzard handicap. This season - complete with feral blood moons - is now in full force, which just makes it so hard to get into 'the zone' during work. It's also no help at all when it's mind-numbingly slow.
So instead of doodling my notes to death (again), daydreaming about where'd I'd fly to first if I could [to Neverland, of course] (again), or draining the butler's bar (again), I surfed the internets.
And found things...
...like this...
...and this...
and that.
These little segways in my day amused me; hopefully they will do the same for others on another dismal day.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
An Adventurous Tail
Once upon a time, in a faaar away land called Prospect Heights, there lived two maidens. Snowed in and driven to dementia from too much No Reservations marathon and cabin fever, they devised (what seemed like at the time) a marvelous plan: an epic journey to the Trader Joe's in Cobble Hill...a good 3 miles away, to gather the components needed for roasted eggplant pizza.
They set out, equipped for the trek, their own canvas bag and all
(yay we're green!)
...or so they thought...
The puffy coats and non-gloved hands were no match for the giant snowdrifts, unplowed streets and sidewalks, 25F temperature, or the turbulent winds blowing tiny snow needles in their faces and up their noses. They were mad, adrenalin-fueled - giddily and stubbornly trudging forth.
They reach their journey's end with flushed cheeks and running noses, laughing histerically.
The damsels climbed the icy steps into Utopia and scoured the isles up and down for the desired ingredients:
Eggplant [purple CHECK], basil [herbal CHECK], shredded mozzarella [molto CHECK], and
pizza dough [covenient CHECK]
All other fixin's were already home, so they had room for chips and salsa, a huge bag o' clementines, and bananas.
All for 22 bucks. [savvy CHECK]
And after gathering their wits and sufficient warmth, back into the blustery landscape they went, but this time, to the train.
Tra la la la, homeward bound they went to cook up some soul warming 'za.
So, I guess I'm eating again.
From the journey:
They set out, equipped for the trek, their own canvas bag and all
(yay we're green!)
...or so they thought...
The puffy coats and non-gloved hands were no match for the giant snowdrifts, unplowed streets and sidewalks, 25F temperature, or the turbulent winds blowing tiny snow needles in their faces and up their noses. They were mad, adrenalin-fueled - giddily and stubbornly trudging forth.
They reach their journey's end with flushed cheeks and running noses, laughing histerically.
The damsels climbed the icy steps into Utopia and scoured the isles up and down for the desired ingredients:
Eggplant [purple CHECK], basil [herbal CHECK], shredded mozzarella [molto CHECK], and
pizza dough [covenient CHECK]
All other fixin's were already home, so they had room for chips and salsa, a huge bag o' clementines, and bananas.
All for 22 bucks. [savvy CHECK]
And after gathering their wits and sufficient warmth, back into the blustery landscape they went, but this time, to the train.
Tra la la la, homeward bound they went to cook up some soul warming 'za.
There's the convenient TJ's dough with crushed tomatoes (mixed with salt, pepper, oregano), fresh basil, and the first sprinkling of mutz.
On goes the eggplant just sliced up and grilled on a cast iron stovetop grill pan...
...and why not some grilled chicken?...
And this is before.
And AFTER!!
So, I guess I'm eating again.
From the journey:
This is me hopelessly stuck in almost 3 feet of snow attempting to blaze a new trail. It took a while to get my enormous, sasquatch feet free.
This road is a bit more navigable.
A Belated "Merry Christmas"...
Oh, and a belated merry Christmas from my overstuffed, sleepy belly to yours. I am still recovering from two days of an Italian Christmas Eve/Christmas Day.
Eve: (after working for good ol' Shmom Shmord). I climb up my great Aunt Adele's Bensonhurst stoop, flanked by the same white stone lions since I can remember; barely after my scarf is unwound from my neck, my hand is appropriately fitted with a gin and tonic. A"spotless beverage" as my cousin Billy says.
