A Chubby Girl's Declaration of Love

First off, I’m already hungry knowing what I’m about to type at you.

I love the Food Network. I am an avid watcher. I always stop flipping through the channels once I see Guy Fieri stuff his big face into some greasy mound, or I see someone (stupidly) try to beat Bobby Flay, or I see any glimpse of mad scientist Alton Brown. I also love watching competition cooking, but I always wondered if performance in competition was anything akin to the quality of the chef, especially since most chefs aren’t given 20 minutes to try and slap something together from gummi bears and kale in some random Chopped basket. I’m not sure of the pecking order, but if I had to guess, I’d assume Iron Chefs were the most elite of the chefs in any cooking competition. Iron Chefs are the rock stars of the cooking world. I just learned that Chef Michael Symon has the best win percentage on Iron Chef at a whopping 82%. Such a statistic would seem to suggest that Michael Symon is a rock god, like a culinary Keith Richards… But does that mean anything?

I’m quite willing to say, ABSOLUTELY. Michael Symon belongs on a pedestal.

My previous favorite restaurant I had basically identified as the whole city of New Orleans. NOLA is so wonderful that it’s hard for me to nail down one place, but if I were at gunpoint, I’d choose John Besh’s August. I could go on for hours about NOLA (crab cheesecake, holy crap), but this is about my NEW favorite. I was in Cleveland last weekend with the manfriend, who is also an avid Food Network watcher and HUGE Michael Symon fan. In order to save a few bucks, we went to Lolita rather than the more expensive Lola for our Michael Symon experience. We decided to order a bunch of smaller plates rather than entrees so we could get more stuff to shove in our mouths. We also (now looking over our choices) were feeling particularly carniverous. Here is what we got:

• ·         Roasted Bone Marrow – meyer lemon, parsley, radish, chili, sourdough
• ·         Mixed Green Salad (manfriend always has to get a salad) – radish, grana padano, red onion, sherry viaigrette
• ·         Cured Meats Big Board – 8 house cured meats
• ·         Crispy Pig Tails and Ears – fennel-onion agrodolce, pickled chilies, cilantro
• ·         Crispy Chicken Livers – soft polenta, mushroom, bacon
• ·         Fried Brussels Sprouts – caper, anchovy, walnut

First of all, let me say that we got a couple of beers and a bottle of wine and our bill was $100. I think one entrée at August would run you $35, so there’s that.

Second of all, there was not ONE thing listed above that wasn’t absolutely stellar. Every time I took a bite, I had to go through an involuntary BIG O face before I could even swallow. However, I want to highlight two things above. I’ve never had pig tails and ears. Maybe you’re thinking these are just the scrap parts. Maybe you are thinking I am gross for ordering these. You better get rid of that attitude right now, you snob. Pig is delicious, and apparently ALL pig parts are delicious. These were so perfect. You bit into an ear and it was this light, crisp exterior that gave way to this melt of fatty goodness. Pork belly? Psshhhht. Bacon? Getouttahere. This is the best chunk of pig I’ve ever had. Michael Symon, you just blew my mind. Now, I want to move on to the brussels sprouts, which the man informed me were on Aaron Sanchez’s list as the best thing he ever ate, fried. I mean, really, BRUSSELS SPROUTS? Again, lose the attitude. YES, REALLY. I can honestly say (with maybe the aforementioned crab cheesecake a close second) I have never put anything this good into my mouth. EVER. They are fried in lard (God bless you , Michael) and come with this tangy vinaigrette so you get this fatty, buttery taste that is cut through with this sauce… well, the sauce has capers in it. I shouldn’t have to say anything more. I must learn how to make these. One year for Thanksgiving, I made a dish with brussels sprouts and bacon for the family. It was gobbled down quickly. I was all proud of myself. I was naïve. In fact, I now think that if a brussels sprout doesn’t pass through Lolita, then it will have given its life for naught.

