Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

The Domestic Urge Returns

... and I have a bladder infection. Draw your own conclusions.

I've been cooking for two days. Today, instead of going directly in to the kitchen to express my love with food, I'm whipping up an amateur foodie post.

Babka. Google tells me my site is the place to be for babka. I don't know who began the babka rush, I blame that Splendid Table woman, but everyone has been Googling "babka."

Salt. Gary sent me this link. The New York Times recommends you fry your eggs on hot slabs of pink salt.

Here's what I think: if this were true, people would have learned to buy deer salt licks and fry eggs on those. But, a fine gift idea for the foodie who has everything. Except a slab of burnt salt.

Capon. Gary's work has requested Cream of Carpet soup, which requires chicken stock, and I felt like making my own. I was looking for a stewing hen, and found a frozen capon. I assumed this was just a nice way to say, "Damn, hen, you're fat big-boned!" and since I wanted the bones for stock, that was fine. Later, the talented cook at work let me know a capon is a castrated rooster. I assume it "tastes like chicken," so I was still good.

Last night, I mentioned to Gary I had cooked the capon and it was resting and waiting to be cooled then flayed and dissected. "A capon!" Gary exclaimed, "I hate capons!" (Further proof Gary is a rooster.) "You KNOW that's all dark meat, right?"

"No. It's not a duck or goose, you know. It's the same species as a chicken, it's just a male."

"That's what makes the meat dark," he patiently explained. "The testosterone."

A little debate ensued. The word "Google" was flung about, in defiance and challenge.

Gary did come back and say that capon is sometimes used in place of duck or goose, but he stopped sort of crowing that the rooster breast was dark meat. And as I thought about it, I convinced myself he might be right. Then I remembered chickens aren't mammals and hen breasts and rooster beasts would be identical.

So, and here's the big reveal: right now I don't know, and the capon is all cooled in the fridge this moment. So I'm going right now into the kitchen to find out. I'll put money that it tastes like a female. Otherwise, I'll come back and tell you if I can taste the testosterone.

======================== Moments pass ======================

Psycho man. Breast is white meat.

Except, of course, it is indescribably dry and tasteless. I was apprehensive I might be assaulted with a strong hit of testosterone, but no.

Off to make my bones, then.

Look who brought home a pastry

The name of the pastry? Parisian Tongue.

A Post For The Boys

Today was Thursday. Let's go back in time to Monday.

Monday night I was in the guest nest, too confused by the WALLPAPER (haters!) to find my way out. Gary was in the other room watching television. I heard gunfire, a baby crying, then a woman bellowing, then more gunfire. Of course I ignored it. 

The next night, Tuesday, I heard the same scene and was convinced it involved sex in a war zone, or a woman was playing tennis intercut with a terrorist attack. I poked my head into the living room out of curiosity.

Gary: "OH MY GOD YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS SCENE IT IS UNBELIEVABLE."

And he showed me a scene with a man and woman having sex, then a baby cries, then the woman climaxes, yet during the four minutes while she is climaxing, a gunfight breaks out. So her man must toss her about and dispatch the villains with his firearm while she is still climaxing. Then when she is done and all the villains are dead and the man has also reached orgasm (quietly of course), he murmurs casually, "Talk about shooting your load."

Gary: (Giggles uncontrollably.) "Wasn't that great?"

I thought, he has found the perfect dick flick. Then, since I have no dick, I silently left the room. Followed by cries of, "You have to see the rest of this movie! I'll save it for you!"

So on Wednesday when I heard the now familiar "bang! bang!" "Waaaah!" "Oooohhhh! "bang!" I hid in the other room.

So here it is Thursday, and we watched a little of The Office, and then I went into the other room for four seconds to fetch the luxurious scarf someone sent me. In those four seconds he had returned to a different scene in the same movie, evidently called Shoot 'Em Up.

"Wait - is that Paul Giamatti?" I asked, amazed.

"Yes! I told you it's a great movie! There are some weird parts, but hang on, you have to see this scene."