On to the food: antipasti (in Sicilian, BK/Itlian: "andiBAHST" consisted of the usual:
MutzaDELL with tomatoes, basil and olive oil; roasted peppers and mushrooms; stuffed peppers; gabaGOOL; soupraSAHD; bruh-zshoot bread; olive bread; braided sesame bread; baked clams; and the ever present, ever sacred - insalata di frutti di mare. Too much wine (red, of course).*
SECOND: linguini di frutti di mare - loaded with mussels, shrimp, stuffed galaMAHD**, lobster tails and conch, and too much red wine.
We're all uncomfortably full by now (note: we reached this state before the antiBAHST was cleared), but it doesn't stop coming: the eggplant parmigiana, the fried shrimp (you know, for snacking in between), the roast pork, the marinated cauliflower and broccoli, the baked asparagus - Lord Jesus - and too much red wine.
The table clears and the 9 tiniest of the cousins (6 of them belonging to one uncle) gather 'round on the living room floor to open some presents. The wrapping paper turns to confetti in seconds as the youngens parade their new dolls, games, gloves, sweaters, candy, stuffed animals, books, movies, remote cars, and the like. It's nauseatingly cute in the best, most endearingly heart-melting way.
Then the table is set with a mountainous fruit basket, nuts, these little chocolate covered fruit jelly ring things, and two types of fudge.
This is the appetizer before the real dessert and coffee is put out.
Then in comes the coffee, pecan pie, the pistachio cake, Italian cookie assortment, brownies and ice cream (just in case).
It was a quaint crowd of 25 this year. We had a good handful missing. Yes, really.
Christmas day was with my uncle Paulie and Cheryl, cousins Zach, Josh, Naomi, Liz, Eddie, and Malachi, and my Aunt Cheryl's parents and brother. Antipasti - mutzaDELL in cahROTZ***, fresh mutz, parmigiano hunks and roasted peppers, and bread.
Then lasagna with meatballs and sausage.
Then dessert spread: apple pie, banana cream pie, cookies, cookies, cookies, cupakes (both vanilla and chocolate), bishGOHTT****, and brownies.
I never want to eat again.
*Translation: mozzarella with tomatoes, basil and olive oil; roasted peppers and mushrooms; stuffed peppers; capricola; sopressata; proscuitto bread; olive bread; braided sesame bread; bakes clams; and the ever present, ever sacred, Italian fish salad. Too much wine (red, of course).
**Translation: calamari
***Translation: mozzarella in carrozza (grilled cheese but with mutz)
****Translation: biscotti
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The First Snow
My landlord is completely incapable of keeping the heat at a reasonable temperature; either it's torrid or gelid. No happy medium. Ever.
No that is not a reason why I heart NY, but I'm getting there. It just needs some back-story...
Anyway, tonight is an especially stifling evening and it's thundersnowing. Yes, there is such a thing, and it is perfectly majestic. Thundersnowing since about noon today. Thundering and snowing. And lightning. Thundersnow lightning.
So to help alleviate this oppressive heat, my roommate and I simply walk to the kitchen, open the window and proceed to make snowballs off our fire escape. We then flounce back to our Lord of the Rings marathon and give the backs of our necks and wrists a nice snowy cool-down.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
And so it goes...
So it goes again. I've frozen solid as my wannabe mentor walks in (only this time it's quite literal, being 32F today, and having to work in a drafty matchbox at a solid bronze desk, perched on a solid bronze chair. - Don't believe me?..). Oh my nerves, the agony, the nausea, the sheer fright and excitement!
...let us call it exfrightment.
Now, I'm just mad at myself. I cannot even buck up the courage to create SOME kind of small talk. Nothing comes out. My face, trying to blush and my glands straining to break a sweat, to no avail. Too cold.
And I'm fine with that. I may be a nervous wreck as usual, but at least this time, I'm able to pull off looking "cool and profesh" (in theory).
Well, small talk may be swell, but what I really would like to do (and I've daydreamed countless scenarios of how to execute this) is to just hand over my resume and tell him exactly what I'd like to do as a part of his team. I am well aware of the risk I would be taking in doing so, since said scenario would transpire at my current place of occupation; for me, this only makes it more thrilling - just the Russian spy/Bond chick part of me peeking out.
