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Tag Archives: Jesus

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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Republican’t

Hey there, Grand Old Party
What’cha knowin’?
I really don’t like the direction your anger’s flowin’
You tell me government has no place in private life
But you don’t mean it, not when one man takes another for a wife

You tell me marriage is static, unchanging and regal
Which is why blacks still can’t marry whites and divorce is illegal
You tell me if it’s not for breeding, our future is in peril
Which is why elderly folk must stay single, as must the sterile

Maybe it’s the church’s hands so deep in your pocket
Yet only Leviticus mentions which plugs go in which sockets
It also says children cursing their parents shall be put to death
Calling mom the B-word, then, should’ve been my last teenage breath

Jesus is my homeboy, and I love him through and through
But wasn’t life so much easier when Reagan led our crew?
The top ten percent could establish a new world order
While the bottom ninety could simply make a run for the border

Perhaps my views are too old fashioned for the world of today
But I miss the conservatives of yore, and their affluent ways
Greed is good, and no amount of success goes to waste
But who are you to walk into a bedroom and legislate taste?

So I’m throwing in the towel, the reason’s not a mystery
I’m just not gonna play for the losing side of history
But that doesn’t mean my vote will be of a Democratic kind
Why the fuck would I do that when I still have a thinking mind?

Here, Fishy Fishy

Rainbow trout, appropriately enough.

  • 2 large trout
  • 3 tbsp vegetable oil
  • 1/2 cup almond meal
  • 2 eggs beaten
  • 1/2 cup flour
  • 1 tsp garlic powder
  • 1 tsp lemon pepper
  • 1 tsp dill
  • salt & pepper

Make sure that trout is scaled, as you will want to eat the skin. Heat oil in cast iron skillet over medium heat. Season almond meal with garlic, lemon pepper and dill. Salt and pepper fish inside and out. Dredge fish in flour, followed by egg wash, followed by seasoned almond meal. Pan fry, turning when coating is crisp and browned. Continue to fry until cooked to desired doneness. (I stop when the flesh is translucent.) The finished product was not especially photogenic, hence the headless wonders you see above.

TWTG says, “My gay boyfriend could be an underwear model.”

A Sight For Four Eyes

The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle…

If you send The White Trash Gourmet to school, she’s going to squint at the chalkboard. When she squints at the chalkboard, she’ll probably ask you for a pair of glasses. When she gets the glasses, she’ll ask for a mirror. When she looks in the mirror, she might want boys to notice her too. So she will probably ask to have contact lenses. When she gets her contacts, she’ll want to explore her newfound confidence. She’ll start exploring. She might end up in Maui, and try her hand at snorkeling. When her contacts don’t jibe with snorkeling, she’ll probably want to have LASIK eye surgery. Ten years will go by. When entering her forties diminishes the effectiveness of her surgery, chances are she’ll want a new pair of glasses.

Such has been the story of my ocular impairment. It breaks my heart that I—like so many girls—pandered to the fear of “looking” smart. I’ve always been a flirt, but until I lost the spectacles, no boy would reciprocate the advances of what they thought was an egghead. (This was probably a good thing, considering the classy trouble I became afterward.) Granted, I got my first pair in 1980, so it’d be another half-decade before “The Breakfast Club” would blur the lines between the cool kids and whatever it was I thought I looked like. At least my nine-year-old has a better head on her myopic shoulders. She got new glasses with me, but her take on boys is much healthier: They’re all serial killers anyway, so fuck their feelings.

Good, Katie. Good.

Cheesy Polenta Chips & Sun Dried Tomato Tapenade

Even a blind man can see these are delicious.

  • 18 oz package prepared polenta
  • 2 tbsp olive oil (more or less)
  • 1/3 cup packed fresh basil leaves
  • 2 cloves garlic
  • 1 cup oil packed sun dried tomatoes
  • 1/2 cup pitted Kalamata olives
  • 1 cup shredded Quatro Formaggio (this is a blend of Parmesan, Asiago, Fontina and Provolone cheeses)

Preheat oven to 350˚. Thinly slice the polenta and place on baking sheet. Rub each side of polenta with olive oil. (You could brush it on, but I used my fingers.) Bake for 10 minutes, flip with spatula and bake for an additional 10 minutes, or until polenta starts to brown around the edges. While polenta is baking, place basil, garlic, sun dried tomatoes and olives in food processor and chop until combined into a fine paste. Top polenta with a bit of the shredded cheese and return to the oven for about another minute, or until the cheese is melted. Remove polenta chips to a serving platter and top with a teaspoon of the tapenade. A totally tasty and oh-so-easy appetizer.

