One of my bigger fears when I first planted my flag in the digital world (“In the name of Her Royal Highness, I declare this land ‘Kimopolis!'”) was hate mail, but my concerns were a double-edged sword. On one hand, I knew I was going to broach controversial topics, and have never had any reservations about teasing the people I don’t like until they curl into a laughable shame ball. On the other, anonymity plus keyboard equals total jackass—those looking for a fight will always find one, irrespective of things like common sense, logic and math. But, for all my vegan vulgarisms and foie gras fanaticism, I’ve emerged (mostly) unscathed. I blame the boobs.
The worst so far was a rather nasty comment from a former… well, I won’t say boyfriend, as we went on all of two dates. He had taken our conversations for more than they were worth, and tried to call me a liar and a whore for making him misunderstand our dynamic. (As it’s clearly within my power to decide that for him.) This seems to be a recurring problem in my life. Granted, I’m an intrinsic flirt and try to approach life playfully, but men really are dumb about this. So much so that Russell has suggested starting his own blog titled Men Who Try to Shtup My Girlfriend. It would be like “To Catch a Predator,” but instead of pedophiles, it would feature men—complete with intimate profiles—who’ve mistaken my kindness for interest, and have crossed the line of good character by not respecting the relationship I’m in. I blame the boobs.
Beyond that, I’ve encountered but a handful of unpleasantries. A lady on LinkedIn called me out because my blog wasn’t the lighthearted puffery she expected. (Obviously, this was before Wednesday’s fart debacle.) I did a bit of snooping, and discovered she was considerably older and Methodist—so it’s not like she matters. Also on LinkedIn, a little comment war has been spurred by my fois gras rant, fought between faithful readers and people with no discernible sense of humor. I’m not going to address it; I choose to stay out of silliness like that. Why? Reread the above picture. Finally, I’m in a very polite e-mail argument with someone bent on teaching me the evils of white foods (sugar, flour, milk, etc.), as though this uncultured rube of a honey badger is willing to learn anything in the face of sacrificing delicious flavor.
I’m mentioning all of this because I have space to fill. (Also, so everyone understands I’ll use my blog to destroy you if you ever annoy me.) That it fills so little space means I’m doing my job: creating a place of love. Love of food. Love of me. Love of those that love me—until they take it too far, in which case, see Russell’s proposed blog.
Serves Erica Rumsey
- 3 cups cooked quinoa (yield of 1 cup uncooked)
- 15 oz tub of ricotta
- 1 egg
- 1/3 cup parmesan
- 1 tsp Italian seasoning
- 1 lb Italian sausage (if you buy the links, you will need to squeeze the meat out of the casing to brown)
- 2 cups marinara sauce (I use Russell’s double secret sauce and no he will not let me share the recipe)
- 8 oz mozzarella, sliced
Preheat oven to 350˚. Press the cooked quinoa into 2 pie pans to form a crust. In a large bowl, mix ricotta, egg, parmesan and Italian Seasoning. Carefully spread half of the mixture into each pie pan. Brown Italian sausage and drain. Divide the sausage evenly over the top of the ricotta. Top each pie with 1 cup marinara and half of the sliced mozzerella. Bake for 30 minutes or until cheese is melted and just starting to bubble.
Today’s recipe is the epitome of the love I hope my blog will spread. It’s the first dish ever requested from the Order Up page, asked for by my old coworker and dear friend, Erica. She wanted something that included quinoa, but didn’t taste like straight birdseed. After watching Russell devour almost all of what I created, I’m pretty sure I nailed it. (And because I promised cross-promotion for anyone that challenged me, here is a link to her fundraising team, Mom’s Angels, for her charity, Walk MS.) So, there you ago: Ask of me your deepest culinary queries, and I shall deliver. Even though you are my humble servants, I remain your marvelous food bitch. That is, until you send me a nasty e-mail, and I find out where you live.
TWTG says, “Most people are either writers or food or perverts.”