And yet, I continue to remain petrified - to make myself clear - NOT over the sake of my job, but because again, Shmanthony Shmordain is Tarzan to my baby giraffe.
New Subject? Radical. Keep watching until 2 minutes in, just past the FBI agents, if you didn't catch the reference there...
On to thoughts and happenings I have experienced within the past two months.
It has been quite a while since posting, but many goings on have occurred recently, from huge and lengthy (not to mention stressful) work investigations, resulting in my exploring other "opportunities", an attempt to relax while home, nights arrested (happily and consensually) on the phone, to nine blissful October days, Oh yes, and a gnarly super virus my doc thought was mono, just to name a few of the events and reasons why every inch of my brain and emotions have been completely devoted to "thinking" or being involved in the moment. Lately, different issues and - I don't want to say stresses - but many instances have taken place to leave me feeling a touch too overwhelmed to focus any attention towards writing; I wanted to, but felt totally incapable, if that makes any sense at all.
When feeling overwhelmed or stressed, a huge habit of mine is to recluse, even from Fairy Pudding.
Mr. Future is such a brute, as he dauntingly approaches; he can also be a helluva tease.
But no matter; it's in God's hands. So yes, I may be exfrighted, but I'm also a bit more at ease these days.
Bittersweet things. I sigh.
...let us call it exfrightment.
Now, I'm just mad at myself. I cannot even buck up the courage to create SOME kind of small talk. Nothing comes out. My face, trying to blush and my glands straining to break a sweat, to no avail. Too cold.
And I'm fine with that. I may be a nervous wreck as usual, but at least this time, I'm able to pull off looking "cool and profesh" (in theory).
Well, small talk may be swell, but what I really would like to do (and I've daydreamed countless scenarios of how to execute this) is to just hand over my resume and tell him exactly what I'd like to do as a part of his team. I am well aware of the risk I would be taking in doing so, since said scenario would transpire at my current place of occupation; for me, this only makes it more thrilling - just the Russian spy/Bond chick part of me peeking out.
And yet, I continue to remain petrified - to make myself clear - NOT over the sake of my job, but because again, Shmanthony Shmordain is Tarzan to my baby giraffe.
New Subject? Radical. Keep watching until 2 minutes in, just past the FBI agents, if you didn't catch the reference there...
On to thoughts and happenings I have experienced within the past two months.
It has been quite a while since posting, but many goings on have occurred recently, from huge and lengthy (not to mention stressful) work investigations, resulting in my exploring other "opportunities", an attempt to relax while home, nights arrested (happily and consensually) on the phone, to nine blissful October days, Oh yes, and a gnarly super virus my doc thought was mono, just to name a few of the events and reasons why every inch of my brain and emotions have been completely devoted to "thinking" or being involved in the moment. Lately, different issues and - I don't want to say stresses - but many instances have taken place to leave me feeling a touch too overwhelmed to focus any attention towards writing; I wanted to, but felt totally incapable, if that makes any sense at all.
When feeling overwhelmed or stressed, a huge habit of mine is to recluse, even from Fairy Pudding.
Mr. Future is such a brute, as he dauntingly approaches; he can also be a helluva tease.
But no matter; it's in God's hands. So yes, I may be exfrighted, but I'm also a bit more at ease these days.
Bittersweet things. I sigh.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
How it Feels to be Made of Wood
When my favorite person walking on this planet just so happens to casually stroll into Shmom Shmord, I cannot begin to convey my state of absolute petrification. This is about their 5th-ish visit here, where I have FINALLY bucked up the courage to say, "Good morning, I informed Joe Irish* you are here; he'll be with you shortly. May I get you something to drink while you wait?"
Despite my profuse sweating and serious case of Redface (but good thing Shmom Shmord operates within a subzero climate, or else my sweating would be out of control and just...sloppy), I have made significant strides in progress here, budding from my 3rd encounter - as he was leaving, I sputtered out "huge fan!" like an ass. No seriously, just picture a newborn fawn or giraffe trying to stand up and walk for the first time, and it's learning to speak all at once, and...I don't know...Tarzan walks by.
