I bet that this dude, who wrote what he thought was an exposé about Iron Chef America, goes up to children and tells them that there’s no Santa Claus. And then I bet he walks home feeling all smug like he’s done something important and righted some injustice. What a cock.
As you may or may not know, I have an affinity for baby wipes. People may think it’s gross, but any arguement you have against them, I have a great defense supporting them. I don’t know why more people don’t use them. Why should babies be the only ones? I mean, those dudes don’t even know how to control their own bowels.
Anyway, Fairway decided to jack up the price on them. Which is fine, because I will pay for the luxury of them. But raising the price sixty fucking cents in two weeks?! Come on! That’s just some effed up ess, right there. I remember in high school when my local supermarket raised the price of Little Debbie’s Zebra Cakes by twenty cents and I went berzerker then, too.
In addition, Seventh Generation even changed the packaging slightly - making the baby a little more, um, whiter. I always thought that thing was a ginger halfie, which made me even more inclined to buy it because I was ginger when I was a baby. Now it’s juse some cracker baby taking my money.
Soon baby wipes will cost more than smokes.
But at least there aren’t naked children on a pack of Camel Lights.
It’s been awhile I’ve cooked out of a book. I almost forgot how fun it is to go to the market with a list and try to find ingredients or make adequate substitutions on the fly. This recipe is from Tyler Florence’s “Eat This Book”. Tyler is a guilty pleasure. I don’t know if the recipes are even his. He’s not respectable as a restaurant chef. And friends have told me that he’s a cokehead and a womanizer. But I don’t care because I like the simple, fresh shit he does on the television and he doesn’t have a personality to distract me.
Last weekend, I took the leftover rabbit braise and some short crust dough home with me so I could make my rabbit pot pie for Matt. Here it is:
I don’t like to eat too many processed foods - they make me feel icky. However, I do like my trashy bachelor chow type foods. Especially after dealing with fine dining cuisine all day. I can now understand how Hugh Grant, when going out with the hottest broad in the world just wanted some nasty sex from a dirty prostitute. So I was way stoked to find Annie’s mac ‘n’ cheese. It tastes exactly like Velveeta, except it’s doesn’t have any chemicals or ingredients you can’t pronounce. Today I made some for lunch and noticed the box was kind fucked up. I went to pour the pasta into the water and whatthefuck I get two cheese sauce packets! Whoa! It totally made my day.
Unfortunatly, it does not contain any rabbit meat.
This past weekend was the premier of my first dish at The Restaurant: Individual rabbit pot pie. Braised rabbits with white wine, thyme, carrots, red potatoes, mushrooms, leeks, garlic and onions in a short crust. Available in appetizer and entree portions (the latter served with haricot vert). I was pretty happy with the dish except for the fact that I couldn’t use green peas (we don’t use produce that’s not in season) and that my chefs made me plate the pie on a doiley.
There’s a swell of pride when you cook at home and sucessfully pull off someone else’s recipe. But coming up with your own dish that strangers are willing to pay for is like fifty times that. It’s kinda like the difference between masturbating and sitting on your hand until it goes numb and then masturbating.
Looks like a skinned Pokey. If Pokey was skinny.
So Schnäck is finally going to die. I used to love this place, but ever since I moved into the neighborhood they’ve lost their liquor license (they used to make awesome beer shakes with Dogfish Head’s Chicory Stout), given me a serious case of loose poops and raised their prices.
Schnäck is like a lame dog with the shits and heart worms who smells bad and sleeps all day.
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