Monthly Archives: February 2012
More than once, Russell has suggested I get “I didn’t mean to, it’s not my fault” tattooed across my forehead—backwards, so assholes can see it in their rearview; and again in French, so we can go to Canada. If I were in the business of desecrating my face (artistically), I might actually consider this. It’d be like walking around with a spoiler alert to one of life’s greatest questions: Is Kim going to take her share of the blame for (fill in the blank)? Sure, there are times when I’ll take 20% of it, on the rare occasion I feel like including gratuity. But, mostly, I didn’t mean to and, hence, it’s not my fault. Read the face, bitch.
Having said that, I’ve noticed a trend amongst my trio of clown-spawn. They’ve decided to share a condo in the most meandering nation in the world and, unfortunately, it’s entirely my fault. Which nation, you ask? Procrastination. And, you guessed it, I’m the queen. It’s not that I’m lazy, and I try very hard to be un-rude, there’s just something inside me that insists on flipping Mayans the bird and operating on its own calendar.
Leave it to children to remind you how awful you are.
My eldest’s band has spent the last few months preparing for a gig, but decided to inform me less than a week away about the costumes, faulty equipment and entrance fees that need to be resolved beforehand. Being the stage mom I am, it is now incumbent upon me to bail them out, checkbook at the ready. My middle son is struggling to finish his English assignments, often recruiting me to finish his larger projects hours before they’re due. And my youngest has an odd way of volunteering me for last minute shopping sprees because something I was going to buy her anyway is on sale that day only. I mean, c’mon, I’m saving money, right? Yeah, I get it. I’m a chump. Sigh.
So, in the spirit of procrastinating, here’s an amazing dinner that takes five hours to make—plenty of time to not get shit done.
Silence of the Lamb Osso Bucco
Will even feed kids that “don’t like eating babies” (animals that is)
- 3 lbs lamb osso bucco
- Salt and pepper
- 1 tbsp olive oil
- 1 large onion
- 2 cups sweet red wine ( I used Jam Jar Sweet Shiraz)
- 1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
- 2 tsp minced garlic
- 2 tsp rosemary
Preheat oven to 250˚. Liberally sprinkle lamb with salt and pepper. Heat olive oil over med-high heat in cast iron skillet. Sear both sides of lamb until browned. Transfer to roasting pan. Deglaze skillet by using a small amount of red wine reduction. (Make this by combining the remaining ingredients in a sauce pan and bring to a simmer. Continue to simmer until reduced by at least 1/2. The longer you reduce the liquid the more rich the sauce will be.) Cut onion into eighths and place on top of lamb. Pour liquid from skillet over lamb and onion, place lid on roasting pan and bake for 4–5 hours. Turn lamb every hour so that all sides braise evenly. Remove lamb from roasting pan and top with red wine reduction. Much to my children’s horror, I sucked the marrow out of each of the lamb bones they so carelessly left behind. Silly wabbits.
Of course I jacked up my kids. Who doesn’t? The only reason we have them is because we can’t make ourselves happy anymore because of how badly our parents jacked us up. Love you, mom. Love you, dad. You guys actually did do a great job with me, but if you were ever hoping (however faintly) that I’d get my procreative comeuppance one day, them three little bastards got me good for you.
Last weekend, my tiny slice of cyberspace gained over a hundred followers. If you are among them, give yourself a pat on the region north of your waist-equator. You are officially one of the hundred smartest people in the history of ever. Clearly, you know a good chest when you see one and you should totally bet the farm on that high risk loan. My favorite part is that, while some of you are family, and others are friends, the majority are complete strangers.
How do the unknown find me? Simple: By searching the most gonzo/bizarro shit imaginable. I guess that’s supposed to say something about me and my potty mouth. After all, if I ran a cleaner ship (as the old saying from the sea goes), I would dangle nothing to attract these creatures of the night (as that even older saying from the sea goes). But… yeah, I’m gonna choose to ignore all that and point fingers at my favorite example:
Two people—that is two (2) people—have washed up on my beach by diving for “tetillas erizadas” off the shores of Google. The literal translation? Bristly nipples. Hey, I’m not one to judge. If it makes you happy and doesn’t hurt anyone else, it’s a good thing, right? It also means I’m international! (Obviously, everyone in America speaks English. Everyone. Obviously.) But, uh, in all seriousness, my bilingual degenerates, that thing on your face is never going to heal if you keep picking at it.
