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Tag Archives: cheese

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

Requirements:

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 thewhitetrashgourmet@gmail.com 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!”

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Smokeless Hot Mess

Then set me ablaze already!

This is a jumble of ideas, so bear with me. Earlier this year, I made some impassioned post saying I’d rather be fat and happy than thin and miserable. That was cute when I was ten pounds overweight. Now that I’m leaving potholes almost twenty more pounds later? Yeah, no. I’ve been hitting the gym, but it hasn’t been hitting back. I’ve been eating in moderation, but the only thing that’s diminished is my clothing’s need to fit. I’m fat(ter), crankier and more scatterbrained. Each day has seemed worse than the last, with no reasonable explanation as to why… then Russell called me at work:

“You quit smoking, you asshole.”

And with that, a perfectly straight line was drawn through all my meandering bullshit. He was right (again). My e-cigarettes calm cravings and simulate the ritual of smoking, but they lack the stimulative goodness that validates the nonfictional version of the habit in the first place. They relieve neither frustration nor anxiety; they just give you something to do with your hands that doesn’t incrementally kill you. Nonsmokers like to believe the most smoking does is soothe an urge the rest of us wouldn’t have had we never lit up in the first place. You folks are adorable. I can name three wee ones whose capas weren’t detated because momma could always rely on fifteen minutes of garage solace. I also used to be able to metabolize stuff. Now my body looks at the food in it and says, “okay, you can stay.”

I suppose the silver lining is that my body will normalize over the next few months, and I should feel some form of physiologic levity soon. For all my bitching, I certainly won’t be lighting up again. I just have to play the waiting game, and pray that if I ever do smoke again, the next cigarettes won’t be the ones I’ve traded favors for in prison after murdering the next fool looking at me cockeyed.

Creamy Chili Chicken Casserole

Comfort food for a widening ass.

Feeds 1 hungry-ass family that devoured it in under 5 minutes

  • 4 cups shredded cooked chicken
  • 4 tbsp butter
  • 1 large onion, chopped
  • 1 tsp minced garlic
  • 4 tbsp flour
  • 1 cup chicken stock
  • 1 cup milk
  • 1 cup salsa verde
  • 1/2 cup sour cream
  • 15 corn tortillas, cut into quarters
  • 2 cups shredded cheese

Preheat oven to 350˚. Melt butter in large skillet. Add onion and garlic. Saute until onions are opaque. Add flour and stir for 2–3 minutes. Slowly whisk in chicken stock and then milk, cooking until thickened. Remove from heat and stir in salsa and sour cream. Butter bottom of  a 9×13 pan. Layer ingredients in the following order: tortillas, half of the chicken, a third of the sauce and a third of the cheese. Repeat this layer. Top with tortillas, sauce and cheese. Bake for 20 minutes. Allow casserole to rest for 5–10 minutes before serving. Top with avocado and sour cream, if desired.

Unless I can roll it up and smoke the shit out of it… yeah, I’m not writing a epilogue tonight.

TWTG says, “My underwear were in a peculiar way.”

Hare And Makeup

Emo Bunny says, "but testing made me fabulous!"

To say I don’t give two shits about Spring cleaning should not imply that I could maybe give one. I choose to keep a messy house for excellent reasons: I’m lazy and we both know you’ll forgive me. But, with the raccoons at their dad’s and Jesus appreciating a nice house on Easter, last week was spent squeezing out a couple deuces (which I believe makes it a quartet) of cleaning goodness. I am a lady and a scholar.

While I worked the upstairs, I assigned Russell to clean the kitchen. Despite being The White Trash Gourmet, I hate doing dishes and every good cook needs a plongeur. When he found the bottom of the sink, he asked for some Comet to scrub it out. Now, I get he said this as an eponym—the way people ask for Kleenex instead of tissue—but, being the cruel mistress I am, I had to instigate. “I don’t buy Comet,” I scoffed. “They test it on animals!” I went on to rant about Proctor & Gamble (which has always sounded like an evening of poker and colonoscopies) and how famously horrible they were to bunnies.

