She Likes It

blessed are the cheesemakers

Okay. Let's try this again.  I just tried to post a picture directly from flickr and it went to the dobe rescue site that I host here.  Whoops!  People trying to find out about dogs just got my glorious boast about ... well, let's recreate:

"Aha, what's so special about the cheesemakers?

Well, obviously it's not meant to be taken literally; it refers to any manufacturers of dairy products."

I promised a photo and here it is:

Caprese Salad made from

1. organic tomatoes,
2. organic basil,
3. the usual olive oil, pepper, and balsamic, and
4. home-freaking-made mozzarella cheese.

Oh yes, I am THAT girl now.  The one who gets local, organic produce delivered to her car-free home and thinks about how much she should donate to the electric company so they can develop wind-power, despite the fact that Washington State already uses about 85% renewable energy sources (hydro). Yeah, I'm annoying.

However, I have to say that I make my own delicious cheese now. How's that for a trade-off?

Cheese? Annoying?

Annoying? Cheese?

Yep, cheese wins every time.  And just look at that salad.

Beard Boy sayeth, "When I got that cheese-making kit for you, I hadn't thought about how much I would benefit."

Oh yeah, bay-bee. Preliminary photo-set/bragging here.

Ruined by Virginia ham

I mentioned before that an old friend got married a couple of weeks ago and that a group of us rented a house out at the "Outer Banks of Virginia."  Which, heh.  What I didn't mention is that after much haggling over which place was nice enough yet cheap enough for us to rent, I was assigned the duty of actually participating in the rental transaction.  So, from three time zones away, I called the realty place and talked to an agent to get the "Beyond your wildest dreams" house.

Let me veer for a minute...we did enjoy the house quite a bit, but really? Beyond my wildest dreams? I'm not so sure about that, my dreams are pretty wild.

So, I call up this lady and tell her we want to rent this place for the weekend.  After getting most of the details she then asks me how many people will be in the place (6) and how old. I say that we're all 34. To which she replies, "Good. We don't rent to young adults, just families."

Let me repeat, "Good. We don't rent to young adults, just families."

I managed not to sputter when I said, "We're going to be in town for a wedding." Because, UM, when did I pass out of the young adult stage?  How could I have let this occasion pass me by?  What the fucking fuck, beach rental agent? Not cool. I should have said, "Don't worry, we're still capable of wrecking your house." But I didn't.  And we didn't.  Shit. I guess we are old adults now. God Dammit...

...

In other news, if you've spoken to me recently, you know that I am on a freaking organic, local, sustainable food freaking kick. Yes, I know I said freaking twice, that is because the whole thing is so not me. I'm not a picky eater and generally get low-grade annoyed with people who are. But. But, I recently read an article about Smithfield Farms in (effing) Rolling Stone and subsequently read some other bad press about them (here and here). 

This company - despite its ubiquitousness - is generally not my concern because the awesome market I get my pork products from (mm) is supplied from local (and not disgusting world harming factory fucking) farms.  And let me tell you, once you go high-end bacon, there's no going back (seriously, I originally switched for taste alone). Anyway, when we went to the Virginia Beach grocery store to get supplies for our (non-young adult and family only) beach house, the place was freaking covered with pork and pork products. Sure, I get it. Virgina Ham. Pork Paradise. All parts of the pig served up for your enjoyment, which would have been breakfast food heaven for me...Except. Except it was ALL FREAKING SMITHFIELD FARMS. Which makes sense, since the company started near there, but still. It was awful. There was NO OTHER PRODUCER OF MEAT BEING SOLD THERE. ACK! So, I stood in the meat department pointing at products and saying "Shit Lagoon. Shit Lagoon. Shit Lagoon."  I think I embarrassed my friend but I couldn't stop myself (even if I had wanted to, which I didn't). I even contemplated taking meat products out of another customer's cart and lecturing him about the company. Luckily, I did restrain myself on that count. But I was standing there getting more and more upset by the second and I was forced to do the unthinkable.

I...I made us buy vegetarian breakfast "sausage"...right there in the middle of Virginia Pork Country. I think if Ms. Sassy Rental Agent knew about that, she would have kicked us out of the house. Surely, pork-product scoffer is more offensive there than young adult. Am I right?

Later, when some people felt that it would be funny to buy and cook and eat a package of Smithfield bacon at the beach house, I resisted the sweet-sweet smell of frying bacon and heated up more of that vegetarian "sausage."  Oh yes, I am that stubborn.

