RSS Feed

The Grind

Hard(ly) at work.

I don’t write much about my job. Half the reason is decorous—it would be in bad taste to criticize my coworkers when they aren’t around to defend themselves. (Why I don’t think this rule applies to the friends and family I throw under the bus on a triweekly basis… well, you’ll just have to figure that shit out for yourself.) The other half is accidental. Considering how I revel in the pointing of fingers, for tease-centric purposes, I must be pretty damn content with my career if it doesn’t come up even casually. There’s bullshit, sure, but what is work if not a necessity grown from the mitigation of bullshit?

I’m super deep today.

For those not in the know (i.e. most of you), I’m a property manager. Wikipedia says my duties include “finding/evicting and generally dealing with tenants, home repair, home improvement, cleaning, garden maintenance, landscaping, and snow removal, to be coordinated with the owner’s wishes.” True enough, but, primarily, my job is to translate Plain English for tenants and vendors that only skim my written solutions. (When I finally succumb to dementia, “it’s in the e-mail I sent” will likely be the only six words I can remember.) I also have to correct a great deal of math, as most companies seem to train their employees on an abacus.

But my job’s biggest bugaboo—as well as its greatest perk—is the food. Between snack days and potlucks, luncheons and networking dinners, random shindigs and holiday bashes, annual bake-offs and REITery (our company’s fancy, monthly brunch), I could never spend money on food again and stay pleasantly plump on what they feed us. (The kids would suffer, but I don’t remember anyone accusing me of being a good mom.) Factor in a food blog… I’m eating seven meals a day like a fucking Hobbit. And I hate Hobbits. Does that make me a heightist? Probably. And I’m fine with that, as long as you think I’m thin.

I’m super deep today.

Pear & Bacon French Toast Casserole

How to get promoted.

  • 1 large loaf artisan bread
  • 1 large pear
  • 1 lb bacon, cut into 2 inch pieces
  • 8–10 oz shredded gruyere or gouda (I used a goats milk gouda)
  • 2 dozen eggs
  • 1 cup maple syrup
  • 1 tsp cinnamon
  • 1 tsp salt
  • 1/8 tsp pepper

Tear loaf into pieces and place in the bottom of a large roasting pan (this recipe feeds a crowd). Top with peeled and diced pear, cooked bacon and shredded cheese. Whisk eggs with maple syrup, cinnamon, salt and pepper. Pour over other ingredients. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Bake at 350˚ for 50–60 minutes or until the center is set. This can be served with additional maple syrup on top, but it’s not necessary. I made this to go with my savory cheesecake to wow the breakfast crowd at work. I succeeded.

I know, poor little me. What a blessing it is to be employed at all in these trying times, let alone have a gig so cushy it actually fattens its workers with decadence. If it’s any consolation, at least I have an awesome window office, and everybody there loves me.

TWTG says, “It was my pooping phone.”


(Swag 2: Electric Boogaloo) Of The Week

World’s Best Boss

Guess what I’m doing with my own horn? Tooting it. Shamelessly. I mean, just look at what you could be drinking from for the low, low price of your soul’s salvation! E-mail me ( if you want to be the coolest kid on your block. And, hell, if you give me enough of your money, I might just sell you the one pictured. You could use the salivary residue to make more of me. It won’t violate any cloning laws—I’d have to be human first.

TWTG says, “Well, mine’s just a bag of no goodness.”


Look at him, stalking all stalkingly.

It wouldn’t matter if I were sitting in the leprosy section of a one-star deli in Qatar, and a gentle sand breeze rolls my falafel off the table, into the jowls of an ill-tempered rhesus monkey armed with a rusty knife… I will fight that macaque to recover my chickpea ball, brush it gently on my hijab and then eat it. I don’t even care if I fail to do this within the five-second rule, either: The monkey and I can go tooth and shiv all day, while our deep-fried prize bakes in the Arab sun. I will still be the victor, and to me will go the still-edible spoils.

The point of this random fiction? I’m not a germaphobe. Having said that… holy shit, gymnasiums give me the bacterial willies. Let me back up a bit: This week, my Dentyne-sized friend, Autumn, has started working full time again (after some medical shenanigans), and is now dragging my rotund ass to the gym on our lunch break. After our first workout, she teased me about how much of a prissy diva I was—how nothing was clean enough for my fragile psyche. Whereas I would normally turn a non-confrontational cheek at such playful criticism, I must stand by my objection. Let’s break it down into components:

First, there’s getting changed. If you’re a man reading this, and have ever wondered about the naked pillow fights that clandestinely break out in women’s locker rooms, let me assuage your curiosity: it’s all true. Problem is, the only immodest contenders are old enough to have done alterations with Betsy Ross—and, oh, do they love to socialize. Look, I adore old folks, and hope to be one myself someday, but towel-up, ladies. I don’t need your dilapidated naughty bits to accidentally graze me. Again.

Then there’s the gym portion of the gym, where meatheads in wife beaters two sizes too small, with necks two sizes too thick, grunt and scream as if recording the audio book for Stoney and the Great Passage of Urethra. But ignoring all that is as simple as using ear buds. What is less forgivable is the pool of jock filth they leave in their wake and waft. How a towel was deemed to be an adequate absorber for such fungal man-leavings is anybody’s guess. More to the point, how have gym-employed bus boys not been invented yet? If restaurants see it necessary to chemically purge a table after every meal—even though food is already served on sanitized plating—how could a light brushing of drenched upholstery be compliant with health codes, at either a state or common sense level? Even the butcher paper a doctor rolls out for you would be progress.

