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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

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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Game. Set. Match.

“It is not enough merely to win; others must lose.” 
―Gore Vidal 

The air is so thin at the top.

I’ve rubbed my unassailable need to win all over your stupid faces touched on my competitive nature in the past, but it really does deserve its own post. Beneath this spongy, nerdy exterior is a jock-like need to triumph, and there are only two people that really understand this about me: yours truly, and any dumbass playing the other side. If you follow the blog, you know I obviously don’t have any of the more modest values of sportsmanship—if I wanted camaraderie, I would’ve joined the Freemasons (they admit women now). I do, however, welcome anyone wishing to join my team. You won’t fuck up my game because you don’t get to do anything. Sit there, and don’t even look pretty. That’s my job.

I try to extend these values into every facet of my daily life, whether they’re applicable or not. There’s no such thing as competitive yoga—as competition would contradict the entire message of the practice—but I don’t let that stop me. My dog must be the downwardest, lest I beat you inflexible with my mat. Hey, Trivial Pursuit, who was the first American-born Asian ever nominated for an Oscar? Pat “Mr. Miyagi” Morita. Wax off, bitch. Even my rock can smash scissors and tear through paper. Now I don’t project any of this onto my children; they just get to sit in quiet judgment of their horrible momma. It doesn’t come from a place of insecurity, either, as I really can just do a given task better than you.

Why am I telling you such things? Two reasons. One, because everything I think is worth mentioning. Two, because I want you to appreciate the magnitude of what posting today’s recipe means to me. It was given to me by a coworker who twice won our company’s annual bake-off. Two years ago, my Reese’s peanut butter cake was no match for her blueberry pie. I’d hate her stinking guts if she weren’t as outright lovely as her baking. And she’s cute. And tall. Pfft.

Janeen’s Award Winning Ice Cream Dessert

Happy Birthday, Hannah!

  • 1 pound Oreos, crushed
  • 1 cup margarine
  • 1 3/4 cup powdered sugar
  • 1 can (12 oz) evaporated milk
  • 1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
  • 1 tsp vanilla
  • 1/2 gallon Breyer’s Vanilla Ice Cream
  • 1 1/2 cups dry-roasted peanuts

Combine crushed Oreos and 1/2 cup melted margarine. Press into bottom of 9×13 glass dish. Chill for 1 hour. In saucepan over medium heat, combine 1/2 cup margarine, powdered sugar, evaporated milk and chocolate chips. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Continue to boil for 8 minutes and DO NOT stop stirring. Remove from heat and add vanilla. Set aside to cool. Slice ice cream into 3/4 inch slices and place on top of Oreo crust. Top with peanuts and cooled fudge sauce. Place in freezer for at least 8 hours or overnight. Serve and win prizes.

My competitiveness is especially handy for family potlucks (i.e. every party we have), except when my brother-in-law, Joel, occupies the kitchen like a shiftless liberal. He so very obviously sold his soul to the organic devil—that Trader named Joe—and would win at being the family’s Food Bitch (my favorite alter ego) if he weren’t so terribly straight. We’ll call him a Food Dick instead. Monsieur Belding brought a bacon jam sweet rolly thingy to our Fourth of July celebration, and it one of the most uniquely delicious things I’ve ever eaten. So much so that I’m gonna let him write a guest post for me soon. I was originally afraid he might win you all over, then I realized I have way better tits.

TWTG says, “You’re all hot from working with frogs.”

Tango Whiskey Tango Golf

As a gal who’s made it to first base with every branch of the military, I’d have to say the best kisser is… all of you. That’s more of a backhanded compliment than it sounds, due to the lack of variety. The moves you guys put on are so similar, one has to wonder if they’re just another thing the brass drills into you at boot camp. Has this method of lip-locking been determined to yield the most strategically advantageous results? Does it provide the highest probability of a second date, or, perhaps, mitigate the risk of VD via a specific angle of entry?

I’m just asking.