I have tried to put a chubby girl’s words into the above. I can’t even explain. I just can’t. There are no words for this type of experience. I’ve fallen in love. I would move to Cleveland. Yes, CLEVELAND to have this food even once a month. Michael’s show Burgers, Brew, and Cue just started up on the Food Network. Since I’m now in love with him, I recorded it and watched it, mouth agape, in a stunned awe of someone who could create something so full of joy.

Please, please look him up and go to one of his restaurants. NOW, you fools!

And, no, I wasn’t on drugs during any of this experience.

Chubby girl out.

The Importance of Being a Good Fan

First of all, GO BLACKHAWKS!

This is one of those times I feel lonely, when my second favorite team (after the Bears) wins it all and I am stuck in the sticky, mushy humidity of NC by myself where probably no one cares about hockey. I wish I were home getting stupid drunk on Monday night and skipping work the next day to continue celebrating with other like-minded Kaner fans instead of actually GOING to work a tad hungover after falling asleep almost immediately after a game I watched by myself.

This is not the point of my post. The point of my post takes me back to last Saturday (June 13) when my boyfriend and I ventured out in the city of Louisville, KY to watch Game 5 of the Stanley Cup finals in our full-on Blackhawks gear. We took care vetting places to watch the game. How was the food? How were the TVs? Most importantly, was there going to be sound? We watched the Hawks win at a place called Griff's, named after Dr. Dunkenstein Darrell Griffith (of Louisville legend) because we figured that would be the sportiest of sports bars. (It was awesome.)

So, as I mentioned, the Hawks won. On the way back to the hotel, our shuttle driver, one dapper, hatted, and exquisitely blinged Mr. Greene had to stop by Churchill Downs to pick up some other participants in Louisville nightlife for a ride back to the hotel. Two dudes get in the shuttle. One of them, seeing our red and black attire, IMMEDIATELY starts in. "Oh, DUDE, you guys are Blackhawks fans??? I HATE the Blackhawks." Jesus. I hate people like this. "Are you REAL Blackhawks fans? Do you only know TOEWS and KANE? Do you know who CHRIS CHELIOS is?"

I'm immediately fired up. Yes, I'm a real fan. I know their whole roster. Yes, I know who Chelios is, and you didn't even have to say CHRIS CHELIOS for me to know who you were talking about. My boyfriend was very diplomatic. I shut my mouth so as not to get into some f-bomb death match with a drunken asshole.

It turns out, dude is a St. Louis Blues fan. This doesn't surprise me, but I'll get to that. He goes on to ramble about how it's OK that the Blues (despite being the number 1 seed in our bracket) didn't make it past the first round of the finals because the Cards are so good this year, so that means Chicago and St. Louis are "equal".

This is where I get REALLY pissed. First of all, don't question my loyalty to Chicago. I am a Cubs fan - arguably the most loyal of any sports fans because our team sucks and continues to suck year after year after one hundred years, but I still waste one vacation day every year to watch their home opener. Note - this year they lost it to the St. Louis Cardinals. I am a Bulls fan, and a Bears fan, and a Hawks fan, and a Cubs fan. Do I pay attention to the ins and outs of their rosters every year? No. Do I watch every single game (especially the Cubs post July when they have inevitably removed themselves from Wild Card contention)? No. Do I know who Chris Chelios is? YES. I pay attention, and I never cheer for anyone above any of those teams. Second of all, the Cardinals are the winningest team in baseball after the Yankees. Chicago and St. Louis are not EQUAL. My teams - the Bears, the Bulls, the Blackhawks, the Cubs have about as many championships between them as the THREE St. Louis teams - the Rams, the Blues, the Cardinals, keeping in mind the Rams and the Blues haven't always been in St. Louis (actually, not until recently). So, don't give me some St. Louis sob story, like it's so hard to be a St. Louis fan. BS. If anything, you should find it hard to admit you come from an area where the mention of "Ferguson" to anyone else in the nation fires up images of how racist and backwards your twang-ass area of the country is, or you should maybe not pledge allegiance when the most evil of evil corporations roosts in your city (Monsanto) plotting world domination by suing local farmers and pumping cows so full of antibiotics that a strain of MRSA is becoming strong enough to take over the world. 