I’ll take my chances with the monkey.

I already feel like I need a shower—which brings us to the closing act of the workout experience. Women, I know how fun it is to make hair art in the shower at home. I know the delights of gathering all the loose strands that have clung to the tile, rotary phoning them into clumps and giving each one a name and backstory. But… do you really need to share your masterpieces publicly? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just an artless rube. Maybe I should just be grateful for the free toe rings. Shudder.

Of course, I wouldn’t have to endure any of this if I didn’t make such deliciously fattening shit like this:

Savory Ricotta Cheesecake

Bad picture—I was fighting the crowd at work to take it.


  • 6 oz Italian truffle cheese (this is available at Trader Joe’s)
  • 3/4 cup flour
  • 4 tbsp cold, unsalted butter
  • 1/4 tsp salt

The inspiration for this crust came after I made homemade Cheez-Its. Preheat oven to 350˚. Combine all ingredients in a food processor until they form a ball. Press into the bottom of a springform pan and prick several times with a fork. Bake for 15 minutes. Remove and cool slightly before filling.


Slightly better picture.

  • 30 oz ricotta cheese
  • 6 eggs
  • 1/4 cup minced shallots
  • 1 tsp minced garlic
  • 1 tsp truffle oil
  • 1 tsp olive oil
  • 1 tsp fresh thyme leaves
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1/8 tsp black pepper

Combine ricotta and eggs until blended. Saute shallots, garlic and thyme in truffle and olive oils until just cooked. Fold into ricotta mixture along with salt and pepper. Pour over crust and bake for 50–60 minutes, until a knife stuck in the center comes out clean.


  • 1 1/2 to 2 cups oil packed sun-dried tomatoes

Drain tomatoes of most of the oil they are packed in. Place in a mini-food processor and chop until finely minced. Spread over the top of still warm cheesecake. Place on cooling rack. Once cooled, run a sharp knife around the edge of pan and then flip the springform latch. It can be served immediately or chilled overnight. I made this for the gang at work and it was a big hit.

Whaddya know? I’m once again using the space down here to apologize for everything above. This time, I want it understood that I’m writing from a place of catharsis, not superiority. What the hell do I have to be superior about when it comes to the gym? I’m forty and grotesquely out of shape (although I submit oval is most definitely a shape), so avoiding the gym is no longer an option for combating my sagging sogginess. Someone remind me why I gave up the metabolic goodness of smoking?

TWTG says, “I just want to be filled with a bathroom to pee in.”

Knee How

The future is here.

When it’s time to beat my kids (spank-thirty I’ve named it), I’m a believer in the wooden spoon. Not because it leaves shinier welts (although it does do that—in fact, even a low-level mom equipped with a switch can deal around 2d12 damage), but because the time you spend finding it serves as the personal timeout experts recommend—allowing you to discipline out of calmed fairness rather than impassioned anger. But as the wee ones discover how to walk, talk and tattle, my maternal lash just doesn’t spin the poetry it used to. After all, what does an eighteen-year-old male have to fear from a woman six inches shorter, weighing none-of-your-fucking-business less? What will a birching teach him when he goes on a four hundred dollar shopping spree with my debit card?

I’m not really looking for answers; I just miss when keeping my ducks in a configuration akin to a row was simpler. The silver lining is that, on the rare occasion when my monsters do show providence, it sends my heart to a place beyond aflutter. Case in point: This summer, my twelve-year-old took a course in Mandarin for no reason other than he could. It was part of a study, conducted by the University of Maryland, to see how well his demographic could latch onto the language. Six weeks of three hour classes later, and he already has a conversational proficiency. Don’t take my word for it, experience it for yourself:

I can’t tell you how much this video means to me. That my boy did this entirely for his personal betterment fills me with the hope that, if I can just ride the coattails of his success, I won’t have to save for retirement. Well, at least until our eastern overlords call in their half of this country’s debt, thereby forming the UPC (see above photo). Even then I’ll have a head start, what with my bilingual ginger. It won’t be all bad: China is, of course, the undisputed champion of animal cruelty—so the stupid foie gras ban is sure to be rescinded.

Chineez-Its (yet wholly American)

Better than Sunshine’s.

Adapted from Cooking ala Mel

  • 1 1/2 cups shredded cheese (I used the Kirkland Mexican Blend)
  • 4 tbsp cold unsalted butter
  • 3/4 cup flour
  • 1/4 tsp salt
  • sea salt or bacon salt

Preheat oven to 350˚. Combine cheese, butter, flour and 1/4 tsp salt in a food processor. Blend the ingredients together until they create a ball. Remove and roll to 1/8 inch thick. (I placed the dough on a Silpat and topped with parchment paper to prevent the dough from sticking to the rolling pin.) Cut into squares—a pizza roller does a fine job—and transfer to a parchment-lined cooking sheet. Prick each cracker with a fork and sprinkle with sea salt or bacon salt. Bake for 8–10 minutes, or until crackers are brown around the edges. Allow to cool and serve.

Should the sensitive eyes of LinkedIn ever gaze upon this post, let me make something clear: I can count off on one hand how many times I’ve spanked each of my children. Despite their occasional bullshit, all three turned out to be well-adjusted intellectuals. Also, I must apologize to my nerd following: The D&D reference in the opening paragraph isn’t mine. I know the idea of a DM with DDs is the white whale of your subterranean existence, but, alas, my boyfriend gave me the joke. Know why? He lacks a vagina. Or he watered his vagina and a penis grew. Something like that.

TWTG says, “You have peanut butter in my secret fatness, right?”

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.”