Russell asked me if I’ve come to a better place inside—if I thought I looked prettier in glasses today than I did back when. I said I think I’m just prettier altogether. For all my complaining, I really do feel as though I’m aging like fine wine (and it would be smarter if more people my age felt this way, as well). I’ll undoubtedly peak one day, and get sent on my merry decline into vinegary goodness. In the meantime, I have the right mileage, pencil skirts and now glasses to pull off the sexy librarian look—something to which no mortal is impervious.

TWTG says, “It smells like Jesus in here.”

Medicinal Purposes

Just beyond those hills, Mexico.

I’ve started seeing a new shrink, who after a single session switched my crazy pills (or antidepressants; I’ve heard it both ways) to something he hopes will make me slightly less knifing-centric. I need to be on the wagon for the next few weeks while I transition onto the new meds—which is not exactly conducive to someone who just started critiquing wine. But I’m a good girl(ish) and can suffer a dry spell in the interest of not rearranging the inner stuffs of the obnoxious. (I was thinking alphabetical, from appendix to zygomaticus.)

Tangent. Last post, I happily announced that my little man-child graduated high school. To celebrate, momma took he and his underage girlfriend to X-Fest. For my international following, X-Fest is a concert event not unlike a mini Woodstock. Hence, lots of morons lounging on the grass, lots of morons smoking grass (billowing would be an understated descriptor) and lots of morons setting fire to the freaking grass to make impromptu bonfires in an arid part of the state known to have severe problems with wildfires. And wait until I tell you about the morons.

What do the last two paragraphs have to do with each other? Well, it occurs to me I’ve never actually attended a venue like this sober. Now that I’ve had to go to one with some semblance of clarity—allowing me to see the culture from the outside in? Holy jumping Jesus sticks! Is that what I’ve been like this whole time? How did I not end up in prison? I belong there. My only hope is that I’ll acclimate to my new drugs soon, so I can can go back to killing such thoughts with yummy alcohol. I’m sorry, were you expecting an epiphany? Pfft.

Here’s some perfect stoner food, given to me by a friend’s (clean, I’m sure) nephew. His name is Colton, but I’m gonna claim authorship:

Kim’s Chocolate Balls

  • 1 package Oreos (or Trader Joe’s Joe Joe’s)
  • 1 brick cream cheese
  • chocolate/white chocolate chips

It’s a cheeseburger, man.

Place softened cream cheese and cookies in food processor, blend until a mud-like paste. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. Roll into balls. Drizzle with melted topping of your choosing.

They say if it’s too loud, you’re too old. I might be encroaching on that age, but I’m still no stranger to fun. In fact, when Saint Peter reads into my thirties, he’ll have me park in that waiting zone outside McDonald’s for when your order’s too big—lest a single soul be denied their eternal Big Mac. (I’m hungry, can you tell?) It’s just amazing how the moment I turned forty was also the moment my hips started hurting when I dance (be it moderate or hoochie-esque). I’m also coming around to the idea that kids sure are dressing dumb these days. Get off my lawn before you set it on fire! Whipper. Snappers.

TWTG says, “It didn’t say ‘no parking’ it was just striped funny.”

Amoral Fiber

Russell made me post it, mom! Kill him, not me.

Even if you’re a sometimes reader of my blog, you’ve probably noticed I’m not super moral. Not to say I lack morality (my philosophy is simple: do no harm; be happy), it’s just not my measuring stick for humanity. Why? It’s so subjective and unreliable that even hive-minded endeavors aren’t exempt from dissent. For example, I’m a Baptist, but that’s one of over thirty thousand denominations of Christianity. Good luck finding two Christians that can agree on pizza toppings for their youth group’s fundraiser, let alone find a synonymous interpretation of the Bible. Far too many people use morality as a shortcut to only determine what isn’t moral (and, by extension, what isn’t exactly like the scapegoater). For them, it has no higher purpose than to facilitate anger. What a sad way to live.

Because I’m not morally driven, Russell teases me about being a bad conservative. As I said in my last entry, my liberalism ended with college. When I started making babies, money quickly became relevant, and the conservativelaissez-faire approach to business better suited that agenda. (How does the saying go? If you’re not a rebel by twenty, you’ve got no heart. If you haven’t turned establishment by thirty, you’ve got no brains. Something like that.) At the same time, I’m all for gay marriage. Never mind my personal feelings on the subject—the discrimination against it is purely moral-centric, and it’s just not the government’s place to legislate that kind of taste. Where did the simpler conservatives of the 80s go? Reagan was our homeboy, the rich got richer and life was good. Who do we have three decades later? Jesus. A way cooler main character, to be sure, but wrong for the part. I mean, long hair, sandals, Jewish and advocates tolerance? The Lamb of God is hyper-liberal.

