Tag Archives: Cooking

Rent Paychecks & Food Orphans

8 Jul

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Am watching this show that makes me want to cook all the time…an artform I am rubbish at, but like to pretend I can do anyway.

… My amended versions of fake recipes are entirely based on what seems like a good idea at the time, spun on its ear, with the hodge-podge of nonsensical foods and condiments I have to work with directly in my cupboard and fridge. This is because it was rent paycheck week, so I am poor again, but just as determined to invent something of culinary awesomeness with nothing at all but what I’ll refer to as the leftover Food Orphans in my kitchen.

… There is no lettuce, but I have zucchini and cucumbers. Lots of beans and rice…but no bread. Eggs without milk. Hot sauce in three varieties…and chicken broth…spaghetti with no sauce, and one can of albacore tuna.

… Every condiment in tiny takeout packet form, and every salad dressing…but no butter or sugar. I have a $12 Moroccan spice and a $3 Italien seasoning mix, but also a tiny packet of zillion-dollar-an-ounce Saffron, as well as a box of cornflakes, a thing of Shake-n-Bake, and cupcake decorations without ingredients to mix and make the cupcakes.

I dunno how half these things got in my house. Mostly, other people have bought them and left them, over time. Because everyone cooks there…not because the kitchen is posh and high-functioning…it is a galley with zero steel surfaces and a human dishwasher (me)…but mostly because I will ply free booze to anyone who will cook for me…so I can grate and cut things and pretend I know what I’m doing when I don’t.

Because I love food.

… And I love the process of making it.

… And so, when I go through friend-cooking-withdrawal… I click a food show on Netflix, get a burr up my ass, and go pretend I know how to go it alone with inventiveness.

I WILL FIND ART ANY WAY I CAN, AND PRACTICE IT, TO MY HEART’S DELIGHT… SO JUST SHUT UP ABOUT IT!

(The struggle is real.)

(… And not just for my palate.)

Next: Am starting to get frustrated with the ever evolving world of job hunting. You want this one who never calls, constant calls from all the ones you don’t want…the best jobs are too far away, the close ones are shitty, requiring your every night and weekend probable take-over. It has become a vicious cycle of the phone ringing and binging all day long, but always ending with anticlimactic fizzle.

My phone is quickly becoming sexually frustrated as hell, as I re-sweep the same damn ads over and over and over again, and Insurance companies haunt me like a mouth-breather on a crowded bus.

… Also, every accounting department known to man.

Trust me. You don’t want me in Finance. Or to sell things to people. You want to bury me in the back office where I can chew massive amounts of paperwork while speaking to no one…for hours and hours.

… Maybe I’ll start looking into the mortuary arts. It’s people-related, but only barely. It’s quiet, low stress, and there are no constant calls bitching about returns and repairs.

(No, but seriously. I should consider this.)

Meanwhile, why isn’t it 4:30 yet?

… Mrs. Johnson has arrived and gives zero fucks about the remainder of the work day. She just wants her forced 15k walk out of the damn way and a Pamprin cocktail with a whiskey chaser. And then: some pajama friend hang time.

… Which she’s damn-well gonna get. (I’ll have you know.)

The end.

~D

The Elephant

3 Jul

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It’s the thing that everyone pretends not to see:

The elephant, in the room.

…The giant neon sign with a number counting down, regarding people you love, and how many days until they leave you.

When you know it is coming, all you want is to ignore the fucking sign.  But you almost never can.  And when people are so constantly reminding you of it, with voiced affections, and party-throwing, and the turning in of keys, selling of cars, liquidating of assets, it is even more present.

…Suddenly, it becomes like trying to ignore an entire herd of elephants.

…I’m pretty sure that’s where The Fella is living right now.  He’s taking it like a champ, but he is an affectionate human who has had a giant impact on a lot of other humans, and that gets messy when people say, “goodbye.”

Lucky for me, I am more than secure enough in my relationship with him and The BFF to know that “goodbye” will never be in our shared vocabulary.  Neither one of us will ever really manage to shake off the other two.  The bond is too indelible. 