The point of this post is that people shouldn't be dickheads, and they ESPECIALLY shouldn't be dickhead fans. This point, especially about St. Louis, is summed up in this wonderful Deadspin post from last season MLB playoffs. Please read. It's fantastic. 

The Mayor of St. Louis is a Complete Dipshit

I lived for a long while in the north suburbs of Chicago. I remember, distinctly, Green Bay Packers fans coming out in their hideous green and gold colors when the Pack wasn't even PLAYING to cheer against the Bears. This is when I first realized the dickhead fan syndrome. Dickhead fans don't only cheer for their chosen teams, they cheer AGAINST other teams and also lambast any fans that are fans of that other team like it is some personal flaw. They try to make it miserable for anyone else to be a fan. They most likely have a small penis and/or are scratching their armpits right now. (Here is my disclaimer. I am from Bloomington, IL which is about halfway between St. Louis and Chicago. My town is split red and blue, Cards/Cubs. This rant is in no way a comment against ALL Cardinals fans, some of which are my very dear friends…)

When they weren't playing MY team, I used to cheer for all Big 10 teams, all NL Central teams, all NFC North teams (except for the Packers as taught by my father… Note - I didn't cheer AGAINST them either) until I learned that if I wanted to be a sports fan, I would also have to become somewhat of a dickhead. "You CAN'T be a Cubs fan if you ever cheer for the Cardinals. That means you're not a real Cubs fan." This was coming from a family of Cardinals fans like I wasn't allowed to usurp their supreme success. I wasn't even allowed a breadcrumb of it. 

So now I've learned that love also has to come with hate. I love the Cubs, I hate the Cardinals. I love the Bears, I hate the Packers. I love the Bulls, I hate Miami (more of a recent thing, I guess?). I love the Blackhawks, and I guess now I hate the Blues. However, I refuse to be a dickhead fan. If your team gets farther than mine, so be it. I won't criticize you as a person, even if I may be sad for my team. Why? Because you weren't responsible for my team losing. So, I'm sorry doucher Louisville dude. Sorry your number 1 seeded team didn't even make it past the first round. Sorry the number 3 seeded team from your bracket won it all for the third time in SIX years thus securing dynasty status. Finally, I'm sorry that your life is so clouded in anger and hate that you can't even appreciate your own teams enough that you have to reign BS-small-penis syndrome down on anyone else who is a fan of another team. 

By the way, doucher admitted at the end of the night (he was at a bar we went to later) that my Duncan Keith shirt was pretty cool and that he was sorry he was being an asshole in the shuttle. This made me happy, but you know what? It really didn't matter if I had received his apology or not. My team won, and then they won on Monday for the Stanley Cup. That is what life is about. Cheer for your team, but don't be a dickhead fan and cheer against anyone else.

About High School

I dogeared the Easy Chair reading from the April 2015 issue of Harper’s Magazine. (Easy Chair: Abolish High School by Rebecca Solnit)

Rebecca is an obviously successful person; in my mind because she is an editor for my favorite magazine. However, she did NOT go to high school. The essay goes on to argue for the abolition of high school - not the abolition of learning, but the abolition of a particularly barbaric (to some) and narrow (for all) means of learning that the large majority of us experienced between the ages of 14 and 18. 

I find this argument interesting because I hated high school. Of course, I loved my friends, and outside the typical teenage dramas, I have very fond memories of SOME of high school. However, I remember going to college and feeling like I was going to get to finally become who I was meant to be, though there were certain strings that remained stubbornly attached well into my sophomore year. I hated high school for making me feel like I needed to conform to some idiotic ideology of what sort of person I was supposed to be - this was particularly frustrating in a conservative (and hypocritical) Catholic institution. Go Saints!

