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Casting Call

I’m not sure how many of you are aware but TWTG is single again and on the prowl. I had been using a lovely little internet dating site called OKCupid. Now, I’m a big girl, and I can handle some bullshit but I’ve already taken my profile down. See, being the Queen of Everything has its advantages, one of which is having men flock to you by virtues of your, um, God given attributes. (Thank you parents and sweet baby Jesus for the boobies!) It didn’t take long to become overwhelmed by the sheer number of responses, which led me to consider a different approach:

I’m taking applications.

Now Hiring at TWTG Incorporated!

Position to be filled:         Boyfriend

Position vacated:             August 13, 2012


Day job (not as boyfriend, husband or gigolo)

Car (2009 or newer)

House (no roommates, kids don’t count)

Children OK but no psycho ex-wives

Adventure seeking, vodka drinking, affable and outgoing

Handsome (in my opinion)

Brains (mmmm, yummy, brains)

A sense of humor (if you can’t laugh at life, I have no use for you)

Please submit resume to along with a photo and drink invitation (you are buying, buddy), to apply for a face to face interview. VEGANS NEED NOT APPLY! Anyone under the age of 33, I do not need to hear how age is just a number and you are so mature and don’t get along with women your age. I know damn well why you are cougar hunting and I just have to say, if I’m the cougar, I get to choose my prey.

Fig Seeks Bacon 

  • Fresh figs
  • Bacon
  • Chèvre (goat cheese)

    Cuddled up together

I didn’t include ingredient amounts because you can make as few or as many as you want.

Preheat oven to 400˚. Wash figs and pat dry with a paper towel. Slice each fig in half just below the stem (keeping the stem intact). Place about a teaspoon of chèvre between the two fig halves. Cut bacon slices in half. Wrap each fig with a half slice of bacon and secure with a toothpick. Place on baking sheet and roast for 20 minutes. Voila! Perfect small bite to impress dates.

Those loyal Subjects that have been reading the blog for a while know that I’ve had my share of internet stalkers. No big deal when you have a man in the house to deal with such threats. I could depend on my 18 yr old being home but that occasion is too rare to rely on. This is why no one gets an invitation to my house until I’ve first met them in a crowded, public place and sent a picture of their ID to my bite sized friend Autumn. Maybe I’ll acquire a hand gun, some mace and a large dog, just in case… not that I’m threatening you. I swear, I’m a sweetheart. Promise…

TWTG says, “I’ve had it with you people and your fuckery!”


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.”

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.”

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.”

Say Bacon

Future vegan left. Still cool kid right.

Since nobody will have sex with vegans, we can’t hope to clear our plate of society’s leaf lovers through prima nocta. There is hope, however, as I like to believe that one of them dies each time I write “bacon” on the blog. I don’t mean this metaphorically—as though my delightful wit will somehow reprogram their dietary glitches. I mean it’s a culling song, like telling a fairy in Neverland you don’t believe in it. Well, I don’t believe in fairies, either, mine just live in the blue states.

I’ve mentioned my BVFA (Best Vegan Friend, Ami) before, and, despite anything I’ve said about her ilk, I absolutely adore her. We’ve been besties since high school, and I would never let a thing like Doing Food Wrong impede our progress as heterosexual lovers. But here’s a story anyway: Ami, like yours truly, turned the big four-oh this year, and invited the boyfriend and I to her birthday party. Of course we went, but knowing this was going to be a healthy affair (to put it diplomatically), we decided to fill up on porky goodness beforehand. This was for a sense of symmetry, and to see if meat mouth could melt vegan skin.

Or is it bark?

I digress. We chose The Salted Pig in my hometown of Riverside—the name alone was reason enough. We went there with the intent of ReKimmending it, but it just wasn’t special enough for such charity. Nothing on its menu stood out from a million other gastropubs, save for one item: Bacon Fat Popcorn. (Oh yes they did. Their menu even says so.) This isn’t bacon-flavored popcorn, nor popcorn with bacon salt. It’s corn. That has been popped. In fucking. Bacon fat. Of course I had to steal it, then make it better and feed it to my subjects. You owe me.

Better Bacon Fat Popcorn

Oh yes I did.