I won't give you a play-by-play of this shootout, but this scene contained the immortal line, "Fuck you, ya fucking fuckers." (And I know that's the exact line because I looked it up on IMDB.) I wasn't watching the screen at the time; I was sitting on the couch next to Gary staring an incredulous hole into the side of his head.

He giggled, "I know ... but .. wasn't that great?"

So, on my husband's recommendation, men, you may want to rent Shoot 'Em Up. Gary doesn't recommend every scene, but he certainly liked the two I saw. Women, I stand on my previous recommendation of that Berlin Wall documentary.

Wisdom

So, if you are my sister-in-law, here is how you request a birthday present:

"I would like a desk fan. Please, just a normal desk fan like you'd find at Walgreens. Nothing fancy."

If you are my husband that translates to mean this:

Yes, that is a desk fan. (Get yours here!) Nothing fancy, nothing unusual.

The Puppy-Eaters

"Garbage!" he said, and pointed toward the trunk,
"What is this Get Smart lunchbox doing here?"
And tossed it aside still claiming it was junk
Ignoring his wife's welling tears.
Sniffed she, "You jerk, it's only been two years."
The lunchbox was from Mom's house where she'd grown.
Yet what he wants to hear is what he hears,
And soon between them angry words have flown,
And then he claims that she has used the Tone.

Choric Song I
in Free Verse

"I did NOT use the Tone, you big baby."
"Yes. The same tone you would use if I stood before you eating a puppy."

So, if you ever hear me using the Tone, just say, "Oh, is that the tone you use for Puppy-eaters?" and I will laugh and stop being an irrational bitch.

Berlin Wall

When I saw students were standing on top of the Wall, I was horrified. These were students just asking to be martyred, or perhaps they were drunk, I thought, because there was quite the party atmosphere.

The party went on for a few days - long enough for Tom B. to get there in his trenchcoat -- and still no shooting. And eventually they knocked a crack in it and went through. And the wall fell and then two sprang up, not in its place but on our border and in Gaza. Looks like walls stay up for two generations.

But, anyway, what I really meant to say was you have to find this documentary: The Tunnel. I think that's the one I want - it's the one with the NBC footage and interviews with the survivors. It's just unreal. A group of people actually tunneled under the wall. I won't go into the details, because that would spoil it for you. Just let your imagination run wild ... start with Bergman and throw in the Great Escape and Hogan's Heroes. Just an unreal story. 2.5 thumbs up!

What's the Opposite of a Bucket List?

I have no "bucket list," a list of things to do before I die. Except "have children." Wait! Hahahahahaaha.

I don't plan for things to happen, I just float around until things happen. Last night at the concert, I was so delighted to see Leonard Cohen, and I thought, "Cool. I get to see Leonard Cohen before I die."*

And that's how it is with me. There's one exception, I always wanted to go to England and I did as soon as I could make it happen. Once that was in the "bucket," I just waited for other things to land there.

So, here's my bucket, minus any deliberate list.

Went to England
Saw Leonard Cohen
Saw Elton John and Billy Joel
Went to Hawaii during an airline pilot's strike (so, essentially, no other tourists: Japan's economy was shot)
Got naked with hundreds of other people
Ate a bite of brains
Ate a bite of snoot
Been in a riot (IU NCAA Championship)
Ooo! I kissed a girl!
Oh, well, come to think of it I got tied up in lingerie with a girl, but that was a long time ago
Sang professionally at Busch stadium (but I'm cheating now - I delivered a singing telegram there)
Saw King Tut's death mask
Got kidnapped by a parent
Been questioned by the police
Been yelled at by the police (both sound more exciting than they were)

In fact, now that I make a list I notice all the things that aren't there. Like, where are "Got arrested in a protest" and "Almost died" - they aren't on my list. However, I think everything else is on this blog somewhere. Aren't they? Let me know of anything I haven't mentioned here.

*A lie.Technically I thought, "Cool. I get to see Leonard Cohen before he dies."

Leonard Cohen Concert: Both Sublime and Ridiculous

First, loose ends: Gary never actually told anyone in his family he thought we were well enough to celebrate sister-in-law's birthday, so the event was in actuality much less "planned" than we thought. We are going today, Sunday, instead.