Well, that's me. Clumsy, bewildered, wet, and sputtering gibberish.
And now I'm left freezing and will most likely suffer and die from hypothermia before 6PM today.
To clarify, I am by no means obsessed with this man, Shmanthony Shmourdain, for any reason other than being an admiring and devoted fan of his work, from his show to his books to his commentaries and consults. Nope, no groupies here.
Only awe and respect.
I could go on and on and on about how he's making this world a better place, and how his show is changing how people should view their relationship with food, as well as other cultures and how fulfilling it must really be to get such a message across to so many people, whilst rinsed with wit and alcohol, but I won't.
*Alias bestowed to protect colleague's identity
Despite my profuse sweating and serious case of Redface (but good thing Shmom Shmord operates within a subzero climate, or else my sweating would be out of control and just...sloppy), I have made significant strides in progress here, budding from my 3rd encounter - as he was leaving, I sputtered out "huge fan!" like an ass. No seriously, just picture a newborn fawn or giraffe trying to stand up and walk for the first time, and it's learning to speak all at once, and...I don't know...Tarzan walks by.
Well, that's me. Clumsy, bewildered, wet, and sputtering gibberish.
And now I'm left freezing and will most likely suffer and die from hypothermia before 6PM today.
To clarify, I am by no means obsessed with this man, Shmanthony Shmourdain, for any reason other than being an admiring and devoted fan of his work, from his show to his books to his commentaries and consults. Nope, no groupies here.
Only awe and respect.
I could go on and on and on about how he's making this world a better place, and how his show is changing how people should view their relationship with food, as well as other cultures and how fulfilling it must really be to get such a message across to so many people, whilst rinsed with wit and alcohol, but I won't.
*Alias bestowed to protect colleague's identity
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Divine in all its Goopidity
This place had me choked up, pining for more and left me uttering only the words "O my goodness, kill me now, so I know I'll die happy". My older sister and I walked around, a glass of wine in hand, perusing and drooling and oggling over isles of fresh pastas (from semolina to fara to kamut) and gold foil-wrapped olive oils, section after heart tugging section. The fruit mostardas, the heap of meyer lemons, the botarga, the mini crate of uni (this. this thing right here. IS my favorite thing on the planet) caught off the coast of the north Atlantic that morning. and the MOZZARELLA station. The master artfully massaging and caressing that beautiful dairy cloud in this big silver basin right in front of my face! STOP IT!
And then. Il cioccolato.
Rows and shelves and platters of bliss. Of perfection. Of death.
From the handmade Baci-like bonbons to toasted coconut-coated truffles to these divine dark chocolate bubbles filled with chocolate liqueur. As each were proudly nestled in their fluted throne, they sang to my soul. They beckoned; I answered with fervor.
It's all their fault.
I chose the bubble - that hollow orb filled of an all at once silken, oozy and goopy, divinity.
In a word sublime.
I lose my train of thought as the first bite is taken while my darling little sister is innocently chatting to me over the phone about...well, something to do with crocheting, I think.
And now here goes this viscous rush of goopishness down my hand and onto my chin, then chest. Poor little girl was completely oblivious to my juggling of goop and iPhone and divinity all over the place.
Standing in the middle of this crowded marketplazaheaven with napkins just kind of sticking to me, not aiding my sitch in the least.
Oooh, but it was worth it - every last flake of chocolate, every embarrassing look.
Worth it, and I'll do it again.
And then. Il cioccolato.
Rows and shelves and platters of bliss. Of perfection. Of death.
From the handmade Baci-like bonbons to toasted coconut-coated truffles to these divine dark chocolate bubbles filled with chocolate liqueur. As each were proudly nestled in their fluted throne, they sang to my soul. They beckoned; I answered with fervor.
It's all their fault.
I chose the bubble - that hollow orb filled of an all at once silken, oozy and goopy, divinity.