Let’s just drink until I find all you weirdos charming:
Surprise Concoction Cocktail
Serves one wannabe famous blogger
- 3 parts cranberry juice
- 2 parts vodka
- 1 part Disaronno
- Juice of 1/8 lemon
Shake all ingredients over ice in cocktail shaker. I’ve had this bottle of Disaronno that a friend brought over and I only ever use it in desperation. The other night I was short on vodka and this sweet little ditty was invented. Enjoy!
All jokey-jokes aside, I’m positively giddy that my blog is generating momentum. Stick with me, kiddos, even if the state says you can’t live near schools. Granted, I won’t save your tarnished soul, and I might steal your shoes if they’re especially cute, but at least I’ll keep you fat and I’m fun to look at.
The only silver lining around the passing of a great singer is that the radio becomes severely excellent while it celebrates their discography the following month. As you may have guessed, I got a summons in the mail saying it’s my turn to weigh in on the whole Whitney Houston debacle. A little late, but she should’ve planned around my vacation better. Was that in poor taste? Probably. But, before umbrage is taken and panties bunched, always remember that nothing is so sacred it can’t be teased. Yes, death is sad no matter who it happens to or how often (and anyone who says otherwise is a ghoul), but sometimes we must laugh so we do not cry. Also, reread the marquee, people. I’m not The Touchy Feely Gourmet.
But, I was a teenager of the 80s and also a waver. Traditional punk meant nothing by then and hair metal was the soundtrack of dungeon crawls. I got my first taste of new wave from my aunt Holly, who used to improvise Go-Go’s concerts in her bedroom with my sister and I (every girl knows what excellent microphones hairbrushes make). By the 90s, I followed where all lame-ass white people went: into the bowels of grunge. Kurt Cobain told us to stop enjoying things and my marriage certainly made that easy. These genres, and their derivatives, still satiate my love of music today. Driving to and from Nevada last weekend, the only station my new car’s satellite radio blasted was 1st Wave—because nothing says Vegas like too many confused emotions and anti-consumerism.
What does any of this have to do with Ms. Houston? After all, her soulful lyrics and mezzo-soprano voice are the opposite of what I’ve gravitated towards, aurally. My ears might not have had a use for the R, or its accompanying B, but that never stopped me from adoring her. Whitney’s talent existed outside anyone’s opinion of it. There was there was nary a car ride in 1992 that didn’t feature me absolutely belting “I Will Always Love You.” (Carry me, please, Kevin Costner!) I’m not glossing over her troubles, financial, substance or other. They’re just none of my business. I’m both fascinated and disturbed that there’s no longer a line between stories that are in the public interest and stories that the public is merely interested in.
This post is getting dangerously close to something serious. How about some chicken soup to brighten our day?
Creamy Chicken Soup with Sweet Potato Dumplings
- 1 whole roast chicken
- 2 tbsp olive oil
- 1 large onion, diced
- 1 cup carrots, diced
- 1 cup celery, diced
- 1 whole head roasted garlic
- 32 oz box of chicken stock
- 1 tsp fresh thyme
- 1/4 tsp nutmeg
- Salt & pepper
- 2 cups milk
- 1/4 cup cream
- 1 1/2 cups flour
- 2 tsp baking powder
- 1/2 tsp salt
- Dash nutmeg
- 3 tbsp cold butter
- 1 cup mashed sweet potatoes
- 2–3 tbsp buttermilk
Remove meat from whole roast chicken. I made my own last night, but you could easily use one from the grocery store. Add olive oil to large soup pot over med-high heat. Add onions and caramelize (cook over med-high heat, stirring occasionally, until they are a nice golden brown). Add carrots, celery and roasted garlic (squeeze garlic from skins and mash with back of knife). Saute with onions for 2–3 minutes. Add chicken stock and bring to a simmer. Stir in chicken, thyme and nutmeg. Salt and pepper to taste. Simmer for 10 minutes. Add milk and cream and bring to a light simmer. Add dumpling batter (see below).
