Category Archives: food

Whatever it takes Or how my heart breaks I will be right here waiting for you

The thing I like the best about You Life is how aggressively I can neglect it, and yet whenever I need You Life it’s always right there waiting for me. Like a Richard Marx song. I don’t know what this says about me, but I think it’s bad: both the deep appreciation of how much I adore the opportunity to neglect that which I love, and my knowledge of Richard Marx songs. (I could sing all the hits).

you life richard marx

Along with my love of soft rock, which is no secret, it’s also no secret that I eat like a candy beast human landfill teeming with cookies and cream hazelnut spread (by Jif) .

you life collage

I’m real gross. A few weeks ago, I texted my best friend letting him know that I had to pause over whether or not I was going to eat a chocolate glazed doughnut off of brick retaining wall near a car dealership. And this is not the first time I’ve had to ask for guidance about finding sweets on the ground

you life starburst

Considering my garbage status of trash human, it didn’t totally surprise me that someone (WHO HAS YET TO COME FORWARD AND WILL NOT OWN THIS) signed me up for Diabetes Self-Management. At first I thought this was weirdly accurate SPAM. But after further investigation this appears to be some sort of email blast that you have to sign up for which provides healthy eating tips and recipes. Either in an act of self-care I signed up for this while black out drunk (not impossible), or someone signed this up for me out of concern (less likely), or someone signed me up for this as a hilarious response to my terrible eating habits (most likely).

you life diabetes

Along with my love of food that is mostly comprised of a triumph of food chemistry and the sugar industry, I am fucking WILD about salt. Ohhhhhhhhh motherfucker. I keep salt with me everywhere. I carry salt packets in my purse, and whenever I check anything that has a pocket there will be salt packets in there too, and I keep an individual canister of Morton’s salt at my desk at work.

you life salt

As a result, I am unsurprised that along with a specter signing me up for diabetes care newsletters that salt has taken a more aggressive stance in my life and has started to email me directly. From now on, I look forward to continuing this correspondence with Salt.

salt you life 2

 

Welcome Salt, join my inbox with the emails about my impending diabetes and how to manage it and my desk with a canister of you at the ready. It’s nice to take our relationship to the next level. And I look forward to being able to adore you and neglect you – just like I do to You Life and soft rock. My whole heart, mi amore.

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One of these things is not like the other

My mom put out a fruit bowl (basket? It’s square-ish, so presumably it’s not a bowl. What is this? Who is an adult that uses shit like this? Who do I know that has decorative kitchen…appliances (?) things?).

And I can’t be sure if this is arranged the way it is because my mother is 1. hilarious 2. a space case that doesn’t pay attention to what she’s doing or 3. conducting a deeply disturbing social experiment on her dinner guests.

photo

one of these things is not like the other

She actually prompted people to grab some fruit or nuts before dinner if they were hungry.

Hey, seriously, what is the fruit and nuts receptacle called?

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Things I found today in my purse:

chicken-drummer

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December 29, 2016 · 6:40 pm

Raviolo: the case study

I like to make inflammatory remarks on the Internet. I’ve said some truly and exceptionally stupid and abrasive things online because I’m a glutton for punishment and other equally selfish and needy reasons.

But never have I captured such a strong reaction as when I said this:
ravioli

In 2016 I learned that people fucking love some ravioli. Like a lot. It wasn’t totally fair that the first comment came from a handsome gentlemen actually from Italy with a glib response:

ravioli

In these comments he’s also informing me that the grocery store that’s behind my very apartment has some delicious ravioli. And then how to cook.

And then I learned that ravioli comes in all kinds of intriguing and diverse flavors and styles, and suddenly ravioli bonds were being forged on my FaceBook timeline:
ravioli

And not only were friends tethered together through a mutual acquaintance and appreciation for pillow-y food treats, it generated confusion:

ravioli

BUT I HAVE A RESPONSE FOR THAT CONFUSION. (I also paraphrased the postmodern bit from an episode of a radio show that I like).

And then it started to manifest in delicious suggestions by beloved friends:
ravioli

ravioli

Totally accurate: I am spoiled. I probably do want it fresh. And I’ll take anything with vodka.

And then I got called out:
ravioli

And somehow bringing up Dunkaroos brought up an entirely different, though I’d venture, equally important conversation about yummy snacks and the halcyon days of the WWF.

ravioli

revelations

Starting to accidentally insult people:
ravioli

And I begin to question who am since most of my favorite food is courtesy of this chef:
ravioli

So I needed to chime in on my own behalf and my own gamine naivety that I think is basically film worthy.
ravioli

It’s true. I eat candy and grilled cheeses almost every day and sometimes in multiples per day.