In a word sublime.
I lose my train of thought as the first bite is taken while my darling little sister is innocently chatting to me over the phone about...well, something to do with crocheting, I think.
And now here goes this viscous rush of goopishness down my hand and onto my chin, then chest. Poor little girl was completely oblivious to my juggling of goop and iPhone and divinity all over the place.
Standing in the middle of this crowded marketplazaheaven with napkins just kind of sticking to me, not aiding my sitch in the least.
Oooh, but it was worth it - every last flake of chocolate, every embarrassing look.
Worth it, and I'll do it again.
Monday, September 13, 2010
ME on the other hand...
I have had an odd weekend.
Yesterday evening's event capped the end to a very long week. Enough stressful scenarios and fashion "emeeergencies" bubbled over to make a person sick - quite literally (Thera Flu's got my back)! But it's been more so on a personally emotional level for me most people don't quite understand.
It's hard to know how to properly convey my experience of something like this coming together from the point of view as an ex (I'll admit even, struggling) anorexic/bulimic.
Not that this experience was not surreal or exciting at all in some points, to see and have a conversation with some people I never would have even come within the same room - let alone same dressing room - if I wasn't a part of this team; this production conjured up an especially daunting amount of horrible feelings and memories right to my face hour after agonizing hour, day after day, all week long.
As I help dress this girl whose waist couldn't have been more than 19 inches and close to 6 feet tall, I fight the thoughts of needing to be there again too. Needless to say, of course some people have tiny frames (this girl was Asian), but to see the bones in your throat and to have a baggy thong...my God, save me from having a nervous breakdown.
Liya Kebede would be crushed by a light breeze and her skin looks so weathered and tired, just nothing close to what a 32yr old should look like.
I had to see Chanel Iman - born from a model and obliged to keep the tradition going. Maybe you didn't know, but she's now a Victoria's Secret Angel. I don't want to get blasted for calling her, by far, one of the worst things I've ever laid eyes on (I honestly don't see how she got a spot modeling lingerie, when I'm being generous in calling her an A-cup...which she is not filling).
On one hand, I see it as a sacrifice - a Goldman Sachs employee may sacrifice sleep and hours away from home to keep up with a grueling, high pressure job. They sacrifice the health of a good night's sleep on a regular basis to get the job done and to meet deadline. I've reasoned with myself it's ok - I sacrifice my health for a while (2 weeks with no food and running 3 miles a day on nothing but coffee to maintain my standard 103 pounds and 33" hips ). They need to be a certain look, a certain size (even though more often than not, the sample clothes have to be taken in to fit this type - I know. I've been there.) That's one thing, not that I'm justifying it.
But to glorify this is a different animal. To be subjected even to window mannequins that have projecting ribs drives me to a point of wanting to give up the fight, break down, and go throw up. To listen to these girls be called "slender" (skin stretched over premature osteoporosis frames is more like it) leaves someone like me on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It is a constant struggle to burn into my skull my 35inch hips are NOT blubbery and repulsive.
So please forgive me as I excuse myself of partaking in this moment "going down in 'history'" to just hate it all for a few minutes. Give me some time and a little space to not take this all personally and say to myself it's OK to go eat a tomato slice of that tray.
Not that I see many girls or women wanting to be one of these girls per se, but we all want to matter to the rest of the world and be put on a pedestal like these girls are - whether or not they're walking advertisements on how well of a job not eating (or doing blow, or consuming tissues soaked in lemon juice) keeps one "slender".
And maybe that is one of the reasons now why I've become obsessed with the food world, depriving myself of it for so long (on and off for nearly 7 years...mostly on). Modeling goes against my grain too much anyway, hell - I'm Italian and coming from cooking nearly every day with my Dad before moving here FOR modeling.
And for what? For my hair to fall out and be sick all the time, only to hear a photographer tell me, quoting Kate Moss as I pick up a handful of grapes at a shoot "Now, Juliet remember, 'nothing tastes as good as skinny feels'" and having to suck in my (already concave) stomach for the next 5 frames.
