Tagged: food

June 8, 2012

Rachel’s Blog: What Do You Do With a Foodie Who Can’t Cook?

This is one in a series of custom blogs I’m doing for my facebook friends. I asked if there was anything they wanted me to blog about, and I’m writing a post for each person that answered.

Rachel asked for: Food. Recipes and whatnot. I’m hungry.

I love food like crazy. The problem with that is, I can’t cook. Which is one of the reasons it’s taken me so long to come out with this post. I have no idea what to write.

Glad that’s over with.

What do you guys want to do now?

Oh, actually talk about the topic I was given and swore up and down I would write about no matter what?

FINE.

I hate it when imaginary people in my head make me do the thing I said I’d do.

Anyway. You know who has a surprisingly foodie twitter feed is Neil Patrick Harris. I’d long given up on anything good-food related told to me by a hot actor (seeweed chips? eat a dick!) but this guy knows good food. Good looking food, at least. His official twitter apparently was not enough to contain the amazing gasto-experience that was his food-porn collection, so @NPHfoodporn is where the good stuff is at now. Which is something I learned today, thanks to me writing this blog right now. (You’re welcome, self.)

Here’s an example of the kind of quality pr0ns you’re getting when you follow the NPHfoodporn:

“Flank Steak, potato fritters, fried egg on top. Medium rare. Yum.”

Let’s just say, I know who I want to be when I grow up.

If you would like to get in on this kind of awesomeness, be my friend on facebook and post a response next time I ask for blog ideas!

May 10, 2012

Adulthood Tips and Tricks: Things I’ve Learned So Far

“I love being a grown-up.” “Me fucking too!”

I’m only 27, and a lot of people would still consider me very much a young one. But I’ve picked up some tricks in the last 9 years of legal adulthood that I think might benefit the average reader. Feel free to add your own tips and tricks in the comments, as I am sure I missed quite a few.

Speak English (or whatever language you speak):
The ability to articulate ourselves is one of the most amazing and underused human talents. Chances are you speak the same language as whomever you’re dealing with. Take advantage of that! Want something done or not done, say so! Like somebody? Tell them! It’s not that hard, just open your mouth and talk in a respectful manner at a reasonable volume. Other people have a right to speak in plain English as well, so don’t be freaked out when they have things they want or don’t want or have to say.
Dress the Part:
It took me a long time to realize that people couldn’t tell who I was just by looking at me and talking to me for a few minutes. I had to give them some hints. If you want people to think you’re competent, dress like a competent person would dress. Showing up at an office job in a shitty outfit broadcasts to people that you don’t care, and that is the opposite of what you want to do if you actually care about your job. If you actually don’t care, stay as you are.
Be Polite, Even to Assholes:
When talking to someone I dislike, I try to imagine someone who’s opinion I value walking into the room mid-conversation. If the newcomer wouldn’t be able to tell who the jerk is, than I need to tone it down. It doesn’t always work, I have a legendary number of foot to mouth situations in my lifetime, but the image of someone else viewing my conversation from the outside often keeps me on the straight and narrow. Where I still get into trouble today is trying to be polite but also speak in plain English. It’s very hard for me to tell someone I’m upset in a calm manner and draw boundaries when I’m upset. Which makes it fortunate that English is a 24 hour language. So I can tell them later, when I’m better.
Sleep, Food, Exercise and Fun are Essential:
Without these things in quality (not necessarily quantity, although that’s usually a good bet as well) life ceases to have meaning.

What are your Adulthood Tips and Tricks?

April 3, 2012

Carmel Vacation: Day 2

The one complaint I have about the Carmel Wayfarer Inn was that their beds are too soft. Ben and I are probably outliers since we sleep on a futon set on top of a plywood plank, but the mattress we slept on was so soft that my arms and legs kept falling asleep.

After our rather numb and restless night, it was recommended we go to Katy’s Place. I have to tell you, one of the best parts of this vacation is that at no point did we get into a car. We walked everywhere and it was amazing. The wait at Katy’s was about 20 minutes, which is not nearly as long as the wait at Ben and my favorite breakfast spot here at home (shout out to Uncle Bill’s!)