Also, everyone in high school was an asshole. Like, there were tiers of assholes, and everyone got to be an asshole to anyone not in their tier - how these tiers were defined, I am still not aware. I was an asshole, my friends were assholes, and I was treated like garbage by the assholes in the other tiers. Not to mention, we were all young and stupid, so how could any of us defined anyone else’s worth? To Rebecca’s point, why are we all spending our most formative of formative years around a bunch of jerks who can’t teach us much more than we’re teaching them? “There is a real human cost. What happens to people who are taught to believe in a teenage greatness that is based on achievements unlikely to matter in later life?”

I left high school behind a LONG time ago. Since my family is still in my hometown (and barely anyone from my high school actually ever LEAVES B-town for bigger and better things), I did occasionally get to run into high school though never by my own efforts. I used to only spend 3 days or so in Bloomington so as to minimize too much re-exposure. 

The reason I’m writing about all of this is I’ve started dating a boy (because that’s what he is in my mind) that I dated in high school. He still lives in Bloomington, and he’s still friends with all of his friends from high school who were some of the assholes I was friends with when I was in high school. This is very weird for me. I’m still trying to reconcile my overall hatred and loathing for that period of time in my life for my love for this man (boy) who is entirely representative of that time in my life. I mean, his garage code is his high school football number. Really. (I love your face, DJP, but really.)

I’m 36. Would I like to be the younger and cuter Christa of 17? Hell no. I feel sorry for anyone who wants to go back to that hormone-ridden angst. In my mind, they’re all just Uncle Ricos making video tapes of themselves throwing a football. “How much you wanna make a bet I can throw a football over them mountains?... Yeah... Coach woulda put me in fourth quarter, we would've been state champions. No doubt. No doubt in my mind.”

Today, I know my issues with high school are minor. I wasn’t completely ostracized or bullied. The miseries that some kids are going through today (being LGBT or black or poor or acne-scarred or any of the other million differences that define us as people) they are going through largely because they are “imprisoned by cliches” created  solely by these institutions alone. Maybe Rebecca has it right. Maybe abolishment is the answer, to let these kids be around other people (older, younger) who aren’t so self-involved and self-loathing as to want to create and punish anyone in these cliched groups. It’s an interesting argument.

Also, just for the record, I am supposed to say DJP is ALL MAN. His one objection to this scribbling was that I insinuated he was a boy, which he is no longer. That is my lesson from all of this - I kinda like him so I need to get over it.

Grandpa

I wanted my return to blogging attempts to be about something important. Important things have happened and have continued happening in my life. However, I have been unable to pull the one particular important thing from my brain and put it into words, I have been unable to take a deep breath and finally say what needs to be said and what deserves to be said. I know this sounds all melodramatic, but I’m an emotional person, so shut up and don’t judge me.

There are people who pass in and out of your life. There are people you choose to hang on to and there are people who you are supposed to try to hang on to, due to some ill-defined genetic obligation. There are also people you choose to let go. Of all of the millions of people you encounter in your life, maybe a few you prop up on a pedestal; you admire and respect those people.

As an emotional person, per the above, I tend to put a lot of people onto pedestals. This is because it takes my big brain a little while to catch up to my idiot heart; at which point the pedestal crumbles because I discover the person atop it wasn’t worthy, as most people aren’t. We all, as is said of humans, are flawed. However, in my 35 years on earth, there has been one person who never fell, never even stumbled on the top of the pedestal I had erected for him. That person is my grandfather, Duane Weber, who passed away this past August. He is the subject of my “important” blog post. I want to write this for him and for me, but it really is for anyone who lost their hero.

