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Monthly Archives: July 2012

Michael Helps

Almost eclipses the fun bags. Almost.

In terms of luring new donkeys to my farm, speculating about the junk in an Olympic swimmer’s trunks has been the most effective carrot yet. Within a single weekend, “Michael Phelps bulge” has become my second most popular search term—right behind “white trash tits” (of which we’re in no short supply ’round these parts). What this tells me is that everyone is as damaged as yours truly; that no matter how hoity our toity may seem, everyone giggles like a schoolgirl in a tickle fight whenever a part of our anatomy protrudes unflatteringly.

Well, almost everyone. My shenanigans seem to offend a lot of folks at LinkedIn, and they’ve told me as much. I’ve made some wonderful contacts there, but a disproportionate number of its members still take umbrage with my meandering bullshit. It’s unthinkable to some that occasionally (read: mostly) juvenile humor would ever perforate a food blog. Are they upset because, being sophisticated professionals, they expect a finer grade of entertainment from one of their own? As someone who has pounded pavement in the business sector for over a decade—and dated just about every link in the corporate food chain—let me just say pshaw! Sophistication and professionalism have so little to do with each other, we might as well be talking vegans and real people.

So why the pretentious friction? Consider this analogy: Social networks are essentially digital proxies for actual events. MySpace was the party site—scantily clad morons, zero privacy and lots of conjecturable shit spun by bullies that already hated your stinking guts (so of course it must’ve been true). Facebook is more akin to a family function, with a tighter-knit circle of better-mannered people that actually matter in your life. And LinkedIn is the mixer where we put our best perma-smile forward. This means perpetuating an annoyingly PC environment, lest one career opportunity deem you insensitive. I know everyone didn’t agree with my opposition to the foie gras ban, but I didn’t take shit for it anywhere else. I mean, if overly-sensitive white people don’t speak for the poor little geese, who will!?

And then there was Jack the Raper. Fucking LinkedIn.

Big F’ing Sandwich

True to its name, times two.

  • 2 loaves Italian bread
  • 1 lb cooked chicken breast
  • 1 bag Caesar salad kit
  • mayonnaise
  • garlic powder
  • parmesan cheese

This is as simple as it gets in my house. After a long Monday at work, complete with banking drama and a trip to the grocery story, I was in no mood to do much cooking. This is the result:

Slice the 2 loaves in half, lengthwise. Spread bread with mayonnaise, sprinkle with garlic powder and parmesan cheese. Place the bread on a baking sheet and broil until parmesan starts to brown. While the bread broils toss the salad , omitting the croutons. Make a sandwich using the chicken and salad. Slice and serve.

My boyfriend demands you watch the following musical tribute to Michael Phelps. When his daughter was just a little, screaming thing, he would sing this splendiferous song to shut her up. Nothing else worked. How he thought to do this is beyond me—how he thinks to do most things is beyond me. Dude’s a weirdo.

TWTG says, “That’s why I’m so awesome: because I’m awesome.”


(Swag) Of The Week

The White Trash Gourmet is officially a thing. A few weeks ago, my store sold its first apron, and the patron was nice enough to let his wife model it for me. (No, the picture hasn’t been altered—she really is that freaking pretty.) What store, you may ask? WordPress won’t let me pimp it on the blog. I know everyone’s been chomping at the bit to fund my black tar heroin addiction, but rather than risk moderation, simply e-mail me ( for details. Pimping and addiction? I truly am a celebrity.

TWTG says, “There better be dead people up here.”

Famous Again

For me? Yep.

I’ve been nominated for the One Lovely Blogger Award, and of all my accolades, it’s my favorite (and most accurate) to date. The evidence is mounting: I’m a very important woman. I even have a castle now—I just have to get the damn neighborhood kids to stop jumping in it. Yes, I know these awards are given out like antidepressants, but they still feel wonderful (like antidepressants). And since I let everything else go to my fat, inflated head… why break precedent?

In order to qualify for the award, I have to fill out the following:

Rule 1: Acknowledge the person who nominated you

The lovely Laura, at As Time Goes…Buy, nominated me for the award. She apparently gets a kick out of my crazies. Thank you Laura. If I lived in Australia, I’d be your shopping buddy.

Rule 2: Share 7 things about yourself

  1. Despite being every bit a child of the 80s as either Corey, I still haven’t seen St. Elmo’s Fire, License To Drive or Porky’s.
  2. I can’t stand the music of Bruce Springsteen. Yes, I live in America. Rich, I’m so sorry.
  3. My body can survive on Cap’n Crunch longer than any mortal should be able to endure. (Fun fact: a steady diet of it turns your poop hot green.)
  4. I sang in the church choir growing up, and can recite The Hymnal by heart.
  5. 36 DD. Happy birthday, world.
  6. The first “real” meal I ever cooked was coq-au-vin when I was 10.
  7. My middle name is Louise. It’s a family name and I despise it. Call me “Weezy” and I’ll reach through your monitor for the stabbings of your thorax.