And much like Kim Kardashian’s ass before me, my self-reflection destroyed the Internet:
ravioli

Many additional voices jumped in with feelings on ravioli, no one was on my side. Not a soul. And then in a shocking twist of irony, the very lunchroom – site of twice a day grilled cheeses – decided to put this out for lunch.

ravioli

It’s fucking fried ravioli (like THAT’s gonna trick me). This lunchroom has never ever ever had this out before.

 

I then brought my parents into the debate. To the best of my knowledge they’re Italian food loving asses would be the best judge on pasta.
This is my father’s response:
ravioli
To give you some context of this email: my father is a great man who I love dearly. However, he is also the person that in response to the news that I got him Yankees tickets and that I love that he’s my dad responded, “wow!” I think I can count the things he’s said he’s loved on one hand. Evidently not only does ravioli makes the list – it makes the list in all caps.

My mom acted just like you’d expect my mom to:
ravioli

ravioli

I love that she conceded that *some* restaurants are capable of making homemade ravioli

FINE.

I decided to go to South Philly to get ravioli because, I don’t know. It seemed like the place to go (somewhere in the Italian market). I won’t share the name of the place because I don’t want anyone to think that destination influenced decisions. Despite the whole going to South Philly thing…whatever. They were homemade. Or handmade? Like not frozen is what I’m getting at.

I tried to get the person I was there with to take a photo of the blessed event but he was crazy stoned and started getting insanely paranoid about using a smart phone in public because he doesn’t own one or know how to use them. So this was the result. I’d like everyone to know that I showered for this occasion and you can’t even tell. Fuck a job.
IMG_2294

Result:

Dude…I’m not getting it. I know that I’ve missed out on some seriously important things in life that I eventually came around to, but are my taste buds corrupted from too many years of persistent candy eating? I mean, they’re just pockets of dough filled with crumbly ricotta – which no one likes. They’re not repugnant like relish or pancakes, but they weren’t delicious like welsh rarebit or Diet Cokes. Maybe if they were filled with welsh rarebit or diet soda I’d be, like, “oh heyyyyyyy sorta adorable looking pasta thing!”

Do I need a do-over? Or not restaurant ravioli? Bigger question – do I need many people to make me many different kinds of ravioli?

In the end I treated myself to a cannoli. I gave myself a boxing name (Janie ‘the cannoli’ Cannarella), and then just ate all of the cream and whipped cream.
FullSizeRender (2)

 

 

 

 

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Cataloging Custom for You [Life]

I used to work for a legitimate crazy person at her home office, which is a horse of different color. But one day these two super-hot dudes came to her door and said they were selling books. So instantly suckered into their little web of deceit, my boss and I bought like $45 worth of books. Fun side note, the grimier one of the dudes gave me his number in case I needed my, “lawn trimmed” (his words, not mine).

After six months, it became apparent that two jerk-offs ripped off an old (crazy) lady and a young girl. No books appeared. However, I did start receiving a subscription to Gourmet Magazine that I never requested or paid for.

Because sometimes the universe rewards you by being ripped off by someone who you thought was flirting with you with a magazine that you’ve never been interested in, used, or really read. And then it further rewards you by sending you William Sonoma catalogues for two years following, assumedly because of it.  Thanks, universe!

And something similar happened to my best friend Shawn recently:

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#mydunkin is always bleak

I really appreciate how Dunkin Donuts encourages their patrons to share various Dunkin-related stories. Historically it’s always worked out well for me (see here and here) and I’m glad that the organization cares so much about my welfare and general habits to inquire about #mydunkin.

My story involves being an office temp at a job where I get to watch the full-time employees enjoy perks such as the boss bringing in a cardboard gallon of Dunkin Donuts coffee for them. And after, when the full-time employees are throwing a party with a specific note on the door that says “FULL-TIME EMPLOYEES ONLY” I decided to take several of the unused Dunkin cups, go into the secret party room filled with food and paid sick leave, and filled them with mac n cheese. So I guess #mydunkin involves pilfering food and cups from my office superiors and hiding at my temporary desk while eating it.

#mydunkin arrives in my tummy through swindling and shame!

#mydunkin arrives in my tummy through swindling and shame

I also stole the spoon

I also stole the spoon

 

 

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The candy angels descend from on high

Considering that my diet consists almost exclusively of colors and numbers magically scienced into being, I find it shocking that I was ignorant of the greatest candy development of the last generation.

I had a feeling that there was a deep void in my life that needed filling (hot), and it must have been an extensional longing for this – the most glorious, and meta, of sugary creations. Finally a wise and benevolent candy angel took the time to think upon what was missing from candy. And this is what he came up with:

dessert Skittles

dessert Skittles

How could I have been so unaware of this? I was under this blind impression that candy WAS a dessert, and, fuck me, was I wrong. There is nothing more delightful and repugnant as a Skittle that somehow (through Skittle magic science) also tastes like a blueberry tart.

Thank you, Skittles. You are a kindly company looking out for the nutritionally negligent and creating great feats of candy-dessert achievements. Holy holy holy!

 

 

 

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