As spoiled as we’ve been by Uncle Bill’s, Katy’s Place would be at least as good, but what puts them above Bill’s is the farm fresh eggs they use. You can taste and see the different in the bright orangeness of the eggs and the rich, deep flavor. Amazing food and fast, wonderful service.

After breakfast, we wandered through the neighborhood on our way down to the beach. The houses in Carmel all have names, which are lovingly spelled out in every imaginable medium on gates and above doorways. They range in style from ultra-modern constructions of glass and metal to adorable fairy tail cottages that look more like illustrations than dwellings.

When we got to the beach, there were dogs everywhere. Ben gave me the camera for a little bit and I took as many pictures of happy dogs playing in the ocean as I could. We spent a couple of hours at the beach before we walked back up the hill to our hotel where we all read in the courtyard in the chilled afternoon sun.

We had eaten such a large and late breakfast that we skipped lunch (although Ben and I snacked because, you know, fatties.) Dinner was at Dametra Cafe and I can’t say enough good things about it. Everybody’s dinner was amazing, especially good was the gyro in Ben’s dad’s Greek plate. Hands down, it was the best gyro I’ve ever had.

The highlight of the evening came half way through our meal when several of the waitstaff stepped into the room holding instruments and proceeded to sing boisterously while others of the waitstaff picked a couple of women from random tables to dance while everybody else clapped and cheered. Personally, I’d probably hate to be picked, but it was really fun to watch and clap. Especially since it turned out that one of the women was a dance instructor. Dametra Cafe was definitely the highlight of the trip for me.

January 27, 2012

Self Hate as a Motivator

So I just learned about the “humiliation diet” where you post your weight online every day and expect the people who care about you to be complicit in your self hate and badger you about your progress or lack thereof. What. The. Actual. Fuck?

Having hated yourself into shape, what are you going to do when you need to ask for a raise, when you want to buy a house, or tell a person you love them and you want them in your life? Are you going to hate yourself into your boss’s office? Hate yourself into a savings plan? Hate yourself into romantic bliss? What about your children, will you hate them to greatness as well?

Is that what you do with people you love, people who care for you, and who you plan on having in your life long term; mock them, and fuck with them, and remind them of how awful they are, so then they get better and you can love them again? OF COURSE NOT. Any healthy friendship would be seriously damaged, probably irreparably by that kind of behavior. Why would you do that to yourself?

You only get one body, one chance to experience life in this tangible way. Your body is your faithful servant, your only lifelong friend. If it’s sick, or it’s not performing, the answer is not hate. I’m not about to kick down my grandma’s door and scream at her until she un-strokes (strokes in, if you will). That would be cruel, and she would cut me out of the will.

Self hate should never be a motivator. Hate is such a poor substitute for love. I exercise because I feel empowered by it. I enjoy feeling stronger, being able to run longer and faster. I am constantly amazed at what my body can do after a month, after a year. I am in such a different place than I was when I started exercising 4 years ago. I’m having a love affair with my body and I enjoy myself immensely. I would never trade that experience for anything, and when I see all the ads and diets encouraging people to self-harm so that they can drop the pounds, like that’s the only thing that’s wrong with them, it really makes me sad.

I have an unhealthy relationship with food. The thing I need to keep myself alive, to power my amazing body is also the thing I am least capable of dealing with in a healthy way. I was taught by my grandmother and mother that food is something you should never enjoy. So my natural delight in eating became something to be ashamed of early on. I would eat, feel guilty, sink into self-hate, eat to make myself feel better, and start the cycle all over again. The idea that someone else would impose that torture on themselves willingly, as an adult is appalling to me.

It took me years to understand that I deserved to be fed, that there was no shame in requiring food, or enjoying food or eating food. That the way I felt about my weight was not helping me be healthy, and in fact, that it was making me sicker. My body had become a frenemy, shaming me with her indecency, spurring me on to eat terrible things, shamefully betraying my moral objection to my own fatness. Fat does not make a person bad, it makes them fat. I didn’t know that for the longest time. I wasn’t battling my weight, I was battling the ridiculous concept that I was worthy of love.