I don’t think humans are inherently good or evil. Each one of us moves up and down that spectrum in life, but not Grandpa. He was an inherently good person. That sounds generic. What I mean is that every action he took was from a pure and good place in his heart. I never saw him show malice, or spite, or greed, or injustice, or anger or any of the other bad words Roget’s Thesaurus can match to those I’ve listed. He was just a good person. He was also adorable. He was nicknamed Dewey and also nicknamed Grandpa Nibbles. I couldn’t think of anyone more adorable if I tried – his little red cardigan, his snickering “hee-hee-hee,” his feigned jump of surprise when we demanded of him, “Look, Grandpa! Look what I did!” My brother and I played him and Grams in Euchre. He sat there smiling sweetly through our bombast and BS, and promptly beat us 10-0. Adorable.

I would like to say I was his favorite, as the oldest grandkid. I’m sure my sister will argue with me on that point, but I do feel that I had a special relationship with him. The truth is, not one of us was really his favorite, and that’s because we were ALL his favorite. He had so much capacity for love that there was no such thing as loving someone more or less than someone else. He just loved. Even after the huge family, spawned out of some sort of German Catholic requisite for procreation, there was still love left over. Of course, not for the rabbits that ate his petunias.

I learned about love from watching my grandparents. They taught me how to have the capacity for love. I can think of no better lesson to teach your children or grandchildren. They were married for 62 years when he died. For almost double the time that I’ve been alive, they had loved each other. One time, they came and visited me at the University of Illinois. We went to dinner, and Grandpa just talked and told story after story while Grams bickered with him, “no, Duane, no, that’s not right.” He ignored her and kept right on talking about Will Rogers or whatever. Their bickering was sweet, though, in good humor as if that had been their strategy to cope through a lifetime of commitment to one person, even though that one person might occasionally be annoying. At my brother’s wedding, they continued dancing while the DJ picked off other dancing couples trying to determine who had been married the longest. When they were of the last two couples still dancing he asked, “Sir, what is your advice for a good marriage?” … “Well…” (he paused), “you need to be able to listen.” We all kind of laughed, especially knowing Grams as being more outspoken than not. However, there is really a lot of wisdom there. I would assume that after 62 years, that our significant other’s voice might easily become some sort of background noise, but not for him. One of the last times I was home to visit, when he had been moved to his new assisted living ward, he showed me his little room. On the wall was a picture of Grams, I went over to look at it, and unprompted, he said, “She’s just as beautiful as when we first met. She’s my best friend.” He taught me that the capacity for love is not only a sign of a good heart, but also of a dedicated mind.

I know at this point in my life I’ve become a non-practicing Catholic. Despite it being past Ash Wednesday and almost Good Friday, the last time I heard mass was at Grandpa’s funeral. I don’t know if I believe in God. In my mind, if God exists, then He exists in people like Grandpa, people who are kind, warm, joyous, and infectious in their own joy. My grandparents, like most of the elderly population, are political. Grandpa had a hard time voting Democratic because, being a strict Catholic, he was against abortion. However, he had an even harder time voting Republican because (and also probably due to his Catholicism) he believed that it was the healthy person’s duty to help the sick; it was the rich person’s duty to help the poor, and it was the strong person’s duty to help the weak. He raved about Keith Olbermann’s broadcasts. We would have intelligent discussions about politics and where this country is going wrong – in Pope John Paul’s eyes capitalism was as corrupting as communism. He taught me to challenge authority, question things, to be curious about life, and not see everything as black and white like the pages of a Bible. Ultimately, this was about love as well. We need to not only love our family and friends, but we need to have compassion for humanity as a whole. We all have that capacity within us. In that way, he taught me what God is as well.

I miss you, Grandpa. I miss your sweet smile. I miss our talks. I know that the person I saw the last time I was home before you passed was not you; it was merely a body. You had already gone to a better place. I choose to remember you the previous time I was home. It was almost your birthday, and when I told you, you perked up in that same feigned surprise, “WOW! It is? How old will I be?” You were still happy and joyous despite the cobwebs clouding your mind. Thank you for being my hero. Thank you for never shaking my admiration and love for you, not even by a single step you took. That pedestal will always stand in memory of you. I love you, Paw Paw. I will always do my best to live up to your expectations of me.  I hope in heaven there are enough petunias for you and all of those rabbits. 