I say worry less about morality, and more about ethics. Ethics are a blanket measure of character, and mostly inarguable: work harder than the person next to you and move ahead of them faster. Is it that everyone became so impotent at their life and career they had nowhere to hide but behind these sanctimonious shell games? Here’s a parable to tie my points together: Imagine your child needed surgery, and it’s life or death. Now imagine that just before the specialist went in to operate, a nurse pulled you aside and said, “you know, he cheats on his wife.” Your response would be something akin to, “great, now shut-up and let that man save my kid.” This is the attitude our country needs to cop if it ever hopes to find its way from this sea of gray areas.

If the counterargument is that I’m pointing fingers at those that point fingers… well, you’ll just have to figure that shit out for yourself.

Righteous Ribs

Mountain o' meat.

Adapted from Alton Brown’s “Who Loves Ya Baby-Back?”

  • 2 slabs baby back pork ribs
  • 4 tbsp brown sugar, tightly packed
  • 1 tbsp salt
  • 1 tbsp dried minced onions
  • 1/2 tbsp ancho chili powder
  • 1/2 tsp Zatarain’s Creole Seasoning
  • 1/4 tsp pepper
  • 1/4 tsp thyme
  • 1 cup white wine
  • 2 tbsp white wine vinegar
  • 2 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
  • 1 tbsp honey
  • 1 tsp minced garlic

Preheat oven to 250˚.  Mix dry ingredients together to create a spice rub. Rub both sides of ribs with all of the spice rub and allow to absorb for at least 20 minutes (the longer the better). Mix the wine, vinegar, Worcestershire, honey and garlic in a small saucepan and bring to a boil. Remove from heat. Place ribs in a large roasting pan and cover with braising liquid. Cover tightly with aluminum foil and braise in oven for 2 1/2 hours. Pour braising liquid into saucepan and simmer until reduced by half. Brush ribs with glaze and place under broiler for a few minutes until the glaze starts to caramelize. Cut ribs into 2 rib portions, place in a large bowl and toss with remaining braising liquid. 

Because he’s just about the smartest man I’ve ever met, I asked Russell what morality was to him. He thought about it a moment and said, “anything you do is okay as long as you’re really pissed off when you do it.” That made me giggle until I realized what my personal philosopher meant: We’re never more self-righteous than while at our angriest, and can’t look at our bad behavior objectively because we’re too busy making a point. In other words, if you want to validate something, irrespective of truth, fairness or even reality, just let yourself get Bible Belt angry—your stupid temper will take care of the rest. Do no harm; be happy.

TWTG says, “Soy fucks with your hormones.”

Kony Baloney

Cal State San Marcos is exactly one mile from my house, making it very simple to measure my weekend runs. Yesterday, as I made Russell join me on a four mile walk, we noticed the campus was covered in Kony 2012 posters. Being the monster I am, the first thing out of my mouth was, “we’re still supposed to care about that, huh?” Now. Look. The situation in Uganda fills me with regret for our species, and my heart goes out to anyone that has suffered from the appalling actions of Joseph Kony. Having said that, until psychic powers work as more than a plot device for fiction, we can’t (literally) hate him to death.

Protest is the lip service of palpable solutions, and the palpable solution this mass murdering shithead deserves is unlikely to come to fruition. Why? Because, historically, we tend to assassinate figureheads that advocate peace, love and understanding: Gandhi, Lincoln, Kennedy, Jesus, etc.. But genocidal madmen? As long as they keep it within their property lines, governments are oddly fine with them. Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Mao Zedong, etc. all played on their own porches, and each got to die of natural causes well into their 70s and 80s. What fools these mortals be.

If this reads as indifference, it’s not. I did my bleeding-heart liberal years in college. I was once young, inspired and driven by whale-saving goodness. I planted trees, promoted green living (before it was trendy), counseled rape victims and voted for Clinton twice. It’s easy to be idealistic when you’re young, given that ideals are simply the hard work you’ve yet to do. Twenty years of real life later? I don’t feel I was wrong for trying—and not just because my heart was in the right place. I didn’t grow up so much as wise up. The more you learn about this big world of ours, the more you realize how little of it can be helped. In the name of progress, we’ve designed it to be unchangeable.