And as of Tuesday, I have switched my grocery delivery from cheap-ass Safeway to SPUD which is a purveyor of organic, locally produced foods (and other groceries). It is official. I am one step (the not showering step) away from becoming a fucking hippie.

PS: You know that awesome comic is from Toothpastefordinner. Drew's the man.

Can the chatter. Bye bye, dear. Carve me a crimson career.

I'm currently counting down the minutes until 5 p.m.

It's not that I don't like my job. Noo, I like my job. Rather, it's that at 5 p.m. my co-worker and I are heading to the bar to partake in some free alcohol and appetizers.  Like I always say, the only thing better than a gin drink is a FREE gin drink. Yay!

The only thing I'm worried about is that last time I went to this particular establishment and partook of the free-ness, I fell down after.  Of course, I attribute this falling down to an ill-advised shoe change, and not the booze, but who's to say it wasn't a little of both. Tonight, I'm not changing my shoes. I'll let you know what happens.

Is it time to go yet?

Can I just tell you that this new bra I'm wearing has GOT to be the most uncomfortable item pretending to be an article of clothing EVER? There is not one way that it not poking me awkwardly. The Bastard.

Is it time to go yet?

Am I dating myself with Adam Ant lyric titles or, for that matter, with the fact that I had no idea that Bela Fleck and the Flecktones were a freaking JAM BAND? I guess "banjo" does not necessarily mean "bluegrass." Lesson learned, my friends, lesson learned.

Is it time to go yet? No. Seriously. Is it?

Link to YouTube Video

Yay! Now it's time. Thanks, You Tube!

Don't ya love family?

As is well documented here, I do so love the gin. It's delicious.

But I was reading another blog today and there were all these comments about people liking dirty martinis. Blech. Why not just go to your fridge and drink the olive juice straight from the source? I cannot CANNOT, I say, condone this practice. First of all, olive juice, yuck. And second of all, GIN IS DELICIOUS. One should not be endeavoring to cover up that wonderful flavor especially not with something so abhorant as OLIVE juice. If you feel the need to, it's probably because you are drinking well gin. Well-anything is pretty gross, but well-gin is certainly not advisable. The only other option is that you're a loon.

In any case, I was thinking lovingly about real martinis - and by real, I mean cold gin with very little vermouth and a couple of olives - which made me think of one of my fondest gin-related memories:

My dear sweet cousin, Chris (pictured left, aren't my cousins so sweet? I can't remember if he's the tallest or the second tallest there, but those two are twins so I can be forgiven for that lapse. Plus, I probably wasn't even ALIVE when this photo was taken, so there.), had just moved into his new apartment that was conveniently just on the other side of Old Town, Alexandria from mine. I had bought him a little martini set as a house warming gift and he quite kindly invited me over to drink some martinis on his new veranda. That day, my friends, was lovely. Cold Sapphire with those yummy tipsy olives on a lovely DC day. Of course I totally got my cousin loaded and I heard all sorts of sordid secrets that he never tells anyone. It is so-far my favorite memory of him.

Well, that and the time at the beach house when he overdosed on mud slides and passed out on the wicker chair that was half his size. Good times. Not that he doesn't have stories that are at least 50 times more embarrassing about me. But then again, who doesn't?

he stole my heart when he ordered a double for me

First thing's first, I feel obligated to mention that although the title of this post is arguably the best song lyric ever, it is only slightly (i.e. not at all) related to the actual writing in this post. Now you know. Don't blame me if you get confused later. Or something like that.

So anyway, I have two good friends who I really like. Great friends, really. They're always there for me when I call on them. They're always ready to give me the kind of support that I ask of them. Steadfast. Reliable. Fun, too. They're fabulous in almost every way. Except one small thing: said friends don't really like each other. You know what I mean? It's one of those situations where you can't plan an activity with both of them because, well, you don't want a bad situation where everyone's not enjoying themselves. It's incumbent on me to keep them apart in order to avoid conflict. I'm usually very good about that.

Last Thursday night, though, I had a lapse. I met up with Beard Boy at our new fav. happy hour spot, Mission. I bellied up to the bar and decided to share the early evening with Good Friend #1. I will admit that I like Good Friend #1 best, but after hanging out for a bit (and about 500 appetizers), we said goodbye and headed home. Once we got home though, I wasn't ready to settle in for the night and so we put in a movie (Dog Soldiers) and invited Good Friend #2 over. We watched the movie, had a little discussion about the horror movie genre and how much I love Lucius Vorenus, and finally turned in at about 11 or so. Not too late or anything. At the end of the night, I was feeling good. I thought everything had worked out well and congratulated myself on fine planning.