“You’re horrible to bunnies,” Russell replied. “You wrote an entire post about how proud you were to murder them!” I insisted there was a difference, but he fired back, “not to the bunnies, there isn’t. Whether they’re eaten for dinner, or tortured in a lab, it doesn’t make them any less dead.” He wasn’t making a serious argument, just poking the bear like a moron. He knows there’s a difference. He understands we are meant/built to eat rabbits. They are (by definition) prey, and our sharp teeth and ability to digest more than lettuce accommodates these facts. Every culture has found a way to respect their kills. It should going without saying, then, that there is absolutely no honor in expending animals in the name of beauty and cleaner toilets.

So. Yeah. Suck eggs, Russell.

Bacontatoes

Potatoes, stuffed with bacon, topped with bacon.

  • 3 lbs (more or less) potatoes, diced
  • 6 tbsp butter
  • 3 tbsp minced shallots
  • 6 slices cooked bacon, crumbled
  • 1/4 cup parmesan cheese
  • 2 tbsp truffle oil
  • 1/4 cup milk (more or less)
  • salt/pepper

Disclaimer: I made these for Easter dinner, and I really didn’t measure as I went. (They were so yummy, however, I just had to share.) Thus, the measurements above are approximations.

Place potatoes in a large stock pot and add enough water to just cover them. Add a generous amount of salt and bring to a boil. Cook until tender, about 15–20 minutes. Drain potatoes into colander. Add butter and shallots to the same pot that potatoes were cooked in and saute until shallots soften. Remove from heat, add back the potatoes and other ingredients, and mash until the potatoes are nice and creamy. I like to add my milk a little at a time to make sure that the potatoes don’t get too soggy.

In the interest of fairness, I did a little research and Proctor & Gamble sold Comet to Prestige Brands in 2001. I have no idea if the latter is kinder about their testing (I said a little research), but that still doesn’t alleviate a semicentennial of doing the wrong thing. Hence:

Comet, it makes your teeth turn green
Comet, it tastes like gasoline
Comet, it makes you vomit,
So try some Comet, and vomit today!

TWTG says, “Oh my God, your meat is flying everywhere!”

Her Royal Highness

And so it begins...

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.

Russell paid $10 for this photo.

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 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

Worthy of a Vegas buffet!

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.

Get A Grip

Dear Trader Joe’s, Sprouts, Henry’s and any other health-oriented grocery store that thinks it’s cute to use paper bags with handles on them,

These are the lies you print!

I love you guys, I do. Despite my moniker, I actually prefer to shop within your greener philosophies. Having said that, why do you insist on making it so freaking hard to carry your wares home? Are those seventh generation ass gaskets you use to pack our food an attempt at humor, or some kind of leftist malfeasance? They have the tensile strength of a wet tissue trying to catch a bowling ball. They may be made of 40% recycled material but here’s a fun fact: they fail mankind 100% of the time. I mean, I guess I get it. You wanted us to buy reusable bags. Too many of us wouldn’t play ball and this is… what? Your punishment for an evil world?

  • 4 blood oranges
  • 1 jar Kalamata olives
  • 8 oz Bitchin’ Sauce
  • 1 pint Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Brittle ice cream

Are these the base ingredients for a sweet and savory masterpiece? No. While I’m sure I could find my thinking cap and work them into trashy goodness, they instead inspired trashy madness. Why? Because their combined weight of four whole pounds was enough to explode the handles off the bag. The picture you see above has not been exaggerated for effect. Granted, I was holding it with my hand and walking normally, so I should probably take my share of the blame.

Fie! Fie, I say! Fie in your organic faces!