I adore our few, our proud and every uniform in between, and I hope the pictures you see today prove it. I spent more time Frankensteining together that bustier than any recipe I’ve divined as a culinary prodigy, or any funny bone I’ve tickled as a Bachelor of Arts-wielding wordsmith. I wanted to give our boys something special on Independence Day, and they told me exactly what they wanted: knockers for the troops. As an antidote to the huh? face you’re making right now, I’ve touched on the bizarro shit people are looking for when they stumble upon my blog (“goofy please don’t holocaust” is my current favorite), and “knockers for the troops” has been one of the most searched terms in the last month. Why ignore the fans? Like I teach my kids, you should always give into peer pressure, and here’s a slideshow of momma doing just that:

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Thank you for your service, gentleman. For the rest of you, I impart this palate-melting burger to make you salivate just as deeply:

Firecracker Sliders

  • 1 3/4 lb ground beef
  • 1 lb bacon
  • 1/2 cup canned jalapenos
  • 2 tbsp minced dried onions
  • 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
  • 1 tbsp Cholula or other hot sauce
  • 1 tsp crushed red pepper
  • salt and pepper
  • jalapeno cheddar or pepper jack cheese
  • slider buns
  • sliced tomato
  • avocado
  • ketchup (I prefer Sir Kensington’s)

Place ground beef in a large bowl. Add bacon and jalapenos to food processor, and pulse until finely minced. Mix bacon, jalapenos, onions, Worcestershire, Cholula, red pepper, salt and pepper with ground beef. Allow to marinate for 20–30 minutes. Form into 1/2 inch patties and grill until desired doneness. Top with slices of cheese and build sliders with tomato, avocado and ketchup.

I’ve spoken about the men in my family—and their contributions to this great nation—so the love I have for our military operates on a genetic level. If the same isn’t true for you, however, it’s still good taste to go the extra mile when you can. Never mind what you think about our government, or the baby talk that passes for our national voice, if you see someone that’s served, give them a kiss from yours truly. Even if that kiss ends up being standard issue.

TWTG says, “We have to wash the China off of it.”

(Kentucky Fried Boobs) Of The Week

Keeping traditions alive.

Doing a little genealogical digging, mine are actually going to be the second set of famous knockers in the family. If you’ve seen The Kentucky Fried Movie, you no doubt remember the Eyewitness News segment (click here to see it, but remember it’s very NSFW), and you no doubt remember the girl. Know who she is? My dad’s cousin. No wonder I can be found among the first dozen or so results of searching “oiled up boobs” on Google Images.

TWTG says, “I don’t know how to fuck up eggs!”

Suffering For My Art

Hulk smash!

Check the airspeed velocity of your local porcine population, The White Trash Gourmet is about to use her food blog for the unthinkable: to discuss food. Specifically, the creative process behind the food, and how much work it takes to be me. If I’ve made this whole web logging thing seem simple to anyone, or maybe even elegant… that’s just the shell game my chest plays. While you’re busy talking to me between my neck and naval, the rest of me is selflessly taking the heat so you can stay in the kitchen.

Consider this: I’ve posted every Monday, Wednesday and Friday for the last five months. I realize that’s a drop in the bucket compared to how some people blog, but think about what I put into each lovingly-crafted post: a minimum of 350 words and a brand new recipe. Easy? Absolutely. Now do it three times a week without missing a deadline, while juggling a career, a relationship and motherhood cubed.

Plus, I don’t know if you know this about me, but organization doesn’t exactly send me a family newsletter at Christmas. It’s not as though I’ve kept an autobiographical card catalog of culinary masterpieces—unless I specify otherwise, the featured meal/drink/whatever has likely been plucked from my noodle/butt/whatever that day. (Usually after too much hair pulled and too much of my own money spent. Someone remind me why I quit smoking.) Now I’m not congratulating myself; no back-patting is going to be found here. I’m merely expressing my newfound admiration for anyone that can make a blog work even barely.