When I started to consider my body as a friend, as a dedicated servant, the world fell apart. I ate whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted for years. I had a lot of fun eating terrible food. Hey, if my body wants pie, who am I to deny my oldest friend? About four years ago, I came to the point where I realized this was also unhealthy. Now I am trying to form a concept of myself as a caregiver for this body, as a responsible adult. Just because it wants pie, doesn’t mean it gets pie every day, but sometimes there’s pie, because pie is delicious.

This went off in a weird direction. A nice direction, but also a weird one. What I’m trying to say is that self love takes much longer, sometimes you even get fatter – I did. But I had to do that in order to see that I could be fat as hell and still have worth. For years I denied myself food, I hid when I did eat and I threw it all up afterwards, always thinking that thin=good. For years after that, I ate what I wanted, I was confident and happy and fatter all the time. Now I’m trying to eat the foods that truly make me happy, that taste good because they grow good, not because of some artificial concoction. I am confident and happy, I can run 2 miles without stopping, I can bound up the stairs without panting, I can use my body in new and incredible ways. Do I look anything like I thought I should look 15 years ago? Hello no. Would i ever apologize for my fatness today? Fuck no. I earned every ounce of this fat. My fat is proof that I had the balls to stop living in guilt and love myself without shame.

Hating yourself until you’re worth loving is a hell of a hat trick. How do you know when you’re goal has been met?

May 23, 2011

Twitter Tells Me: Bulk Food Edition

mr_bithead wanted to hear “about things in your area that you like. Favourite shops, salon, grocery store, restaurants, and why!”

I live in Hawthorne, CA, a city for which being named after a famous literary figure has not been an educational boon. In other words, it’s a little ghetto. But, unlike most of the ghetto’s in the world, this one is 6 miles from the beach. I’ll take it!

Anyway, most of the shops and restaurants I like are in the surrounding cities, namely Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach, Torrance and El Segundo. Major exceptions to this rule are local chains The Chicken Maison and El Pollo Inca. The former is healthy and delicious Mediterranean food with a little bit of south bay style. The latter is cheap, fast, and loud Peruvian food to die for. Both places require a visit any time you’re in the area.

Other, more popular eateries, in the better parts of town are:

Uncle Bill’s Pancake House - everything there is good.
El Tarasco -not the best I’ve had, but the South Bay seems to have trouble producing good Mexican food, and this stuff is the top of the heap so far.
Mama D’s - cheap, fast, simple Italian food with good service and a cozy atmosphere.
Rinaldi’s – Simple, affordable, delicious, meat-packed sub sandwiches.

We recently got a Sprouts Farmers Market in Redondo Beach, which I am super happy about. Any hippie native to Southern California will remember Wild Oats markets from the early 1990′s. Sadly, they folded in the mid to late nineties, but their spirit has lived on in a chain called Henry’s, that I used to shop at when I lived in Orange County. Now, Wild Oats/Henry’s clones are popping up all over Los Angeles in the form of Spouts. Unlike my least favorite store ever, a store I call the Whore Foods, Sprouts has an excellent vibe and affordable, natural foods in an astonishing variety. They also have the one thing that every hippie child remembers so fondly: the bulk food buckets!

Unfortunately, I have yet to discover is a good sushi place. The only one I’ve been recommended was way too pretentious and expensive for me.

Thenoid13 asked about “ice cream melts in your trunk when you lock your keys in you car.”

Yes it does.

April 14, 2011

On Caregiving

My grandmother attracts strays. She’s not particularly motherly, but motherless things seem inexplicably drawn to her. Possibly because we all know that she’ll care for us, although somewhat begrudgingly. As you might expect, none of her charges are show quality. Some are no quality at all, but everyone gets treated for their ailments and fed on a schedule, and that’s a lot more than most of us had anywhere else in our lives.

I count myself among her strays, as I was welcomed in the same “well, I’m not going to let you die” sort of way that all of us are welcomed. It’s not that the woman is cold. She is. But she is not merely cold. So many warm and welcoming people turn out to be so false. They are warm and welcoming because they think that they have to be so you will like them. Over the years, I’ve come to realize that my grandmother’s coldness is a sort of self defense. She is so destined to care that there has to be some filter or all the lost children of the western world would be sleeping on her floor.

People simply come to her, sometimes without even knowing it. Strangers talk to her in the street, empty stores and restaurants fill up after she’s been in them. She’s the most unwilling saint. The patron saint of patronage.