Fuck you.
I just want to know truly what it feels like to not beat myself up for feeling full.
"It doesn't matter, mom. I could be eating a bag of gummy bears or an apple and still feel the same."
"So let it be the apple."
UUUUGH ok fine.
Although, I commend Daria Werbowy. She looked great and had vibrance to her skin and a sense of humor.
I'm continuing to train myself that I matter to God, my creator, and that this world is fickle and dying. I have life through Him and Him alone.
Liya Kebede would be crushed by a light breeze and her skin looks so weathered and tired, just nothing close to what a 32yr old should look like.
I had to see Chanel Iman - born from a model and obliged to keep the tradition going. Maybe you didn't know, but she's now a Victoria's Secret Angel. I don't want to get blasted for calling her, by far, one of the worst things I've ever laid eyes on (I honestly don't see how she got a spot modeling lingerie, when I'm being generous in calling her an A-cup...which she is not filling).
On one hand, I see it as a sacrifice - a Goldman Sachs employee may sacrifice sleep and hours away from home to keep up with a grueling, high pressure job. They sacrifice the health of a good night's sleep on a regular basis to get the job done and to meet deadline. I've reasoned with myself it's ok - I sacrifice my health for a while (2 weeks with no food and running 3 miles a day on nothing but coffee to maintain my standard 103 pounds and 33" hips ). They need to be a certain look, a certain size (even though more often than not, the sample clothes have to be taken in to fit this type - I know. I've been there.) That's one thing, not that I'm justifying it.
But to glorify this is a different animal. To be subjected even to window mannequins that have projecting ribs drives me to a point of wanting to give up the fight, break down, and go throw up. To listen to these girls be called "slender" (skin stretched over premature osteoporosis frames is more like it) leaves someone like me on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It is a constant struggle to burn into my skull my 35inch hips are NOT blubbery and repulsive.
So please forgive me as I excuse myself of partaking in this moment "going down in 'history'" to just hate it all for a few minutes. Give me some time and a little space to not take this all personally and say to myself it's OK to go eat a tomato slice of that tray.
Not that I see many girls or women wanting to be one of these girls per se, but we all want to matter to the rest of the world and be put on a pedestal like these girls are - whether or not they're walking advertisements on how well of a job not eating (or doing blow, or consuming tissues soaked in lemon juice) keeps one "slender".
And maybe that is one of the reasons now why I've become obsessed with the food world, depriving myself of it for so long (on and off for nearly 7 years...mostly on). Modeling goes against my grain too much anyway, hell - I'm Italian and coming from cooking nearly every day with my Dad before moving here FOR modeling.
And for what? For my hair to fall out and be sick all the time, only to hear a photographer tell me, quoting Kate Moss as I pick up a handful of grapes at a shoot "Now, Juliet remember, 'nothing tastes as good as skinny feels'" and having to suck in my (already concave) stomach for the next 5 frames.
Fuck you.
I just want to know truly what it feels like to not beat myself up for feeling full.
"It doesn't matter, mom. I could be eating a bag of gummy bears or an apple and still feel the same."
"So let it be the apple."
UUUUGH ok fine.
Although, I commend Daria Werbowy. She looked great and had vibrance to her skin and a sense of humor.
I'm continuing to train myself that I matter to God, my creator, and that this world is fickle and dying. I have life through Him and Him alone.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Things aren't Always What They Seem
Today, we'll be playing a game of
Either way, I'll be using it instead (or maybe with, since I love spice) of black pepper, mostly because it is home to copious amounts of enzymes aiding in digestion. You can also just chomp on them if you're too impatient to dry them in the oven at 150 degrees (in my oven's case, 170 degrees). I'm not all that picky and eat just about anything (and can be quite lazy sometimes), so I enjoy both ways!
I must say, the raw texture is fun. Plus you get more of the fruit's flavor this way. To clean them, all you really have to do is rinse or soak them a bit, and your natural-ified Alka Seltzer is a-ready to a-gooo! Just pulverize them in your spice grinder to however coarse you want, or put them in whole inside your pepper mill. Apparently, they're a great addition to salad dressings.