Food in Raleigh v. 1

A couple of weeks ago, the News & Observer posted a list of the top restaurants in the Triangle. I, being unemployed (still) and bored (always) and despite the fact I have very few funds, decided to embark on a culinary journey of my new home. I figured I would write about my adventures. This first edition of the blog will contain my thoughts on three places:

1. Heron's at 100 Woodland Pond in the Umstead Hotel, Cary

2. Super Wok at 1401 SE Maynard Road, Cary

3. Tony's Oyster Bar at 107 Edinburgh Drive South, Cary

Heron's

This restaurant is located in The Umstead Hotel & Spa, which is tucked into a large wooded landscape. N&O gave this place a Gold Medal. It is my understanding that the restaurant and hotel have made a commitment to the environment and to sustainability. The food was to be mostly locally sourced and seasonal. I went there for the weekend brunch menu to try and save on the dollars. I had to dress up, which for me anymore means changing out of pajamas. The grounds were beautiful, it was a short walk from the parking lot down to the hotel entrance. If I remember correctly, four different people were employed in opening the doors and greeting guests. I was surprised that small birds and woodland animals hadn't been trained in some sort of chippering greeting chorus. It was EERILY picturesque. I clutched at my wallet. The dining room was intimate with an excellent view of the surrounding wooded area off of a small patio, and there were windows looking into a spotless kitchen. The restaurant wasn't busy, and I was seated and served immediately. For an appetizer, I ordered Seared Scallops (crispy potato, hazelnuts, lemon puree, maple bacon broth). In keeping with anything bacon, these were delicious, soft and savory with a perfect sear. The broth was kept delicate and the lemon added a warm brightness. For the main course I had ordered Smoked Salmon Rosti (crispy potato cake, horseradish, dill, soft-poached egg). However, apparently since I did not specify, I was served Smoked Salmon (toasted bagel, cream cheese, red onion, capers, dill). I LOVE me some lox and bagel, don't get me wrong, but I could have gotten the same thing at Bruegger's for about $7 less. I ate it, because I suspect it was my fault for not specifying, and I felt sort of bad for the waiter who was running back and forth between tables of uppity women, most of whom looked actually gilded and were probably leaving EXACTLY 15%. It was just lox and a bagel, nothing exemplary necessitating the double digit price tag. Sniff. Anyway, this place is the perfect setting for something romantic, more special occasion. I wish I could have afforded the dinner so I could have experienced a little more of the locally sourced cuisine, though. The staff is all very friendly and attentive. I don't think I've said "thank you" so many times in my life. The same four employees opened the door for me to leave. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou. Overall, I give Heron's a 93 rating, price $$$.

Super Wok

YES! I can wear my pajamas to this place! This restaurant won Best In Class by Cuisine for Chinese in the N&O. The restaurant is located in Chatham Square in a totally unassuming strip of stores. I ate here for lunch, and being seated near the door (no reservations necessary), I immediately noticed how many people came in for to-go orders. A LOT, which was a good sign. The place is intimate, decorations sparse, everything clean. The menu had a large selection of food, primarily Chinese, but I did spot some curries and some Thai selections as well. I ordered a cup of egg-drop soup and fried eggplant as an appetizer. The soup was rich and filling. The eggplant was fried with some sausage and spices, cooked perfectly to give the right soft/firm texture (so few people can do this with eggplant - I love the taste, but usually have a serious texture problem with it). For lunch, I got a bento box, which is available 7 days a week, comes with a spring roll, steamed rice, seasonal fresh fruit, and a drink for an AMAZING $6.75. For my bento box, I got the Kung Pao chicken (peanut, dried pepper, mushroom, scallion). I seriously toyed with the thought of eating one of those Chinese red peppers, but gauging my distance to my home toilet, thought better of it, and pushed them to the side. The dish was warm and spicy, bringing just enough sweat to my forehead. Pouring the dish on the steamed rice provided a heated mixture of goodness. The rice was supple and a perfect vehicle for the Kung Pao sauce, the chicken was crispy and moist at the same time, and I loved the crunch of a peanut every few bites. Service was excellent, prices are ridiculously low for the serving size. I ended up boxing half my appetizer and half my chicken and rice (of course the leftovers were just as good). 85 rating, price $. I will be back soon for to-go.