…But even if all the hundreds of other silk web strings linking him to every relationship he’s built here over the years, stretch to New Orleans and back again, those relationships will never quite be the same again.  And he likes change roughly about the same amount that I do…which is not at all…so, “life” is about to get a whole lot “woa” for him.

He’s totally “good” for it, but that doesn’t mean he wants to focus on that fucking elephant any more than anyone else does.

…Which I can totally understand.

…But on the same hand: it is rather nice to see a turn out of people, friends you haven’t seen in ages, coming from all over the surrounding cities, counties, years and seasons…some even dropping in from Mars, to wish a person, all the best in the world.

…And to see the happiness of The BFF, at last getting to claim her Fella, for new ‘ventures and life explorations.

The elephant sucks.  But it comes with good memories.  Including the ones we build through this weekend…before two people get on a plane, to start a new life together.

…Which, when they are The BFF and her Fella, is a pretty rad thing.

And now: post-baseball game at the stadium, we’ve split for the night, to rejoin tomorrow in cookings and fireworkings and general family joyness.  Another day to add to the mental scrapbook of the us’s, and all the goodest of good things.

~D

Of Yum

1 Jun

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Friend over making amazing eats.

He has a degree in it. 

This always blows my mind. 

That people can “degree” in something so delicious.

Infused shallot butters, and brown-sugar ribs, pepper-bacon and cheddar cheese topped baked potatoes, and this amazing wonderment which turns out to be brown sugar in sour cream with strawberries and honey crisp apples.

…Yes, we will be eating around midnight.

…But we are midnight people. 

Plus I hiked around a lot today.

…And this is a very special occasion, called: “Someone wants to come over and cook delicious things in my kitchen and leave awesome left-overs for free.”

I try my best to always be accommodating on such occasions.

I’m “giving” that way.

~D

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Hungry

29 Apr

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Am eating classic BFF Fajitas…a major staple of our bestest kind of days…where we’d run to the market for fresh veg, a bottle of cheap red wine, and come home, setting on Swing or Samba or somethin’ equally sassy, and drink and cook until the light left the sky and we were well buzzed and comfy.

…I miss those days all the time.  But it’s even worse on “Big Days.” 

Yesterday was the first Birthday since I’ve known her that she wasn’t here to resume her place of festivity-planner.  Foods from here to kingdom come, delights in outtings, special specifically NOT “cheap red wine”…the works.

…That girl does it up!

But dammit if she didn’t manage a co-feat-wonder with The Fella, being all the way on the totally wrong-opposite coast of America at the time, or not.

This was my BD gift of wonder, delivered with epic joy and hugs by The Fella, and slobbered over by me after he had left:

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…”So, what’s the big deal?” you might shrug to yourself, if you’re new to the blog, and it’s earlier epic drunken posts of foodage joy…in days when The BFF lived just there: at the end of the street, and would ramble over many times per week for our cooking sessions, punctuated with theatre debates and history talks and men worries and all the things that BFF’s always fill the space of time with.

Each food and drink and goodie, represents a very specific memory…a grin…and by the end of her little note tucked in the back, a mess of tears.

* A tiny watermelon. (In memory of the Gray Goose spiked one, that sat in my fridge all prepped for our naughty-secret of a picnic lunch, while we three watched Shakespeare in the Park, one summer.)

* Peppers & zuchinnis (Our oft-repeated BFF Fajita days, spread out over the entire coffee table, piled high with zillions of add-on sides n’ fixins.)

* An articoke. (The epic 100th BD of Julia Child, when we decided totally on a whim to tackle a full-course spread straight from “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” while drunkenly blogging our exploits.)

* Garlic. (A BFF staple in every. single. dish. Probl’y even the dessert ones. “Stink and think of me,” the note said…)

* Cabbage. (My refrigerator staple, for Polish kielbasa and potato stew — where both foods of “our people” gather in happy harmony, like we do.

* Spinach. (The major base for every epic salad we ever invented.)

* Dubliner Cheese. (Only the best sharpness of delish, also nodding to her time in ye old Irish Capital, together with Medium Tillamook, to be included somehow in some way, in nearly every meal we ever made.)