Just look at today’s recipe as an example of the rigors of creativity: I wanted to make something with polenta for no better reason than I thought I could. I was originally going to attempt a sort-of lasagna. I had Russell make his super secret (but super perfect) marinara sauce, bought mushrooms, zucchini, shallots, garlic and fancy cheese… then decided lasagna was too plebeian for my audience. Back to the drawing board, stupid. I decided on a tower—something that really showed off the layers and let each element stand on its own.

It was delicious, to be sure, but then I’m tasked with selling it to the world (i.e. all my 200 followers) in a way that’s funny, clever and hopefully topical. Should I run out of topics, then all I can do is talk about the arduous process that lead up to the absence of topics. And this is just for Monday. Long story short, treasure your bloggers. They may not be fun to look at, but their salt is definitely earned. I’m fucking tired.

Leaning Tower of Polenta

Born of suffering.

  • 2 tbsp olive oil
  • 1 shallot, minced
  • 4 cloves garlic, minced
  • 1 orange bell pepper, diced
  • 4 zucchini, sliced
  • 10 oz sliced crimini mushrooms
  • 3 cups spinach
  • splash of balsamic vinegar
  • marinara sauce
  • 1 package prepared polenta (in the plastic tube)
  • shredded mozzarella

Heat olive oil in a saute pan over medium heat. Add shallot and garlic and saute for 1 minute. Add remaining vegetables, sauteing until mushrooms and zucchini are cooked through. Add a splash of balsamic vinegar and set aside. Thinly slice polenta and pan fry in a small amount of olive oil, until browned on each side. Remove from pan to plate lined with a paper towel. Place one round of polenta on a plate. Top with a spoonful of warm marinara sauce, a spoonful of the vegetable mix and a sprinkle of mozzarella. Repeat. Top with a third round of polenta, a small amount of sauce, cheese and fresh basil leaves. Take pictures (mandatory) because this looks as great as it tastes.

Complainingly as the above reads, I actually love the attention that having this forum has garnered. (How could I not? It’s about me.) I had been bragging for years that I was going to make a cooking blog one day… I just had no idea how much I was biting off for the chewing. Anyone who dismisses this virtual community as “just a hobby” is asking for a shanking.

TWTG says, “Hello Japan times five.”

Pretty/Painful

This doesn't just happen.

When I brush the tangles from my daughter’s hair, she often cries about the chunks of scalp matted between the bristles. Following my sinister laugh, the next three words are always the same, “beauty is pain.” Search below this paragraph and see examples of what I mean. That krugerrand-size blister on my heel? From running off the fat I can’t afford to Lap-Band. That permanent indent between my shoulder and neck? From three decades of over-the-shoulder holders carrying eight pounds (I’ve weighed) of boulders. I’ve been peeled chemically, waxed Brazilianly and have considered getting improved surgically.

And guess what, stupid men? I don’t do it for you. Contrary to how your ego strokes… itself(?), women don’t suffer because we love you. We do it because we hate each other. Hold a conch shell between a pair of women working at the same job, and you’ll hear the soft ocean sounds of two passive-aggressive bitches locked in a silent competition of jealousy and one-upmanship. Whether you’re my best friend, my faux friend or just some twat, the cutest shoes in the room better be on my blistery hooves. Hey, I really like that haircut, but I liked it a lot more when I had it first a year ago. No, sorry, real Coach bags aren’t stitched like that on the inside—your boyfriend doesn’t love you. And so on.

...no gain.

I’ve mentioned my bijou friend, Autumn, on the blog before and I adore her. She’s one of the few mature adults I’ve met, cute as a basket full of kittens and just as sweet. She has immaculate taste in fashion and fine dining—two things that make her perfect when I want to hit the town and play classy trouble. But none of that stops me from pretending I’m stepping all over her tiny, mangled body while I run laps. Who the hell said she could have a smaller frame than me? The Queen of Everything did not put her royal seal on such nonsense!

Le sigh.

Was perkiness worth it? Duh.