Tony's Oyster Bar

Ok, so this one wasn't TECHNICALLY on the N&O list. However, I got a free Groupon since a friend couldn't use it before it expired. Who says no to free oysters? Idiots. That's who. This place is located in MacGregor Village. Hurry, go there while you still can before IKEA or Sam's or whoever the hell buys up the complex and installs a sorely UNneeded big-box-chain-type-superstore. Also, stop by MacGregor's Draft House and have a beer. Ask for Adam, he's the best. Anyway, Tony's is HUGE, a full bar, a full oyster bar, and a large dining area. I know a few people who go here on the weekends for good live music, which makes sense b/c the setting is perfect. I went for dinner, and the place was only semi-busy, but again the size of it may have masked how busy they actually were. For an appetizer, I ordered Cajun Bacon Oysters b/c BACON AND OYSTERS? Are you kidding? Steamed oysters with a spicy rub and topped with perfectly crunchy bacon. Simple. I almost ordered this twice. My dinner came with either soup or salad, so I paid extra and sprang for the She Crab Soup (house special Charleston recipe). The soup was sweet and thick with cream. A little black pepper on top and a little salt (I would salt bacon if I didn't feel I would disappear in a black cloud of smoke, headed straight to hell for gluttony) cut the creaminess and richness, and I was more than able to finish the full cup. For dinner, (in attempt to make up for my fatty soup excursion) I ordered Crab Stuffed Flounder (tomato creole sauce). It came with a side of steamed vegetables and I picked a side of red, beans, and rice to keep with the New Orleans theme. I don't know what it is about cajun, creole spices and seafood, but basically it is a never-fail combination. Spicy tomato compote on top of flaky seasoned fish. Wonderful. I found a couple of shell pieces in my crab and it was hard for me to find the flavor of that specific ingredient, but combined with the flounder, overall, the dish was both light and satisfying. The RB&R were decent, but only that. I realize I am spoiled rotten by my frequent vacations to New Orleans. Still, Tony's is pretty good. The servers and the host were friendly and talkative. Overall, it was a decent dining experience. 86 rating, price $$

I also just realized I may become the Homer Simpson of food critics. "This gets my lowest rating ever. Seven thumbs up."

Bad to the Bone

I spent a lot of time in the car over the holidays this year. It's a 6 hour trip back to Illinois, and then I drove to and from Florida (36 hours total roundtrip). I don't want to recreate the disaster that was my vacation - involving a speeding ticket, expired license plates, a severe back-ache requiring one of those donut pillows, and a lost wallet (IDs, credit cards, cash). Instead, I want to talk about Sophie's Christmas.

The first night back in Illinois I went to my dad's house. He, in his anal retentive way, had his presents wrapped and under the tree since the week of Thanksgiving. I, in my increasing desire to skip Christmas as a holiday altogether, was hauling my presents into Dad's to use his wrapping paper to wrap last-minute. Anyway. One of the items under the tree was a present for Sophie. My father had bought her a bone that was a single braided loop that weighed, I am not kidding you, probably ten pounds. I think he buys her things for his own amusement, enjoying seeing a decent-size 75lb dog playing with toys clearly meant for a dog of a grizzly-size stature. This includes a rope that is as think as my fist, knotted, and as long as she is, which she whips around and can probably with the right aim, smash through large rocks. Anyway, this bone was sitting under the tree when we came in. Sophie, with her doggie-to-bone sonar capabilities immediately ran over to the tree to sniff it out. She then spent the better part of an hour approaching the tree and snuffling, batting her paws at the bone in an attempt to drag it away from the tree, whining when she couldn't, hopping backwards scared at such a monstrosity, and then reapproaching the tree.