While soup is cooking prepare dumplings. Stir together flour, baking powder, salt and nutmeg. Cut in cold butter until a course meal is formed. Stir in sweet potatoes. (I peeled, diced and boiled potatoes for 20 minutes, then had Russell mash them while I was chopping other veggies.) Add buttermilk, a little bit at a time until dough comes together. It should be slightly sticky. Drop dumplings by spoonfuls into simmering soup. Cook for 10 minutes on low heat, then cover and cook for an additional 10 minutes. Serve and burn your tongue.
My eldest son is spending time with his new girlfriend and won’t he feel stupid knowing I made his absolutely favorite dinner of all time tonight. At least it’ll be good comfort food for when he saunters home, tail between his legs, having struck out again. Mama loves you, Sean.
Editor’s Note: This post has been translated from its original Kimberlese. It is meant to be read fast.
Russell and I leave for Vegas at 1 in the afternoon. So of course we leave at 2. It’s smooth sailing on the I-15 until we hit Cleghorn. We nickname it Foghorn Cleghorn. Har-dee, I say, har-dee-har-har. We stop for waters at a gas station in Barstow. The women’s bathroom smells like meth. Never smelled meth, but that’s what it is. We pass Zyzzyx Road. Russell tells me there’s a movie named after it with Katherine Heigl. It made $30 at the box office—the lowest grossing movie of all time. Poor Katherine Heigl. We cross the state line. I get a tweet from my cousin, but that’s another post.
My siblings are at the house we’re renting and wonder where I am. I text them we’ll arrive in minutes and demand a cocktail be ready. Minutes later, we arrive. Cocktail is ready. My brother roofied me. A road trip of jerky and nuts is not enough to counterbalance the booze. I’m falling-over drunk 10 minutes after parking. Yay. Vegas. My brother roofied me. The family gussies up and we head out to the strip. My brother Matt sits in the passenger seat and gives Russell, the navigational retard, gentle directions to Mandalay Bay. We have dinner at Ri Ra Irish Pub. The servers have fake accents, but I have an authentic Guinness and share a Reuben with Russell. The bill is divided between the couples. They forget to include my meal on it. Sucks to be them.
We trade this pub for another. Nine Fine Irishmen at New York-New York. They have a 3-piece band. I dance. I fall ass-over-teakettle in front of the entire bar. I dance more. The female singer catches me in the bathroom later and wonders if I was the girl that fell. My brother roofied me. Russell and I call it a night. No Matt to give him gentle directions, so we drive entirely the wrong way home. Many illegal U-turns later, we’re back. Skin of teeth. I pass out.
I’m roused from my coma just before noon. Russell’s been up for hours—can’t roofie a sober guy. We head out for a day with no plan. We saunter into the Pinball Hall of Fame. I find my Addams Family machine I used to play in college. I remember sucking less. Russell tells me he wants to get nerdy (i.e. be himself) at A Gamer’s Paradise. It’s off of Charleston on the wrong end of town. The neighborhoods are cordoned off to discourage drug dealing. Fun. We stop for gas. A hobo (political correctness be damned) offers us “free gas” from an old gas can. Super fun. Russell’s stupid little game store has no windows to the outside world and the clerk smells like nothing that’s ever gone into, or out from, a human orifice. Super duper fun.
We make it back to the strip and find Bonanza, the world’s largest gift shop. Russell gets me the world’s greatest magnet, as well as the world’s greatest band-aids for his family in California. We go to The Mirage and decide on Carnegie Delicatessen. I wanted borscht, but also a non-farting butt, so we opted for their Greek salad. Delicious, but the complementary pickles smelled of fish. In case you aren’t in the business of sensing themes, Vegas has very interesting odors. A few drinks later, Russell and I go back to the house for chitchat and more drinks. I mention the fishy pickles and am one-upped by “yeah, well Whole Foods has vagina-scented fish.” I love my family. The entire crew pretties up and heads back to the strip.