Boy oh boy, was I wrong. I didn't know it at the time, but GF2 was MAD that I had hung out with GF1 already. And come to find out, GF1 was super pissed I left him for GF2. Of course, neither one said anything at the time, and, like I said before, I didn't think much of it. But Lord Have Mercy, did I hear about it the next day! My Friday morning was awful. I was tired and sickly and it was all because I had mixed the two friends.

People, you probably already know this, but in case you weren't sure, take it from me: never drink Gin and Bourbon in even medium amounts on the same night. I have learned my lesson.

Well...let's be honest, I have probably learned my lesson.

PS: Illustration today from the all new: Married to the Sea.
Bonus material: DHC's Whiskey and Gin (track 8), from whence the post title came.

Today's good things

Beard Boy and I just bought a bottle of bourbon to have around the house. I love good bourbon all the timein the wintertime. So much easier and warming than hot cocoa and the like. I mean really, step 1: pour in glass, step 2: drink. No messing around with heating up milk and blah blah blah. Seriously. Find a brown liquor you like (anyone of the Glens will do) and stock it in your cabinet. You will thank me.

Anyway, while contemplating whether or not I should have a glass last night (of course I should!), I was reminded of the first bottle of bourbon I purchased for my own self. It was a big step up from the cheapo wine and 6-packs I normally stock and I remember it fondly. I bought it with The Economist after we mistakenly went to see "In The Bedroom" one night when he was visiting -- if you've seen that movie, you know why the bourbon was necessary: De-Press-ING -- and I savored every glass.

In fact, it was with that very bottle that I charmed the pants off a new "friend" I had just made. Sure, I had a mystique going already since my Shock and Awe campaign started at a John Waters event where I told him he looked 23 (he was 46!). To be honest, I thought he was younger than me because after he offered to buy me a beer, he wanted to share it, but he did also have a youthful face. Anyway, I gave him my number. I know! So forward! After some emailing and pointed not calling his home number, he came over to my place to "hang out." Ew! Not like that! Although...Ahem, anyway, when I asked him if he'd like a bourbon, it was my shining moment. He so thought I was the shit. Admittedly, it's not that difficult to be cooler than someones day-in day-out wife of 10 years who happens to also be named Bernice(!), but having someone continuously exclaiming how effing cool you are despite the glaring truth of dorkness is very heady. I mean, YOU might be used to being cool and cutting edge, but I'm the anti-hip, I have always been the anti-hip, I'm usually quite fine with being the anti-hip, and being that cool was just a new phenomena that had to be experienced. Sue me.

In any case, our "relationship" was doomed to failure. He was bound to find out the truth eventually. And so he did, when I refused to participate in some extra-curricular activities that involved a present he bought me from the sex shop. I think my shocked reaction was a slap to his face. I tried to cover up, but it was no use. Soon after "The Present Incident," we stopped talking. 

I used to keep that present in my underwear drawer, still in the original never opened wrapper. I would constantly obsess about what would happen if I died unexpectedly and my mother had to clean out my apartment and she found said present. Heart attack for sure. It got to the point that I made my friend, Smith, swear, more than once, that if I were to die, her first action would be to get to my house faster than humanly possible and get rid of the evidence. Why couldn't I just throw it away? Well, it was a present and my mom taught me not to throw presents away. Plus, if I had thrown it away, I wouldn't have had the pleasure of mailing it back to him, sans note, right before I left for Seattle.

Moral of the story: Mailing strange sex toys back to your married ex's house and good bottles of bourbon may not be Good Things (ala M. Stewart), but they definitely are fun things.

PS illustration courtesy of liquid medication

Muffin Trip: Highlight 1

So, I took Friday off work last week so I could hang out with Muffin and JO. We decided to make a trip to the Eastside and visit the Chateau Ste. Michelle and Columbia wineries as well as the Red Hook Brewery. These places are all conveniently located across the street from one another and 5 minutes from where Beard Boy works (so he could drive us home).

We arrived at Ste. Michelle around 1-ish and decided to take the 1:30 tour. It was a nice short tour that started with the bottling machinery - which of course reminded me of the winery in Put-in-Bay, Ohio that showcased where they put the caps on. Sadly, or luckily, depending upon your point of view, the school-marmy tour guide assured us they do not use screw-tops. Note: it was NOT me that asked.  Double Note: Muffin was scared of the guide. Wus.