This was hilarious. However, my dad felt bad and so he broke the bone into two manageable 5lb pieces. She still couldn't open her jaws wide enough to carry the bone around. She could however attempt to nibble at the edges and lick it. Sophie can take a normal-size bone down in about two hours. This one lasted the week and a half I was in Illinois/Florida.

Sophie's second present came from my aunt, who lives in DC. These two were her ONLY presents, I must say. So, shame on the rest of my family for not buying her Christmas presents. Animals deserve presents too. My mom should feel especially bad. The next time Sophie sees my mom, she is going to give her such a chomp. Anyway, my aunt had mailed a package for Sophie that didn't end up getting to Illinois until I got back from Florida. When I opened it, I almost peed my pants. This is the BEST PRESENT EVER.

My aunt has a little girl, Adeleine, who is adorable and has this beautiful, wispy, blond hair. Sometime after Addy was born, my aunt started making these barrettes for Addy and then continued to make them until she had accumulated enough to warrant an attempt to sell them to other mothers with daughters of wispy hair. Her little venture is called "Sister Fancy Hair," which is totally awesome. Anyway. The last time I was visiting her in DC I was telling her how she should expand into dog collars because people tend to be sort of as obsessed with decorating their pets as they are with decorating their children. Above is the collar my aunt made for Sophie. You will notice that it is pink to reflect Sophie's cuteness but that it has a skull and crossbones to reflect Sophie's bad-assness. It also came with an edible card for Sophie, which she picks up and sort of carries around because she can't really figure out how to eat it. Still. Seriously. BEST. PRESENT. EVER.

Thanks, Sis, for making Christmas so awesome. It was a great thing to open after 18 hours in the car (with my mother, no less), sitting on a donut pillow for five days, and losing my wallet. Doodoos agrees.

David Lynch Is a Fraud

I remember watching Mulholland Drive right after college. Probably eight years ago. I was fascinated with it. One of those movies that you rent (when you still rented movies) and immediately rewound and watched again. I thought there was something to be sought, some puzzle I had to use my brain and/or art appreciation skills to figure out. Something meaningful was being said with this movie. There was Pandora's box, and it opened this alternate universe where the blond actress was what she actually wanted to be? I became interested in David Lynch at this point. I watched Lost Highway, Blue Velvet. I remember my interest being sustained. This guy really has something to say. What is it? Does anyone know?

Anyway.

Netflix brought me Twin Peaks. I started getting pissed. Like. Seriously. I didn't even finish the series I got so annoyed. Who killed Laura Palmer? I didn't care.

I had entered some movies into my Netflix queue. I don't remember what sort of random thing I was reading. I have two queues on Netflix, one for regular movies and one for horror movies. I love scary movies. I think I was trying to populate my queue, and David Lynch sneaked in on some sort of list I saw about the best mind-blow movies. This is where Eraserhead came in, and now that I am going through that list, ALL of David Lynch's movies entered. I watched Eraserhead. I got pissed. I realized that David Lynch is like that annoying person that you don't care about that tries to tell you about a dream he/she had, which you double don't care about. Imagine. You are at Denny's. It is 2am. Your waitress comes for your Moons over My Hammy order, and instead of getting back to the kitchen to deliver said order, she stands there for 10 minutes telling you some dream about her dead aunt being obsessed with sugar and getting carried away in some tornado. All of David Lynch's movies are about him getting us to watch (and PAY to watch in some cases) an annoying, stupid acid trip he had. None of his movies make sense, and from my internet searches, HE can't even make sense of them.

I am pissed. I am annoyed that I was duped into watching this nonsensical BS with the hopes that it had some sort of philosophical meaning. David Lynch is a fraud. Anyone who tries to wax philosophical about his idiot movies or about Twin Peaks is a fraud. Deal with it. My recommendation? Don't waste your time. Also, don't tell people about your dreams. No one cares.