I think I may just add it to some guacammmmole.
......
...if you caught the Austen Powers in Goldmember reference, you just earned back your 50 trillion internets.
So next time I buy a papaya, I'll be trying out this cocktail called Iron Fist in a Velvet Glove. To be honest, I'm not a huge fan of the musky-esque essence papaya can have, but when disguised with booze, who cares. (supposed to serve 4...personally, I love gin, so I'd up that part of the ratio a bit):
1 ripe Hawaiian papaya, seeded and peeled
Papaya seeds from one papaya, rinsed
6 ounces of gin (I'd put a whole 8 :) )
3 tablespoons lemon juice
5 mint leaves
16 ounces club soda
½ cup cubed ice
Blend everything together in a blender until combined. Serve nice and chill!
NAME
THAT
THING!!!
Heeeere's rooound one!!
Could it be Tootles' lost marbles? pebbles at the bottom of a fish tank??
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...
Capers? pppppffhh, HA!!!!
No.
Some sort of dried caviar??? Some odd Chinatown find where only the shriveled 230 year old Grandma manning the filthy, fly-infested, food(?) stand knows its true origin?? NOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Folks, for rooooound three! How about we single out just one, with a reference scale, both raw and dried specimens...
Larvae, you say? Nope, AND deduct 50 trillion internets for your lousy, prosaic, attempt at a guess.
Blown up microscopic image of what's inside your blackheads?
Gross.
NO!
OK, round two. Moving on to it's (here's a hint) driiiiied staaaage:
[Ooooh's and Aaaaah's abound]
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...
Capers? pppppffhh, HA!!!!
Some sort of dried caviar??? Some odd Chinatown find where only the shriveled 230 year old Grandma manning the filthy, fly-infested, food(?) stand knows its true origin?? NOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Folks, for rooooound three! How about we single out just one, with a reference scale, both raw and dried specimens...
A bird's eye?!! You barbarian. No.
Give up???
Weeell, ok.
It's time for THIS!!!
You want to know what it is???
!!!!!!!
Please stop crying. No-no! Don't turn that dial! You're...you're my only viewer.
Ugh, yea, the build-up joke is getting old for me too...
They're papaya seeds!!!!!
These slimy little orbs are a terrific substitute for black pepper, though they're heat is a bit different. It's not as sharp; more mellow and warm, I'd say. Also, it's a bit toasty tasting (maaaybe that's because of the oven? Might not have that quality if put in a dehydrator). My favorite part would have to be how the heat lingers and builds in your mouth - it doesn't necessarily hit your palate right at first, but that may just be me.Either way, I'll be using it instead (or maybe with, since I love spice) of black pepper, mostly because it is home to copious amounts of enzymes aiding in digestion. You can also just chomp on them if you're too impatient to dry them in the oven at 150 degrees (in my oven's case, 170 degrees). I'm not all that picky and eat just about anything (and can be quite lazy sometimes), so I enjoy both ways!
I must say, the raw texture is fun. Plus you get more of the fruit's flavor this way. To clean them, all you really have to do is rinse or soak them a bit, and your natural-ified Alka Seltzer is a-ready to a-gooo! Just pulverize them in your spice grinder to however coarse you want, or put them in whole inside your pepper mill. Apparently, they're a great addition to salad dressings.
I think I may just add it to some guacammmmole.
......
...if you caught the Austen Powers in Goldmember reference, you just earned back your 50 trillion internets.
So next time I buy a papaya, I'll be trying out this cocktail called Iron Fist in a Velvet Glove. To be honest, I'm not a huge fan of the musky-esque essence papaya can have, but when disguised with booze, who cares. (supposed to serve 4...personally, I love gin, so I'd up that part of the ratio a bit):
1 ripe Hawaiian papaya, seeded and peeled
Papaya seeds from one papaya, rinsed
6 ounces of gin (I'd put a whole 8 :) )
3 tablespoons lemon juice
5 mint leaves
16 ounces club soda
½ cup cubed ice
Blend everything together in a blender until combined. Serve nice and chill!