* A bottle of red. (Pin-up style, WWII ex-airfield-grown, an obvious toss up to our forever scout of delightful new reds, My obsession with WWII, and The Fella’s delight of period warcraft…bringing us all together in one bottle of joy.)

* Gourmet chocolate-covered cherries. (As with all the fresh veg, reminders of endless trips to Tacoma Boys, and their expensive little treats sections, upon occasion, finally splurged on with combining of fundages ‘tween we two.)

* A duel mix-tape CD. (Our greatest hits, our sing-alongs, our late-night cooking sambas…songs that each — like the foods in the basket — represent something you can’t always put in words…though the lyrics certainly help.)

…The last: a package that guided me with giggles and weepies all the way to my final “Anne Frank” show, and back home again.

Good thoughts.

Good memories.

…Proving that you don’t need to be “present” to be present on a day, in a thought, to make a moment special.

The BFF is just that good.

🙂

…Off to go and tackle the dishes now.

KP was always my job…along with the sous chef-prepping.

Dear The BFF,

I don’t cook the big stuff, good as you do. But I’ll try my best! And think of you with every chop, and fry, and bake, and swig, and garlic-stink.

I promise!

Love you lots and lots,

The (now) Double-Three

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~D

…And In Sweden, They Do It With Fire On Their Head!

17 Dec

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St. Lucia.

…An Italian Saint with about 1100 notations of conception and trials of faith, but I can’t for the life of me figure out which is the right one, or why a bunch of Nordic peoples, chose her, specifically, to celebrate.  Her day falls within the Yule, however, so its very possibly a turn of convenience, and great excuse for a party. And since she’s attributed for feeding the hungry…a feast is held, simultaneously.

…Being roughly a quarter Swedish, I always knew “about” the shindig, but had never taken actual part in it, until Marty showed up in all her blond-haired, blue-eyed, candle-burning, best.

She was always St. Lucia, while growing up, ceding the crown now to her carbon-copy niece. 

…And the honor of BEING St. Lucia comes with the ability to make special spiced and raisin-dimpled Lucia buns, and coffee, at the crack of dawn for the Mom and Pop of the house, bringing it to them, while wearing a white dress with red ribbon belt, and sporting a crown of melting candles in a wreath on your head.

…And sometimes this whole deal is repeated again later, when all the older relations come over for the feast…

…So you have to be careful not to set fire to yourself, not just once per year, but multiple times.  Apparently, it’s the elder’s jobs to sob over you, while watching you wander around singing songs at them, bending over with a tray of goods to offer, while praying to all that is holy that the hot wax dripping and drying on your hair, won’t actually ignite.

…It almost never does (just for the record.)  But I’m still not totally clear on the kind of percentage that “almost never” constitutes.

What I do know is that a LOT of food is involved…and a LOT of that food is made up of meat, spices, potatoes, creams, breads and butter. So I mean, it was immediately obvious to me, that this was going to be an awesome thing.

…Then too, there is the liquor.

…Liquor that took us three stores to find and collect. Because this magical mix called Glogg, the St. Lucia drink of choice, is made from not just one, not just two, but THREE kinds of alcohol, simmered in a pan with a bunch of spices, raisins, and almonds thrown it…then lit on fire with the help of Aquavit, and finally sieved and drunk.

…Which is a magical experience that can seriously fuck you up by evening’s end…especially if you “Skol” a shot of Aquavit with every new party arrival before hand…which was apparently Marty’s Pop’s job, every St. Lucia Day.

Being “traditionalist” is every sense of the word, we felt obliged to take up that banner, and roll with it as well.

Family peoples came.

We “Skol’d” ’em.

They “Skol’d” us.

…We watched (and helped as needed) whilst Marty, flushed a deep red, resided over Johnson’s potatoes and lace cookies and Lucia bread and spritzes and Swedish Meatballs…and then everyone ate, and drank, and laughed for like the next forever-hours, until it was time for Marty to go home.

Our guts, rumbled from so muchness in foods and drinks, that we switched then to waters…and the party distilled even further, leaving Ma n’ Me n’ Uncle Big Guy, swappin’ stories and poking our bellys to help in the digestion.