Guys, don’t pretend you’re any better. When it comes to the solidity of your calves, the frosting of your tips or the anatomy of an authentic Rolex (remember: its second hand doesn’t tick, stupid, it sweeps), you are every bit the gluttons for superficial punishment women are. The difference is, unless you’re a metrosexual priss like my ex, you really are doing it in service of the opposite sex. We all come factory-installed with one universal truth: women are better looking than men. If this were inaccurate, the female form wouldn’t have been the central theme of art, music and porn since time immemorial. You must never forget that you are men, and as men you must dream; and when you dream, you dream of boobies.

Lovely Potato Salad

Pretty without the pain.

  • 9-10 russet potatoes
  • 1/2 cup chopped marinated artichoke hearts (about 20)
  • 1/2 cup sun dried tomatoes, packed in oil, chopped
  • 1/3 cup mayonnaise
  • 1 1/2 tbsp basil, chopped
  • 1 tbsp shallots, minced
  • 1 tbsp chives, finely chopped
  • 1/4 tsp minced garlic
  • Salt & pepper

The trick here is to boil the potatoes whole, with the skin still on. Allow them to cool and then peel. Slice potatoes and place in a large bowl. Add remaining ingredients and gently stir to incorporate. I used my mini food processor to chop the artichoke hearts, sun dried tomatoes and shallots, but they can be done by hand. Refrigerate for at least an hour before serving.

To further my woman-as-art argument, here are some of the songs I can think of that are named after women: Iris, Michelle, Eleanor Rigby, Hey Jude, Irene, Alison (Evlis Costello), Allison (Pixies), Billie Jean, Sweet Jane, Maggie May, Baby Jane, Beth, Suzanne, Christine, Jenny From The Block, Polly, Lola, Roxanne, My Sharona, Lyla, Helena, Laura, Angie, Oh Sherrie, Oh Shelia, etc. (I really could keep going). And what do men get? Ben. Ben sung by a then-black Michael Jackson about a homicidal rat. There’s also Daniel, but that’s Elton John—so one man singing about another. Jessie’s Girl certainly isn’t about Jessie. See where I’m going with this, fellas? To quote Daphne and Celeste, “U-G-L-Y, you ain’t go no alibi—you ugly!”

TWTG says, “I have to blow my nose, or I’m gonna do it on your shirt.”

You Really Like Me

The cat that ate the canary.

Last weekend, my tiny slice of cyberspace gained over a hundred followers. If you are among them, give yourself a pat on the region north of your waist-equator. You are officially one of the hundred smartest people in the history of ever. Clearly, you know a good chest when you see one and you should totally bet the farm on that high risk loan. My favorite part is that, while some of you are family, and others are friends, the majority are complete strangers.

How do the unknown find me? Simple: By searching the most gonzo/bizarro shit imaginable. I guess that’s supposed to say something about me and my potty mouth. After all, if I ran a cleaner ship (as the old saying from the sea goes), I would dangle nothing to attract these creatures of the night (as that even older saying from the sea goes). But… yeah, I’m gonna choose to ignore all that and point fingers at my favorite example:

Two people—that is two (2) people—have washed up on my beach by diving for “tetillas erizadas” off the shores of Google. The literal translation? Bristly nipples. Hey, I’m not one to judge. If it makes you happy and doesn’t hurt anyone else, it’s a good thing, right? It also means I’m international! (Obviously, everyone in America speaks English. Everyone. Obviously.) But, uh, in all seriousness, my bilingual degenerates, that thing on your face is never going to heal if you keep picking at it.

Let’s just drink until I find all you weirdos charming:

Surprise Concoction Cocktail

Serves one wannabe famous blogger

  • 3 parts cranberry juice
  • 2 parts vodka
  • 1 part Disaronno
  • Juice of 1/8 lemon

Shake all ingredients over ice in cocktail shaker. I’ve had this bottle of Disaronno that a friend brought over and I only ever use it in desperation. The other night I was short on vodka and this sweet little ditty was invented. Enjoy!

All jokey-jokes aside, I’m positively giddy that my blog is generating momentum. Stick with me, kiddos, even if the state says you can’t live near schools. Granted, I won’t save your tarnished soul, and I might steal your shoes if they’re especially cute, but at least I’ll keep you fat and I’m fun to look at.