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
My "Labor Day"
I woke up at 9:30; went back to bed for another hour. I lazily kicked back my covers rubbing my eyes, my marigold painted walls slowly coming into focus.
I know, I know, the flavor profiles totally clash, but it's what we had and it was a blast to make...
...which went like this:
I climb out of my loft bed (I love my loft bed. I'm not ashamed to say I pretend to be Peter Pan as I climb up the wooden ladder to nuzzle into my "treehouse". You know you're jealous). As my feet hit the floor, I contemplate on climbing back up to my cocoon.
I stumble down the hallway into the dim living room and lay on the couch for a minute. Then i make tea. Roomie goes to get coffee, and I guzzle that down too.
I painted my toes and finger nails.
I bum around on the internet for a while, then draft some articles while listening to my Pandora stations.
I call an old friend.
Some friends drop by for a few.
I take a shower...I don't step outside of my apartment until just after 5PM.
My roomies and I stroll out into the breezy afternoon headed towards...
this...
This, folks, is a scene from my roommate's phone of the Caribbean Day Parade.
Eastern Parkway is trembling off the rictor scale with the base from the blaring Reggae with girls who have absolutely no business wearing thong-kinis along with feathers coming of their faces and boot tops gyrating their hips to the insane, brain aneurysm-inducing beat.
Just in case you didn't believe me (just look at those rolls). And I'm not quite sure what's wrong with the guy just laying in the road. Just taking a break from all the pot and dry humping, I guess.
O and these cool kids:
Goldie seems to be wearing a bead-curtain/neck tie little ornament there. Pretty cool.
Then Wonder Woman Bad Ass there just wants us dead.
So we moved on...
Then we wandered.
Bought some vegetable seeds for our nongarden and empty planters.
And wandered some more.
Then wandered home where I made this:
Wild caught cod poached in vegetable broth and coconut milk with aromatics of shallots, the cutest, tiniest red onions, ginger, and saffron; also, I added orange zest and dried chilies and topped with toasted almonds and pepitas.
The roasted veggies are potatoes, bell pepper, mushrooms, the most intensely jewel-toned yams, onion, aaand..o right, carrots and garlic cloves - crushed, not minced or sliced. Tossed with EVOO, salt, red pepper flakes, sage, rosemary, thyme (no parsley...I know, I should have, just so could type out the lyrics).
...which went like this:
So while the veggies were roasting in the oven at 400 degrees for pr'aps* an hour-ish, I started the fish.
O ok, this one does, though. That's me mixing the saffron into the coconut milk. The chilies are in the bowl just in-front of my cutesy little hand-painted mug, mixed in with the orange zest and ginger chunks.
Theeen...
...tossin' the veggehs.Turned off the oven.
I saute the iiiitty-bitty red onions and shallot with a cuppla' tabes o' EVOO**
Then I added the shriveled chilies and ginger chunks.
I poured in some vegetable broth and then in went the...
coconut milk and saffron.
I let it bubble and be delicious for a bit and sprinkled on the orange zest. Also, I added a pinch (small pinch) of thyme, because I felt like it.
(sorry, I don't remember how long, but just let it go until it changes from opaque to just about solid white on the bottom, flip, then let it go just until it's all white)
I plated and placed a row of the toasted nuts down the fillet and spooned on some sauce all before adding the painfully cliche parsley garnish you saw in the first pickchaaah***
We took it to the couch to watch the last of the No Reservations marathon (my favorite show).
So my point behind listing all the action today is: why would you call it Labor Day, when there is absolutely no labor done?? I get it, it's to honor all the workers, blah, blah - but call it something else not pertaining to the work they've done, but to the break they deserve. Call it, I don't know...Day of Rest...no God has dibs on that. Well, then how about Take a Break Day? Well, just not Labor Day. It just makes no sense to me.
* "pr'aps = perhaps
**Julietese for "a couple of tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil."
***that means picture
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