So, all of Saturday was spent planning for and resting up for and preparing for the Leonard Cohen concert.

"8 SHARP" demanded the tickets in a very demanding font. So, we were there at 7:15, and while I tried in vain to buy Eddie Izzard tickets (too early), Gary chatted with some Leonard devotees.

"Oh, yes, we love Lenny," they sighed. "He is a poet."
"Well," Gary chuckled, "Too bad I can't understand them because his voice is so bad and all the songs sound the same." 
An elderly woman turned to Gary and stared him down, pointing a narrow finger at her ear. "Lissssteeeen," she advised knowingly.

A testament to how great the concert was, during the intermission, Gary asked me, "He sounds fine. What is wrong with our car stereo system? Something's wrong with our car!" (Seriously, this means the car will be in the shop soon to find out why the sound's so distorted, and they will find he has over-cranked the bass or something.)

So, that's it in a nutshell. Leonard was great. The fans were colorful.

First, Sir Leonard Cohen (I don't call him "Lenny" as some impudents do) and the Other Musicians

Up! Down! Up! Down! There must have been ten standing ovations, some at the start, some for specific songs, some at the end. It was like Mass. Only, people don't scream out "WE LOVE YOU JESUS!" at Mass.

Handsprings. Most of the time the backup singers just shifted their weight from one foot to the other, but then at one key point (I won't tell you what it was) they vaulted into a backward handspring. They may or may not have removed their fedoras first.

Standing Still. For about three songs (If It Be your Will is the one I remember) he just stood and recited the song. That was lovely. Plus, it made it easier for Gary to "Lissssteeeen."

And of course, he was witty. The song choices were even witty. I was sad not to hear Closing Time, but of course they saved that for one of the later encores. I think the very last song was  I Tried to Leave You.  When the house lights came up, I was so satisfied, Gary asked if I wanted to finally get dinner and I felt I didn't want to even eat ever again.

Second, The Fans

Even though the concert was sold out, Gary and I had empty seats on either side of us. This was an excellent buffer because we were surrounded by insane people.

In Front of Us. Look, the older guy in the beret and the woman in the shawl didn't bother me. But, at the intermission Gary turned and said, "Berets! Shawls! Who wears a beret?" I merely report this because of Gary's aghast tone; I didn't know it was so scandalous.

Behind Us. The guy right behind me made a point of continuing to clap well after everyone else stopped. We all paused to hear the next song but he just kept going all "I am Clappier Than Thou." So for one song I deliberately out-clapped him. (My clapping was not flawless; I regret to say I broke the silence after Who By Fire by being the first to clap.)

To The Right of Us. They came in late, the young couple in their twenties, and then they talked through two songs like they were at a nightclub. The man in front of them turned and hissed "Quiet!" They did not shut up. They did not behave respectably in the House of the Leonard. Then, during an early ovation I leaned to Gary and yelled, "See, now is the time for the girl to talk to the boy! Talk it up! There's no singing!" And they didn't talk after that.

Instead, they snapped, or rather, the boy snapped, his fingers. And not a beatnik "Groovy poetry, man" applause snap, but an extra track of loud jazzy here-I-am-jamming-with-you-lenny as if he was auditioning for the band.

It did give Gary the opportunity to snap his fingers and make me laugh.

And you know, even with the snapping and clapping and talking and testifying from the balcony I still loved it. Wonderful concert.

Saturday: from the Ridiculous to the Sublime

Saturday there will be fodder for this fodder-starved blog.  I go to the in-laws in the afternoon, then in the evening I go see Leonard COHEN IN CONCERT.

Leonard just has to make it to Saturday, people. I know he collapsed in Europe: as long as Nashville doesn't do him in then I'll see him. And hear him. And I am tired of those remarks. No one is complaining about what age has done to Bob Dylan's voice. Mmph. They both still sing better than I do.