Bouchon Bistro at The Venetian. This is the second “big” dinner for my 4oth birthday. I’m worth it, right Russell? I have the Gigot d’Agneau. Russell has the Boudin Blanc. We split the Moëlle Rôtie and the Salade de Magret de Canard. Fancy. Thomas Keller owns the joint. He was the culinary consultant for Ratatouille. None of his genius was fictionalized for the movie. The wait staff clearly hates working there. Every mistake is corrected by the floor managers in wannabe mafioso suits. The only time our server smiles is when he drops my spoon on the floor.
We go to O’Sheas. Drinks, gambling, drinks.
We go to Wild Bill’s. Drinks, karaoke, drinks.
Russell and I call it a night.
I pass out.
Cock-a-doodle-do. It’s noon, but whatever. Cereal sounds good. My brother-in-law has eaten the marshmallows from the organic Lucky Charms knockoff—which is something we all do, when we’re 12. Everyone that’s not Russell is hungover. We rally at 3 for the Bellagio’s buffet. Our crowd dissents, hemming and hawing about the quality of buffet food until the lunch price becomes the dinner price. China Poblano is decided instead. Interesting fusion food abounds. Duck tongue tacos paired with shrimp/pork belly dumplings? Duh. Grandma calls. The wee ones left behind are worse for wear. Fevers. Barfing. Panic spreads wide between the parents. I remain calm. The greatness of divorce is that one parent is always with the children. Let their dad deal with that shit. Maniacal laugh.
Mass hugging ensues and my extended family goes back to California. Time for more misadventures with my man. We walk just under 3 million miles to my favorite stomping ground, MGM Grand. Inside my favorite stomping ground is my favorite slot machine, Wheel of Fortune. I play $10 and turn it to $40. The proceeds go to that most generous of charities: Drinks and video poker at my favorite bar (Centrifuge) near my favorite slot machine inside my favorite stomping ground. The waitress dances on the bar top. I want her cute outfit but not her sad chest.
3 million miles back to the car. We hit CVS halfway for stuffs. Bags are heavy but look at my gentleman boy doing the grunt work. The valet gets a fin. We go home, convertible style. We have no keys. I pee behind some bushes. Russell breaks inside the house. Jacuzzi. Pool table. Drinks. Rinse. Repeat. I pass out.
Breakfast at noon. House is tidied one last time. Never been to Fremont Street. That changes. We immediately see why it’s not featured in brochures. They didn’t even light it up for yours truly. At least the souvenirs are about $3 cheaper per item. A random man stares hard into my chest as though he’s trying to find my shoulder blades. Feel dirty. We find a jerky store. Venison jerky. Elk jerky. And every other meat of legend. It is the ideal place to loot during the zombie invasion. We’re calling dibs. One last casino—who cares which one in this part of town? Drop $25 in slot machine. Nada tostada. We get the Foosball Underwear Clockmaker Kitchen (if you enjoy making acronyms) out of Vegas. Traffic sucks. Home. Drinks. Drinks. Drinks. I pass out.
There you have it. Remarkably, we did all of the aforementioned for just under a grand and walked away with no less than 500 ReKimmendations—1 for every drink. This has been my longest post ever, and here I wasn’t gonna talk about Vegas at all. I must really love you. Time to pass out.
The bitch is back from her Vegas hiatus and how lucky y’all must feel. Do I have stories (complete with photographic evidence) mapping my latest conquest of America’s glittery, deep-fried toilet? Of course I do, but there’d be no point in sharing due to a lack of originality. Vegas is the 15th most photographed city in the world and everyone comes home from it having drawn the same conclusion: If men had dicks as functional as their common sense, the city would never make a dime.
Instead, I want to share something that happened on the drive there. While I was finally achieving a long-dreamt milestone—driving onto the strip with the top of my well-deserved convertible down—I received a private tweet from my cousin, Gina, informing me that a spate of “real nasty things” were being said about me. She had attached a link with her message, but it didn’t work no matter how many times I tried open to it. I became anxious, not because I was worried about about any dirty laundry being aired (although I have plenty of that; I could start a newsstand with all my issues), but who could ever dislike yours truly?
After all, I’m the Queen of Everything. No, really.