Simple Pantry Pizza

The Sauce:

  • 1 can tomato paste
  • 1/4 cup sun dried tomatoes packed in olive oil
  • 2 cloves garlic
  • 1 tbsp olive oil
  • 1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
  • 1 tsp Italian seasoning

The Pizza:

  • French rolls
  • Pizza sauce
  • Mozzarella
  • Pepperoni
  • Chevre (goat cheese)
  • Artichoke hearts

Preheat oven to 400˚. Place all sauce ingredients in food processor and chop until pureed. Slice French rolls in half lengthwise. Spread with pizza sauce. Top with mozzarella, pepperoni, chevre and artichoke hearts. Bake on sheet pan about 8–12 minutes until cheese is melted and edges of bread are nicely browned. Serve, but fair warning: pizza will be lava hot. Of course, you may use whatever toppings you wish. These are just what I happened to have lying around. On the floor. From my torn grocery bags. See? I can be thematic.

All Souled Out

Is KiLo (Kimberly Louise) gonna have to choke a bitch?

The great and powerful Russell assures us that we’re allowed to be two things, even if one contradicts the other. We’re allowed to be vain and totally insecure about what’s looking back at us in the mirror. We’re allowed to be the life of the party and terrified to speak in public. We can be brilliant and make the most moronic mistakes. We can also be complete sellouts and retain our artistic integrity. While these conflicting ideas (and many others) certainly make up my personal dichotomy, Russell assures me that none of them make me a hypocrite. A two-faced asshole, maybe. But, hey, welcome to the internets.

I touched on selling out in the postscript of my letter to Sir Kensington (No Brow Too High) but let me make an addendum: I am not above selling out… and neither are you. There’s a reason why artists are starving, why they die penniless and alone while hacks do lines off toilets made of solid gold. Everyone has a price; anyone who says different wants you in their church. I don’t say that as an artist or a hack, but as a mom of three very hungry and equally messy raccoons. I hate the mom card as much as you do, by the way. I don’t think I’m owed anything special for becoming something that not only any idiot can become, but something that idiots become the most often.

However, if I have a knack for something that is creative and profitable, why should I disregard the latter in the name of art? (Especially when all the opposite can do is make my family’s life easier and is an excellent idea.) What is this monopoly artists think they have on expression? Why are their sensibilities so fragile that they go fetal at the very mention of money? I know I’m making generalizations. They’re not being made out of anger, this is more my mind wandering. I just think it’s possible to be an artist and a hack. Russell assures us so. Does that mean I’ll be doing lines off toilets made of solid gold? I don’t want my nose where your butt’s been.

Now for our feature presentation. In the spirit of the post, I’ll be reviewing a chain restaurant (hiss!) that serves artisan food. They’ve been popping up all over the place, but are still pretty new. If you haven’t been to Smashburger yet, maybe this ReKimmendation will push you through the front door.

Going in, you’ll immediately notice two things: the modern feel and the spate of friendly young girls each location likes to hire. Maybe the franchise’s freshness has yet to break their spirit (the industry gears will grind you soon enough, ladies), but they were all incredibly helpful and ready with their suggestions. They talked Russell into trying the San Diego Burger (each menu is customized for locals), me into the Mushroom Swiss Burger with bacon added (there’s that scwewy B-word again, wegans), and we shared Sweet Potato Smashfries, Fried Pickles and a Butterfinger Shake. The kittens behind the counter told us the food would be out in 5–8 minutes and they didn’t lie.

Russell’s San Diego was equal parts spicy and juicy, with chipotle mayo and pepper jack cheese. My Mushroom Swiss dripped with mushroomy goodness on a soft, sweet egg bun. The sweet potato fries stand on their own, so perfectly tossed (with garlic, olive oil and rosemary) that no dipping sauce was required. Despite years of fair food, this was my first experience with fried pickles and they will be a salty snack of choice for years to come. Then there was the Buttefinger shake. Holy. Jumping. Jesus. Served classically, with a tall shake glass and an aluminum mixer, it was flawless. The worst thing you can (legally, as a minor) put in your body, but still flawless. All of this came in at just under $25. A little hard on the wallet, but drive-thru joints aren’t much cheaper these days and have the added cost of way inferior food.