At the in-laws we will celebrate sister-in-law Karen's birthday, which was over a month ago. We are actually celebrating a S______ birthday on a date deemed too distant from the actual birthday! Hard to fathom. We've changed seasons and clocks. So Gary is going into guilt-fueled overdrive with the presents. This is on top of the normal Gary overdrive. This is a GTO / BTO TurboBirthday! I would count the presents but I want to get to bed sometime tonight.

So, Saturday, excitement!

Smiles

A designated hitter (read: abomination to baseball, also, cheating) won Most Valuable Player for the 2009 World Series. Allow me to spit here right on the floor. Designated hitters are the whores of baseball. I apologize to any designated hitters reading this. But you are whores.

Therefore the best thing about the Series this year - except for the Cliff Lee Blasé Catch - was the series of American Express commercials with the found smiles and frowns.

And then, a few days ago, Steve at work shaved his head a little hastily, and left two clumps of hair on the back of his head - for eyes - and there was a curve where the base of his skull met his neck - for a smile. And I would have taken a photo, but he found a hat at the ready. Next time I won't tell him why I'm laughing first.

So this is the best I could do.

 
 
 

Cookies, Scandal, and White Powder

Gary called to ask the name of the Archway Christmas cookies he likes*. How would I know? "Blah Blah blah!" he cried. "Blah! Powdered sugar! Blah blah!"

"Wedding cookies," I answered authoritatively.

"I'm not sure! There are three kinds here and they all have powdered sugar!"

"Wedding. Cookies."

"Are you sure? They all look alike."

Sigh. "Buy them all."

Ding. We have an answer.

So he brought home:

Cashew Nougat
 

 Pfeffernusse

and Wedding Cookies

The first he tried was the Pfeffernusse. Pfeffernusse was popped into mouth. Pfeffernusse spat back out like a powdery ping-pong ball. Powdered sugar was all over his face. "Aaaagccchkkk!"

"Seriously? That bad?"

He instantly popped put another Pfeffernusse in his mouth. "Oh!" he explained, "I just wasn't expecting it to taste like licorice. It's delicious!"

So. We have lots of powdered sugar here in this house.

*Follow that link if you thought Archway was out of business or if you want to know why they haven't tasted as good since '83.

Follow this link if you want to see the television character who behaves the most like Gary.

Question for today: What is the Ultimate Casserole?

I ask, because my nominee is in the oven right now.

In our house it was called "Chicken with Crumbs." Mom's peers called it "Londoff Chicken," which could be an homage to Johnny Londoff's Saint Louis car dealerships. I know it wasn't local; it must have been printed on Pepperidge Farm stuffing bags.

Layer chicken breasts, swiss cheese, cream of chicken soup, Pepperidge Farm herb stuffing, and melted butter. Bake at 350, and I didn't even have to look that up because every casserole bakes at 350, it is the RULE.

The key to the recipe is the butter delivery system: the stuffing, or "dressing," or crumbs. Once we had a special dinner of "Chicken with Crumbs" served with "Green Beans with Crumbs" with a side of "Crumbs."

Now, others may say the tuna-noodle casserole with the "croute" of potato chips is the ultimate casserole, yet think of how many people don't like fish. (And I think we can all agree, we are talking the classic tuna-noodle casserole: egg noodles, can of tuna, can of cream of mushroom soup, topped with potato chips. This is the standard.)

Chicken with Crumbs has this Queen's Royal Warrant as the ultimate casserole. It says "suburbs!" What do you think? What would you nominate?

P.S. I define "casserole" as something mixed with something, maybe some other somethings, plus Campbell's Cream of Something soup, that you then bake at 350. Mac and Cheese with hot dogs cut up in it? Not a casserole.

I Am So Glamorous

How glamorous? SO glamorous that we missed the first scene of Desperate Housewives because I was screaming "I HAVE THAT SWEATER! THAT'S MY SWEATER!" Granted, the character wearing my red ribbed sweater was the stocky principal. But still!

Oh, and here is Rosie O'Donnell wearing the same sweater in black.

I may be fat, but I am glam fat, baby. Maybe some day I'll read about someone wearing Eileen Fisher clothing on Go Fug Yourself. That would be ... that would be like stardom!

P.S. My boobs are bigger than Rosie's and the stocky principal's. FYI.