Should any of you lucky ducks receive an e-mail from moi, you’ll notice that the byline does, in fact, read “Queen of Everything.” Yes, it is a vainglorious jab at how I present myself, but it’s also the truest thing you know. If you were unaware of this fact, welcome to my self-serving blog (aka reality). Shockingly enough, I did not give myself this title. My coronation was appointed by a former coworker. A Mormon coworker, so you know it’s theologically sound. After all, Mormons constitute the one true faith. It’s a joke, mom. Click the link before you call me.
In truth, said coworker dubbed me this with a twinge of sarcasm. She teased me about how I insisted on knowing everything and said that it was never enough for me to be right… everyone else had to be wrong. What excellent points she made. I can’t believe we didn’t remain close, well as she clearly knew me. But, rest assure, I am a good queen, kind and merry. How good? So good that I feed you:
Strata-0-sphere (like in Vegas, get it?)
- 1 loaf jalapeno cheese bread
- 1 lb chorizo
- 1 dozen eggs
- 1 cup milk
- 1 cup salsa
- 1/2 cup chevre or cream cheese
- 2 cups shredded Mexican blend cheese
Preheat oven to 350˚. Tear bread into pieces and place in the bottom of a 9 x 13 pan. Brown chorizo. You can use any type (even “soyrizo”), but I used bulk lean pork chorizo. Beat eggs, milk and salt and pepper (to taste) until well-blended. Add the chorizo over the bread, spoon on the salsa, dot with chevre or cream cheese. Add eggs and top with shredded cheese. This can be placed in the refrigerator overnight or popped right into the oven. Bake for 30–45 minutes, until center is set. This recipe is great for a holidays and large groups because it’s simple, can be prepared the night before and is very easy to double.
Luckily, my cousin’s tweet was fake. Someone had hacked her (and many other people’s) account and the message was a mass spamming. Or something else equally massy and nerdy. Either way, it’s what I said: Try as they might, nobody is actually allowed to dislike me.
So let’s make it official.
Lady Gaga calls her fans Little Monsters. Justin Bieber has the Beliebers. It’s only fair, then, that HRH has a designation for her flock. Hence, it gives you great pleasure for me to dub my collective “Subjects.” Maybe I’m too high on my own bullshit right now, but at least it smells like rainbows and puppy giggles. Feast, Subjects.
Mama’s packing like mad for Vegas, so I won’t be able to make today’s deadline. Instead of gracing you with foodie/trashy goodness, Russell would like to share with you a (very true) story about why he is NOT going to be my navigator on our road trip:
Dear sweet little old man that stopped me for directions this morning,
I am so deeply sorry. You were running late for an appointment with your attorney and I genuinely wanted to help get you there. It was in no way my intention to send you on that wildest of goose chases, but you must understand you were asking exactly the wrong person. If you, in your 200+ years, ever wondered what the opposite of an Arctic Tern was, you met him. Whereas those birds can successfully migrate 24,000 miles a year, I would be mutinied if I helmed a voyage to the local IHOP. There are only two explanations that let me live with myself:
1) I am inexperienced, as I’ve only been asked for directions 5 or 6 times my whole adult life. Hence, I get so nervous about giving the wrong answer that I second guess myself into failure. The worst example was in 1999 when I told a man to drive southwards from Oceanside to reach San Marcos (which is to the east for all you non-Californians). He was only running late to give away his eldest daughter at her wedding. Oops.
2) I am secretly evil and wish to ruin the life of anyone wasting my time. This is 9% likely.
Either way, my question to you, my latest victim, is… what the hell is wrong with you? Have you not heard of MapQuest, Google or smartphones, you oldie-headed bastard? I mean, yes, I get you must’ve been terrified when trains were invented, but not all technology is that intimidating. Adapt or die. At least, die a little later than you’re naturally going to. I didn’t like the sound of that cough.
Russell the Meandering Jackass
So, yeah, hopefully we’ll be back Monday to bring sunshine and vulgarity to your lives once more. If not, you know precisely who to blame. Don’t worry, I’m going to try to get him deep in his coffin. Until then, miss me like crazy and muahs all around!