  • 2 tbsp bacon fat
  • 1 tsp truffle oil
  • 1/2 cup popcorn kernels
  • Bacon Salt
  • 2 tbsp parmesan cheese
  • 1/4 tsp garlic powder

Heat bacon fat and truffle oil in large pan. Add popcorn—the oil should be hot enough that it immediately sizzles. Cover with lid and shake. I use a pan that has a glass lid so I can watch the corn pop, but you always can do it by ear. Shake pan over burner as corn pops. Turn off heat as soon as popping slows down. Sprinkle hot popcorn with Bacon Salt (to taste), parmesan cheese and garlic powder. Toss and serve. Amaze the neighbors, show up a trendy restaurant, sneak it into the movies, etc..

This post had everything! Love for bacon, hate for vegans (although I think they got off lightly), vulgarity, shaming, an easy white trash recipe and it all segued nicely. All we’re missing is some sweater cows… click here? Nope. You can’t. And, oh, just in case my blogging curse does work: bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon.

TWTG says, “I put it in my purse, because I stole it outright.”

The Science Of Vegans And Clowns


Have you ever heard of the Uncanny Valley? (Yes, I’m a one-woman dictionary this week. I’m also a one-woman USO, so I know you’ll forgive me. Rawr.) It’s a hypothesis stating that when something embodies human characteristics, but isn’t perfectly human in appearance or behavior, it elicits a feeling of revulsion from us. This is why the sight of clowns is unsettling (apologies to Le Clown), as is zombies, mannequins, anthropomorphic robots, terminally ill patients, Kirsten Dunst and china dolls.

We intrinsically reject whatever is only spiritually like us, and I think that’s (part of) why vegans are so offensive to me. Your dietary standards are so close to my own, then you have to go and fuck up that last dairy bit. Organic? Absolutely. Preservative free? Let’s do this. Gelato…? Now you’re an asshole. Maybe this comparison in unfair. The Uncanny Valley deals primarily with physical features,  so I’ll try to address it on those terms. Vegans, that smug, superior grin across your skeletal, hipster face might suggest a smile, but it doesn’t quite mean what smiles should: unconditional joy. Stop scaring the children.

As for vegetarians… I got no beef with you (har har). I’ll just point out, however, that unless your produce was certifiably grown in the hydroponically-friendly yurt of Rivers P. Greasybeard, its procurance spared the lives of no animals. Between insects, rodents, lagomorphs, birds and any other creature shelved into the psychologically-placating category of “pest,” more lives are taken in the harvesting of crops than the culling of livestock. But, hey, you dig my stinky cheeses, so you at least qualify as real.

Fakon (or vacon) isn’t bacon no matter how much you make your tongue squint. I fed our new kitty some fakon; she coughed up grey stuff and started listening to Enya. Then I fed her some bacon, and now we own a lion. I renamed her Mufasa. Because she’s James Earl Jones. She’s Darth Fucking Vader. Keep being awesome, my little meatatarian.

Veggie Meat Sticks

Even veggies love bacon.

  • baby bok choy
  • japanese eggplant
  • shiitake mushrooms
  • sliced bacon

I didn’t include amounts because you can make as many skewers as you wish. Slice the bok choy in half. Cut eggplant into 1–2 inch thick slices. Run a skewer through a slice of bacon, then add a veggie, take the bacon over the top (like you are weaving), add another veggie, etc., until you end up with a skewer full of veggies interspersed with meat. Season with salt and pepper, and grill on barbecue until bacon is cooked.

Inspiration for this post came from my BVF (best vegan friend), Ami. At a recent shindig, she told me that while she enjoyed my blog, she thought we had been too hard on her meatless contemporaries. Rereading some of my latest entries, I actually haven’t gone for their throat in months. That means there was a quota of delicious neck meat to fill, and today’s finger-pointing tasted good.

TWTG says, “It was all vegibacontarian!”

(Baconopolis) Of The Week

Went to the Del Mar Fair San Diego County Fair today for fatty goodness. I think the pictures speak for themselves. A maple bacon Texas donut? It’s like they read my dream journal. Hey, fair vegans… can you hear that coming up Via de la Valle? It’s the sound of a better life.


TWTG says, “I’ve totally turned you gay! I’m so excited!”