Rule 3: Nominate 15 other bloggers for this award

I’m not going to explain why I picked these blogs other than I read and love each one:

  1. A Clown on Fire
  2. Good2begone’s Blog
  4. Kaboom
  5. Someone Fat Happened
  7. Seattle Foodshed
  8. Gemini Girl in a Random World
  9. Flavorful World
  10. Black Box Warnings
  11. She Kept a Parrot
  12. The Confluent Kitchen
  13. Our Painted World
  14. The Unorthodox Epicure
  15. ChefsOpinion

TWTG says, “I pulled this out of my ass. My ass-flavored food is the best.”

Swim Meat


Sorry, meatheads, muscles don’t do much for me. I much prefer the swimmer look—svelte and willowy. In fact, one of the reasons I drank from my marital carton so long after its expiration date was my surfer ex being so easy on the eyes. In high school, I volunteered as a timer for the swim team. This required me to be perched within coughing distance of a near-naked boy, with only two layers of of Speedo goodness (as a single layer was deemed too transparent) between my stopwatch and a misdemeanor.

It should come as no surprise, then, that I primarily watch the Olympics for its swimming events. And being… well, moi, let me ask a very immature question: Is endowment proportional to hydrodynamics? That is, does the size of the anchor dictate the speed of the boat? Get what I’m asking? Yes or no, is it harder to swim with a big wiener? Don’t point and laugh just yet. Consider the evidence. Swimmers shave their body for less drag, right? So, if something as insignificant as a hair follicle can hinder performance, what happens when they’re putting up Liam Neeson numbers? (In case that went over your head, Liam is said to have a Neeson so massive, they were originally going to call the movie Schindler’s Lift.)

The Force is strong with this one

Does this mean that, in addition to having a brow pronounced enough to make the cover of Cro-Magnon Weekly, Michael Phelps got cheated downstairs, as well? Maybe I’m looking at it backwards—maybe an exceptional husband bulge functions as a sort of rudder. But that wouldn’t explain why only three African American men have ever made our Olympic swim team. Of course, this entire line of questioning is moot now that the Olympics mandates full-body swimsuits. How am I supposed to ocularly rape my aquatic Chippendale dancers with all that polyurethane in the way?

My mind wanders.

Tomato Cobbler

Tastes like pizza

  • 2 cups tomatoes, roughly chopped
  • 1/2 cup sundried tomatoes
  • 1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
  • 1 tbsp fresh basil, minced
  • 1 tsp minced garlic
  • 1/2 cup butter
  • 1 cup flour
  • 1/4 cup grated parmesan
  • 1 tsp baking powder
  • 1/2 cup milk

This is a twist on an old family cobbler recipe. I took out the sugar and made it savory. Preheat oven to 350˚. Combine tomatoes, balsamic, basil, garlic, and salt and pepper to taste (I used quite a bit of pepper). Set aside. In a square (9×9) baking dish, melt butter. Mix flour, parmesan, baking powder and milk. Spoon batter over melted butter. Add tomato mixture on top of batter and bake for 30 minutes or until crust has browned. The crust will rise to the top during baking. I’m quite impressed with this one, as it’s true to the mission statement behind my little blog. I had very little food in the house tonight, and am broke until payday, but still managed to save the culinary day. I’m awesome.

In keeping with my rule of a man’s name euphemizing his penis: Liam’s Neeson is so big, it’s like a baby arm holding another baby arm. Liam’s Neeson is so big, it’s pen pals with Liam Neeson. Liam’s Neeson is so big, it gets more than 140 characters on Twitter. Liam’s Neeson is so big, it slaps God mid-cartwheel. Liam’s Neeson is so big, it gets claimed as a dependent. Liam’s Neeson is so big, the Kraken releases it. I could do this forever. And want to.

TWTG says, “I can’t work with my hands all gooey. You know how it is.”

Interesting Bedfellows

Trust me, she’s cute.

From my experience, too many adults are just teenagers with intent. Given how I feel about teenagers, it goes without question, then, that too many adults aren’t worth knowing beyond a superficial/networking level. Which is why I’ve grown to treasure the blogosphere: grownups live here. The maturity mileage varies, sure, but at least the thinking mind is respected. I don’t pretend to be an intellectual, but I am a junkie for the written word (I imagine write, write, read is the literary equivalent of puff, puff, give), and my fellow bloggers appreciate this fix better than most in reality.

Which brings me to yesterday, when I met a fellow blogger (and her delightful pooch, Dave) in said reality. (Dry your eyes, Le Clown.) She writes under the name Lynn on 56 Men and Other Mistakes, and we had a lunch date at Eat Chow in Orange County. The food was good, but I enjoyed the company much more. Lynn is a lovely lady, as straightforward in person as she is in her writing, and it was very refreshing to meet an adult-flavored adult. Whether or not she ends up in my proverbial lifeboat has yet to be determined (although it would be good sailing, as we could tie all of her conquests together into a man-yacht), but it warms my heart knowing I’m making genuine friendships here.

Who knew ranting about bacon and boobs could make a gal so popular?

Cashew Butter Cookies

Reason number 119 to meet me in person.