During the tour, we saw the huge steel vats and heard the requisite Sideways question about Pinot Noir (again, not me). More questions were asked and answered. JO and Muffin got in trouble for trying to wander off for a picture. "We all have to stay together, people!" There was a group of rude French people (and no, I don't think that's redundant) who were talking loudly the whole time and very impatiently waiting for their free tastings. But none of that, none of it, can compare to the question that this group of ladies asked.

Tour guide matron: Blah blah blah combining grapes for different wines blah blah blah wine process.

Silly lady: And where do they put in the plum juice and stuff like that?

Tour guide matron: Wha?

C Ro's eyes: POP!

Silly lady: You know, when a wine is described as having plum and berry flavors, when is that added?

Tour guide matron (emphatically): Nooo, we don't add plums! Blah blah blah goes on to describe, nicely I should add, how it's natural to the wine and where the grapes grow and yadda yadda yadda.

Silly lady and friends: Really?! Wow!!

They seemed genuinely surprised! How awesome is that? I mean, I regularly drink wine from Chateau Le Box and even I know they don't add no damn plum juice. And besides, plum juice?  Ain't that prune juice and who drinks that besides The Economist and his grandma?

But aside from the great question, it was very clear that everyone else on the tour, except for the French because they weren't paying attention, everyone else but the French, hey that sounds vaguely Monty Python-esque, everyone else but the French and me too, because I was staring at them with these really big eyes were trying really hard not to look at the ladies in astonishment. Seriously, the whole group got really stiff and would only stare forward at the tour guide. It was pretty funny. But, I guess the ladies got me back for staring at the Columbia Winery when they shouted out, "There's the girl that got carded!" And yes, I was the only one who got carded even though, as Muffin pointed out, I was the oldest of the three of us. Karma.

It was also awesome because as we got more sauced JO and Muffin and I kept talking about the chocolate sauce barrel or the earth barrel and well, everyone knows how funny drunks think they are. We had fun.

Needless to say, we didn't make it to the Red Hook tour, which I totally recommend to people visiting the Seattle area. $1 gets you a really short tour (walking wise), "tastes" of all their beer flavors, and a souvenir glass that's really glass and not some plastic bs thing.

---

p.s. As everyone knows, the above illustration is by the awesome Drew of Toothpaste For Dinner.

Shereef don't like it

Just so you know I'm a girl of many talents that are more recommending than my exceptional drinking and falling down abilities, I wanted to report that aside from reading an actual book this past weekend, I also made a pumpkin pie (and didn't use no stinkin' canned pumpkin either) and topped it off with a honey-sweetened whipped cream. Oh yes, I said honey-sweetened, perv.

Let me just tell you I am thoroughly converted to the honey-sweetened whipped cream. It was to die for. Seriously. I so rock the casbahkitchen. Some lucky people (JO and Muffin) will be able to attest to that when they return to Columbus next week. But until then, they'll be seeing the sights of Seattle and enjoying my home-made chicken pot pie. Aren't you all so very, very jealous?

Better than Chicken Soup

Astute reader, Phil, sensing my profound love for all things Gin, posted a link to the relatively local Bendistillery (OR) which makes the Cascade Mountain Gin. Of course I clicky-clicked and of course I thirstily read the "story" and it goes without saying that I ordered a bottle.

A couple of weeks ago, Beard Boy transmitted some lung illness to me that made me cough and be uncomfortable for a number of days. I prescribed and cured myself with some gin and tonics. Not constantly. No. Just two nights of moderate imbibing of my favorite liquid friend. No one believed me though. They just thought the cold had run its course. That I was exaggerating the effects. Now I have proof. Check this from the above mentioned distillery:

"Juniper has long been recognized for its medicinal properties and it is generally accepted that gin was first produced in Holland in the mid-1500s by Dr. Franciscus Sylvius as a treatment for the stomach, kidneys and just about anything else that could benefit from a stiff drink." [#]

So there! I expect apologies from all doubters on the double.

The key to my heart

My favorite truism (coined by old Happy Hour pal, Claude) is, "Nothing says I love you like a bottle of gin." Mmmm...Bombay.

My second favorite is, "The only thing better than a cocktail is a free cocktail."

Happily, this evening I will be attending a cocktail hour at a local "boutique" hotel that my work does a lot of business with (names not included to protect the dooce-able). And before you ask, no, I’m not in the sex industry even though it sounds like I am, doesn’t it?

But back to the free cocktails: the people over in the marketing department at said hotel are GENIUSES. Just like I will never break up with Beard Boy until the day he stops making me breakfast, I will also never use another hotel until they stop ponying up the free gin.

I have no defense against those sorts of frenchfringe benefits.