Tonight’s topic was spurred by my eldest son. He’s a musician and a pretty damn good one (no mom card being played here). Writes his own stuff, plays both guitar and bass, tinkers with the drums and tries his best to lead a trio of teens towards fame and glory. He’s an artist to the core and, being his mother’s son, is also too stubborn to change. But that’s only because no one has ever thrown real money his way. It’s very easy to get self-important about things you’ve never tried, isn’t it? Truth is, if a real opportunity to dabble in hackery came knocking at his door, a humming bird wouldn’t be able to sign that dotted line any faster. Then he’d learn how artistic integrity only takes you as far as “do it our way or don’t get paid.”

And, hell people, there ain’t nothing wrong with getting paid. As popular and safe as it is to talk trash about the One Percenters, how many of us would actually despise being one? I sure wouldn’t, and the second someone starts paying me for my meandering bullshit, I’m ordering that solid gold toilet. Then doing lines off my solid gold vanity.

Stupor Bowl

Christmas '11

True fact: I am an English major. As such, let me edify you with some fun new words. Urban Dictionary recently added this little gem to its wonderfully colorful vernacular: Petri Douche. Defined as a place/location where a lot of douchebags are known to congregate, the first example that came to my mind was New York Giants tailgate parties. Oh yeah, I went there. Gladly. I gladly went there and I’m not apologizing. I am so done with Eli Manning. Few have been less deserving of so much hype. His interviews, his etiquette (off the field and on), everything about him wreaks of another brilliant, if similar, UD entry: Douche Canoe. Yes, he had a great season… he also threw over two dozen interceptions last year.

What really gets my proverbial goat, however, is the comparison to Peyton. Eli is not Peyton. I’ll say it again, as it bears repeating: Eli. Is. Not. Peyton. Yes, they shared their first hotel (i.e. are brothers), and as of Sunday, have both gone to two Super Bowls, but the younger can’t even begin to touch the elder’s numbers. Peyton is also a comedic genius, and in my world, that matters. I can’t believe we San Diegans got so ornery when baby Manning wouldn’t play for the Chargers. In retrospect, that was probably a good thing. If nothing else, we now have room to focus all of our venom on Norv “I Can’t Win Anywhere” Turner.

I know, I know… I’m a woman. My inferior feminine brain shouldn’t be able to compute all the space calculus that goes into football. I’m supposed to be the beer wench, and if I keep coming out of the kitchen to bother Russell on Super Bowl Sunday, he’s clearly made my chain too long. And yet, I frequently win my football pool, have to constantly explain to my male counterparts the difference between a pick six and a plain ol’ interception, hate it when Rivers’ rating drops and I totally want to burn my Chargers’ gear whenever they play as well as the Chargers do.

I get that it’s a man’s world, but tough shit. I’ll make room for me (and these ridiculous boobs) if I have to. I’m good at getting my way. That’s why I’m the Queen of Everything. I even have a card to prove it.

Walk Away Dip

Just walk away, fatty

  • 2-3 canned chipotles in adobo sauce
  • 1 package precooked bacon
  • 2 packages cream cheese, softened
  • 2 cups shredded cheddar or Mexican blend cheese

Preheat oven to 350˚. Combine chipotles and bacon in food processor fitted with blade. Process until pulverized into small bits. It will look like a paste. Add cream cheese and shredded cheese. Mix until blended. Scoop dip into glass baking dish and bake for 20 minutes. Serve with tortilla chips or crackers. If you don’t have a food processor (in which case, really, what are you doing on my blog?) you can chop the chipotles and bacon and then mix everything by hand.

The irony of the above rant is that, when it’s kickoff time, I wear the daddy pants in the relationship. Russell doesn’t even know how a game of football is played. Seriously. If he were a queer, a smearing would not be misplaced. And even though I picked on Giants fans, let me expand my contempt to the entire East Coast: I’m not rooting for either of your teams this year. If only they could both lose! The bright side is that no matter which of the two suck-ass halves (of the suck-ass whole) sucks the less ass, at least the commercials will rock. I heart you, Matthew Broderick!