  • 1/2 cup butter, softened
  • 1/2 cup cashew butter
  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 1/2 cup brown sugar
  • 1 egg
  • 1/2 tsp vanilla
  • 1 1/4 flour
  • 3/4 tsp baking soda
  • 1/2 tsp baking powder
  • 1/4 tsp salt

Preheat oven to 350˚. In a stand mixer, mix butter, cashew butter and sugars until well blended. Mix in egg and vanilla. Add dry ingredients and mix, just until blended. Drop batter by spoonfuls onto a cookie sheet and press a crisscross into tops using a fork dipped in sugar (like you would for peanut butter cookies). Bake for 8 minutes. Allow to cool slightly before moving to a cooling rack. These are a bit sweeter and less salty than peanut butter cookies. You could substitute any type of nut butter (I so want to make a reference to Lynn here) for the cashew butter and still get a great tasting end result. 

One day I’m going to travel the world and cash in on all of my digital connections. Everyone owes me a dinner and a night’s lodging. What do you get in return? Both the value of my company and the adorability of my face. What’s that? No, I would hate to see your bungee cord collection.

TWTG says, “There’s a whole little cluster of some fucked-up shit going on there.”

(Kismet) Of The Week

Anyone in a mostly functional relationship will undoubtedly finish their partner’s sentence at some point. The greatest, most random example of this may have happened to me last Friday. I finally decided to join the gay cowboy club and watch Brokeback Mountain with Russell. (Seven years too late, but whatever.) After this fine movie was over, I turned to my boyfriend and said, “I have a question. How was…” at which point he interrupted me with “…one palmful of saliva enough lube for Heath Ledger to comfortably make Jake Gyllenhaal his catcher?” Which is exactly what I was going to say, in not exactly those words. So we’re clear, it’s not like he was thinking the same thing I was—he’s just that goddamn fluent in Kimberlese. Sorry for being so predictable.

TWTG says, “Because my boobs are all sweaty, and I’m excited from Phantom of the Opera.”

Stranger Danger

The “charming and gorgeous” picture

The following is a very real e-mail from someone in Los Angeles wanting a peepee touch from yours truly. I’ve left all the grammatical blemishes in, and while it might not seem offensive or creepy at first… realize this was sent to me through LinkedIn:

Charming & Gorgeous picture. what manner of beauty bestowed on one person like you. You must have been created on God’s resting day.

I don’t know what to say after going through your profile, what a beauty you are, but in a short note, I will say that am thrilled, I would like to know more about you if you don’t mind. Anyway, my name is [name omitted], i am a normal man and would like to be friends with you. Can i have your email? or write me on [e-mail omitted]. Hope to hear from you soon if you are interested.

[I so desperately want to sign this Jack the Raper]

Oh, men, men, men. Sorry, but I really do have to put you all on trial for this—like a class action lawsuit in reverse. Does (attempted) suaveness still work in 2012? Are there still women susceptible to this kind of long-winded puffery? And what the fuck does “God’s resting day” mean? God made me on the day He wasn’t doing shit? Also, I submit that if you have to consciously describe yourself as “normal”, you must also be willing to allow an inspection of the contents of your basement. You will? Ha! Egg on your face, sex deviant! California homes don’t have basements (my sister’s notwithstanding).

Being the way I am, obviously it isn’t my first rodeo with this sort of thing. But… really? Is this what we’re down to? Trolling for résumé ass on LinkedIn? Call me old fashioned, but I actually prefer the shitty one-liners: “Wanna go halfsies on a baby?”, “all those curves and me with no brakes”, “do you like athletic gear, because I’m sporting goods”, etc.. I actually thought of that third one, but you can borrow it if you’d like. Just put it in your pocket for safe keeping—right next to the chloroform.

Charming And Gorgeous Popcorn

Smuggling it into “The Dark Knight Rises”

  • 8 cups popcorn, plain
  • 8 slices crispy bacon, crumbled
  • 1 cup toasted pecans, chopped
  • 6 tbsp unsalted butter
  • 1 1/2 cup maple syrup
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1/2 tsp ancho chili powder

In large bowl, combine popcorn, crumbled bacon and pecans. (I popped my corn in bacon fat to add another layer of flavor and sin.) Line a large cookie sheet with foil and spray with non-stick spray. Melt butter in a medium sauce pan. Add maple syrup, salt and chili powder. Do not stir. Bring to a boil and continue boiling until a candy thermometer reads 300˚. (I went out and purchased a candy thermometer just so I could make this recipe.) Pour hot maple candy over popcorn and stir quickly with an oiled silicon spatula. Spread into prepared cookie sheet and allow to cool. Break up any large pieces.

I seem to have a nice theme of popcorn and perverts this week. Rereading the above, I do come off as a bit of a bully… but I can live with that. Maybe it helps to know the e-mail was sent at 12:44 a.m. on a Wednesday—which means, even from a LinkedIn point of view, it screams unprofessionalism. Jack also must not read the blog, else he’d know I’m already in a medium-crappy relationship.

TWTG says, “If I do yoga right now, I’m gonna barf.”