…This was all (btw) after a five-hour emo rehearsal, directly following an until four in the morning party-fest sleep-over, which directly followed an almost three-hour screening of the Hobbit with some very excited individuals, which directly followed a full work week.

…Which is why I spent all yesterday having an affair with a long-running TV series, while wearing my pajamas.

I ain’t no fool.

~D

BFF Chefing & More

21 Nov

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The BFF is home from L.A. for a short week’s holiday with the us’s, who have missed her so.

…After a two hour journey that turned into six somehow, because apparently Virgin Airlines likes to relocate people by way of camel.

Due to overt, gross amounts of sexing tween her and The Fella, I was not allowed to see her upon arrival.  But today, I get to give her a monster hug…live, IN PERSON…and do that talking seventy miles a minute thing…even though we basically kept one another updated on everything already anyway.  Cuz it’s what girls do.  Even dude-ones.

…Anyway…the office is closing at one, (on command of Boss), and directly after, I will be swooping down upon her, at last! Together we will sweep our favorite shops for the best cooking goods and alcohol, and bring it all back to my house for our second favorite activity: togetherness cooking.  (Followed directly by our FIRST favorite activity: eating.)

Blending of the family, as is the case with EVERY Holiday, will bring Marty motoring up (thankfully, to provide another eating mouth and save us from our gluttonous selves)…and then, a meet with the next show’s Director, to drunkely talk character n’ script stuffs before our first read on Sunday.

…Cuz, yep, it’s team Marty and Roz, in this next one. 

Our fourth show together (third in a row), and the FIRST time we will actually get to work with one another for more than one line, on stage.

And I am so incredibly grateful to be intrusting all this personal history shit, with an already-sister, whom I would trust to Thelma-and-Louise lengths, on any journey that life would ever see fit to throw at us. 

You n’ Me, kid.  Let’s jump in that Cadillac and never look back.

…But before we peal out, stirring up all that dust with our tires…we DO have two weeks remaining on “Twelfth Night,” and its family…to continue to play and grow with.  We have time to enjoy the here-and-now with these people…and much as we are both eager beavers at digging in and getting right to work…we have earned this moment of happy play time with our current cast.

It’s been a good season of theatre this year.

…Have worked with four companies, met gallons of new friends, spent quality time with old ones, and have learned a lot. 

“Children’s Hour” will be the first of the new Season, opening in January…a kick-start to (one hopes) a helluva 2013. 

…I wish for a comedy as it’s predecessor. 

…I wish to keep branching out in new directions with new companies.

…And I wish to look back at its season’s end with at least as much fondness as I do this one.

Am thankful for a lot, today. And now, I’m gonna go home and enjoy it!

~D

From Our Foreign Correspondent: The BFF

19 Oct

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And now, a word from our Foreign Correspondent.

…She is back folks!

And, in more thinky terms of life changing philosophy, is here to share with you, (via our satellite offices) what it’s like to cry into your baking in abandoned woe, and roast a chicken in 90 degree heat (because goddamn it, it’s OCTOBER!)…what it’s like to haunt Kraft Service tables as an Extra on sets all day, and her burgeoning possible 8th career into Circus Performance Art, et al. Hold onto your hats, a lot of fun is coming at yuh! But first: we must begin at the beginning…and not give everything away right off the bat.

I give you: The BFF.

***

I am writing this from somewhere inside Elysian Park.

My lack of knowledge about my current whereabouts and my decision not to worry about being eaten by some large bush-dwelling park creature reflects the uncanny sense of calm I now feel in the face of the big, scary, directionless life change I made three weeks ago.

I am calm now. Make no mistake, I was not calm nine days ago.

WHO AM I

WHAT AM I DOING

WHERE AM I

WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?!?!?

These questions and more had a good week-long free-for-all over my entire conscious being, often paralyzing me creatively and socially, negating the very reason I ventured south in the first place: meet people, do things, make art.