Let me shoot you in the face with an old (paraphrased) adage: A man was walking on the beach one day when he came upon thousands of starfish that had washed up on the shore. In the distance, he could see a little girl throwing them back into the sea. “Sweet little girl,” he said, “there are simply too many starfish for you to save. You can’t even begin to make a difference.” The little girl stared at him and threw another starfish into the water. “Well, I made a difference to that one.” There are two things we can take away from this. One, what is a child doing unsupervised on a beach with a creeper that calls her “sweet little girl?” Two, despite anything written in the above paragraphs, caring is never futile and no difference is too small to make.

However, if you think papering city streets will undo a cause-of-the-week like Joseph Kony, guess again. While I applaud the viral education that has been spread about this injustice, until we’re prepared to fight it with sanctions and/or combat, the most those posters will do is waste the trees I planted back in college. And, hey, if I’m wrong, I get to have the satisfaction of being pleasantly surprised.

The Salad of Tolerance

  • 1 bag baby spring mix salad
  • 2 cups cubed chicken
  • 1 D’anjou pear, thinly sliced
  • 1/2 cup candied walnuts
  • 1/3 cup dried cranberries
  • 1/3 cup crumbled feta

The Dressing of Compassion

  • Juice of 1 lemon
  • 1 tbsp white wine vinegar
  • 1/4 tsp salt
  • 1/4 tsp poppy seed
  • 2 tbsp salad oil

Place salad ingredients in a large bowl. If you cook with your heart, you will make it look pretty before making tossing it with the dressing and making a mess of it. For the dressing combine all ingredients in a medium bowl. Slowly whisk in salad oil until emulsified. Toss with salad and serve.

Not that it’s up to me, but I don’t want to read any hate mail pertaining to this issue. Because, believe me, I get it. I get everyone’s passion, and am in no way suggesting that such fervor is misplaced. I’ve merely outlined why I’m not as enthusiastic about it as the masses would have me be. If that reasoning isn’t good enough for you, please write everything you wish to say in a spellchecked e-mail, then hit Control-Alt-Delete (or Command-Option-Escape for Mac users). I’ll be over here, fighting for my fois gras like a total hypocrite.

TWTG says, “So… do you just whack them in the head and knife them?”

Sin City A La Kim

Editor’s Note: This post has been translated from its original Kimberlese. It is meant to be read fast.

Friday

I can't say it any better.

Russell and I leave for Vegas at 1 in the afternoon. So of course we leave at 2. It’s smooth sailing on the I-15 until we hit Cleghorn. We nickname it Foghorn Cleghorn. Har-dee, I say, har-dee-har-har. We stop for waters at a gas station in Barstow. The women’s bathroom smells like meth. Never smelled meth, but that’s what it is. We pass Zyzzyx Road. Russell tells me there’s a movie named after it with Katherine Heigl. It made $30 at the box office—the lowest grossing movie of all time. Poor Katherine Heigl. We cross the state line. I get a tweet from my cousin, but that’s another post.

Read faster.

My siblings are at the house we’re renting and wonder where I am. I text them we’ll arrive in minutes and demand a cocktail be ready. Minutes later, we arrive. Cocktail is ready. My brother roofied me. A road trip of jerky and nuts is not enough to counterbalance the booze. I’m falling-over drunk 10 minutes after parking. Yay. Vegas. My brother roofied me. The family gussies up and we head out to the strip. My brother Matt sits in the passenger seat and gives Russell, the navigational retard, gentle directions to Mandalay Bay. We have dinner at Ri Ra Irish Pub. The servers have fake accents, but I have an authentic Guinness and share a Reuben with Russell. The bill is divided between the couples. They forget to include my meal on it. Sucks to be them.

We trade this pub for another. Nine Fine Irishmen at New York-New York. They have a 3-piece band. I dance. I fall ass-over-teakettle in front of the entire bar. I dance more. The female singer catches me in the bathroom later and wonders if I was the girl that fell. My brother roofied me. Russell and I call it a night. No Matt to give him gentle directions, so we drive entirely the wrong way home. Many illegal U-turns later, we’re back. Skin of teeth. I pass out.

Saturday

Best. Magnet. Ever.