You make some chocolate mousse at 11:30 in an empty apartment on a Saturday night, you cry, you read about the execution of Socrates, and then you realize, suddenly and violently, that every terrifying thought stopping you up to this point, exists solely

INSIDE YOUR HEAD.

A breath, a cough, you put away the mousse, you pry your self out of the pillow fort, and you begin, once again, to live life.

In almost 3 weeks of living in Los Angeles, I have:

Been an extra on 2 television shows (it’s really much much easier than it sounds)

Met and learned from many fellow artists.

Danced the night away.

Followed leads (some fruitful, others not.)

Conversed with many strangers.

Propositioned some clowns.

Sharpened the vision of my future theatre company.

And as of this afternoon, I may very well have landed myself both a job and some serious training at LA’s premier circus school.

PEOPLE OF THE WORLD: LISTEN.

All you have to do is something, it’s very easy although we most often make it very hard.

Sometimes, things will be shit. But everything changes, always, so dwelling is utterly futile.

Move, with life, and you will be fine.

Inspiration, though keen to strike us over the head when we least expect it, most often will only come out and play after much coaxing and many compromises. As an artist, you must place yourself in an environment where inspiration is apt to dwell, even if it does not instantly adjust, even if it requires hours of sweet-talk and ass-kissing, there are places where inspiration is more easily found than others.

We must find it, and we must know that just because we have found it, does not mean we will automatically be inspired.

This is my challenge, alone, in the belly of the beast, consistently adjusting the lighting, fluffing the pillows, and playing some Marvin Gaye in the recesses of my mind on the off chance that inspiration happens to drop by.

I left [home] because it was no longer a place that invited my inspiration. Los Angeles is terrifying and large and harsh, but for me, a jungle is always better than a desert.

Much love,

The BFF

***

…And equal love,

~D

The Butt Bio

14 Oct

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If I loved you less, I would pretend I didn’t have time to write tonight’s blog. Truth be told: I’m just not feelin’ it.

…I’m a pretty decent actor, and a hell of a liar (some would say, its the same thing), so I would totally pull it off right now, if I said, “Yeah…I can’t write my blog tonight, cuz I’m too busy writing multiple program bios for my anatomy pieces. I’d do one for my face, but no one would give a shit…they won’t be looking there anyway.”

…Seriously.

Instead, I’m going to be only slightly more responsible by not lying. And writing a super short post.

Tonight was first run of the show, top-to-bottom, even with like fifteen days or whatever till Opening. Get to work some stuff tomorrow, which is awesome, (cuz working is the good part.)

…Broke in the new Crockpot today. Four hours on a roast and veggies, served directly after a soaking walk in the rain down on the waterfront.

…Which brings up (again)…WHY make a hooded coat that isn’t waterproof, and forget to tell people that when they buy it. One ASSUMES that “hood” = “a purpose for a hood.” It’s just this idea that MOST people have.

…Yesterday, “M” and I spent a part of the day shopping for girl clothes with no luck at all. But we didn’t care, because we were too busy eating fat amounts of cheese and salami, while guzzling red wine and watching tag-team stand up from the Nexflix stream, doing in-depth “Iliad” Collegiate paper theory Q &A sessions, and watching a “LOTR” documentary on historical sourcing, so I have something to focus on during the next movie, when the plot lines get so stretched out that my eyeballs start rolling back into their sockets, and I pass out. (Mercifully.)

We chicks know how to mix it up, friends.

…Right now, I’m bundled on the couch, it’s raining outside, my contacts are all blurry from too many hours on the clock, and “How I Met You Mother,” is playing on the T.V..

I’m tired, and don’t want to face tomorrow.

I’m wondering if now is a good time to mention this one new thing.

I’m deciding it isn’t.

I would like to hope this will be a productive week…less fires in the workplace, more scenes worked and nailed in rehearsal, general confidence building all-round, and less frequency in freaking out about things that I freak out about for a variety of reasons…each and every day.

It could totally happen.

~D

Hello, Fall

12 Oct

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Closed the last of the windows in the house today, and turned on the heater for the first time in about 90 days…roughly 50 of which have been solidly without rain…a major feat for the Seattle metro area.  The last couple walks this week were chilly with thick fog in the air, with the kinda chill that soaks into your bones, and this morning, the rain (albeit only a little of it) finally began to fall.