I’m roused from my coma just before noon. Russell’s been up for hours—can’t roofie a sober guy. We head out for a day with no plan. We saunter into the Pinball Hall of Fame. I find my Addams Family machine I used to play in college. I remember sucking less. Russell tells me he wants to get nerdy (i.e. be himself) at A Gamer’s Paradise. It’s off of Charleston on the wrong end of town. The neighborhoods are cordoned off to discourage drug dealing. Fun. We stop for gas. A hobo (political correctness be damned) offers us “free gas” from an old gas can. Super fun. Russell’s stupid little game store has no windows to the outside world and the clerk smells like nothing that’s ever gone into, or out from, a human orifice. Super duper fun.

Read fasterer.

Saved.

We make it back to the strip and find Bonanza, the world’s largest gift shop. Russell gets me the world’s greatest magnet, as well as the world’s greatest band-aids for his family in California. We go to The Mirage and decide on Carnegie Delicatessen. I wanted borscht, but also a non-farting butt, so we opted for their Greek salad. Delicious, but the complementary pickles smelled of fish. In case you aren’t in the business of sensing themes, Vegas has very interesting odors. A few drinks later, Russell and I go back to the house for chitchat and more drinks. I mention the fishy pickles and am one-upped by “yeah, well Whole Foods has vagina-scented fish.” I love my family. The entire crew pretties up and heads back to the strip.

Bouchon Bistro at The Venetian. This is the second “big” dinner for my 4oth birthday. I’m worth it, right Russell? I have the Gigot d’Agneau. Russell has the Boudin Blanc. We split the Moëlle Rôtie and the Salade de Magret de Canard. Fancy. Thomas Keller owns the joint. He was the culinary consultant for Ratatouille. None of his genius was fictionalized for the movie. The wait staff clearly hates working there. Every mistake is corrected by the floor managers in wannabe mafioso suits. The only time our server smiles is when he drops my spoon on the floor.

We go to O’Sheas. Drinks, gambling, drinks.

We go to Wild Bill’s. Drinks, karaoke, drinks.

Russell and I call it a night.

I pass out.

Sunday

Cock-a-doodle-do. It’s noon, but whatever. Cereal sounds good. My brother-in-law has eaten the marshmallows from the organic Lucky Charms knockoff—which is something we all do, when we’re 12. Everyone that’s not Russell is hungover. We rally at 3 for the Bellagio’s buffet. Our crowd dissents, hemming and hawing about the quality of buffet food until the lunch price becomes the dinner price. China Poblano is decided instead. Interesting fusion food abounds. Duck tongue tacos paired with shrimp/pork belly dumplings? Duh. Grandma calls. The wee ones left behind are worse for wear. Fevers. Barfing. Panic spreads wide between the parents. I remain calm. The greatness of divorce is that one parent is always with the children. Let their dad deal with that shit. Maniacal laugh.

My tiny sister-in-law singing big.

Mass hugging ensues and my extended family goes back to California. Time for more misadventures with my man. We walk just under 3 million miles to my favorite stomping ground, MGM Grand. Inside my favorite stomping ground is my favorite slot machine, Wheel of Fortune. I play $10 and turn it to $40. The proceeds go to that most generous of charities: Drinks and video poker at my favorite bar (Centrifuge) near my favorite slot machine inside my favorite stomping ground. The waitress dances on the bar top. I want her cute outfit but not her sad chest.

3 million miles back to the car. We hit CVS halfway for stuffs. Bags are heavy but look at my gentleman boy doing the grunt work. The valet gets a fin. We go home, convertible style. We have no keys. I pee behind some bushes. Russell breaks inside the house. Jacuzzi. Pool table. Drinks. Rinse. Repeat. I pass out.

Monday

Vegan jerky is just called bark.

Breakfast at noon. House is tidied one last time. Never been to Fremont Street. That changes. We immediately see why it’s not featured in brochures. They didn’t even light it up for yours truly. At least the souvenirs are about $3 cheaper per item. A random man stares hard into my chest as though he’s trying to find my shoulder blades. Feel dirty. We find a jerky store. Venison jerky. Elk jerky. And every other meat of legend. It is the ideal place to loot during the zombie invasion. We’re calling dibs. One last casino—who cares which one in this part of town? Drop $25 in slot machine. Nada tostada. We get the Foosball Underwear Clockmaker Kitchen (if you enjoy making acronyms) out of Vegas. Traffic sucks. Home. Drinks. Drinks. Drinks. I pass out.

Epilogue

There you have it. Remarkably, we did all of the aforementioned for just under a grand and walked away with no less than 500 ReKimmendations—1 for every drink. This has been my longest post ever, and here I wasn’t gonna talk about Vegas at all. I must really love you. Time to pass out.