…This weekend will begin the chimney smoke smells, and make limp all the crunchy tree leaves along the sidewalk, and push people into their coat closets, looking for the one lost glove, and begin digging out all the sweaters from the bottom drawers again.

We had a hell of a summer, so I don’t really mind that it is time to start snuggling up.  The weather has been kind to us.

…Tonight (payday) was for food stocking again, and this time I grabbed some stew meat, a roast and veg,  to break in the new Crockpot.  Some chili and soup mixes in the pantry…and some hot cocoa…I am so ready for fall now, and I can’t wait to eat it.

Bath night for Daphne and Niles. 

They hate it so much…don’t like change any more than I do, really…even for the better.  Daphne particularly, will sit and pout in the corner of her Grecian pillar cave and not come out even for dinner, afterward.  Niles isn’t fond of baths either, but is a total whore when it comes to food, so will magically forgive me, soon as he hears the top of the food can unscrew.  He’ll eat it all like he’s starving, then sit at the top of his bowl and look over into Daph’s, watching her food just float, totally ignored.  And it drives him fucking nuts.

Niles: “…Are you gunna eat that?  Hey?!  Hey?!  Hey, you girl!  Are you gunna eat that, or what?”

Daphne: (From her cave.) “Don’t be ridiculous.  Can’t you see I’m in the middle of my big dramatic scene here?  One doesn’t just ‘eat’ mid-performance.”

Niles: “Yeah, but…it’s gonna get all soggy and stuff.  Then fall apart.  Then cloud everything up with fish-gut-parts.”

Daphne: “Please.  I am trying to concentrate.  Is she looking?”

Nile: “What?  Who?”

Daphne: “The person.  Is she looking?”

Nile: “A little bit, I guess.  Why?”

Daphne: “Does it look like she’s troubled about something?”

Niles: “How can you tell?”

Daphne:  “A wrinkle between her eyebrows.”

Nile: “Nope.  Nothing.”

Daphne: “Damn. I did an extra swish-flip of haughty disdain this time, when she put me back in the bowl.  I was sure she’d notice.”

Niles: “I don’t see anything.”

Daphne: “…Maybe I’ll just sit in my cave a little longer.”

Niles:  “I mean…I hate it too, but it IS just a bath.  She’s only means well, I’m sure.”

Daphne: “That’s not the point.”

Niles: “Isn’t it?”

Daphne: “Of course not.”

Niles: “Then, what is?”

Daphne: “One doesn’t just co-ed bathe in public, while their waste is excreted from the rocks and wiped off the bowl.  It’s undignified.”

Niles: “Well…it’s better than swimming in poop, I guess.”

Daphne: “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that last bit.”

Niles: “…Anyway.  At least we have fresh water now!  And she’s so good about making sure it’s heat-adjusted and everything.”

Daphne: (Poking her head out, and working herself up so far that she eventually is full out of the cave, her fins all abristle.) “Oh.  How kind of her not to accidentally ‘poach’ us after plopping us in plastic cups for thirty minutes and complaining about the ammonia smell as she grimaces and scrubs everything down, wearing those ridiculous ‘over-the-elbow’ double-strength plastic gloves, like we’re something TOXICCoughing and wheezing and ‘making faces.’ As if her own poop doesn’t stink…is how SHE acts.  Which is a lie, thank you very much!  I live here too you know!  Am I right, or am I right?”

(Niles just floats there. Staring.)

Daphne: “Right?!”

Niles: “Huh? Sorry, what?”

Daphne: “Were you not listening?!”

Niles: “Sorry, I got distracted. You know…I mean…don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got a reeeeeally nice tail, you know that?”

Daphne: (Rolling her eyes.) “…Totally useless.”

Niles: “–Cuz I’m…seriously…I’m a ‘tail’ man you know, and uh, you have got GAME in that department, lady.  If you know what I mean.”

Daphne: (Turning around.) “…Fucking idiot.”

Niles: “Huh?  What?  Did you…? Did you say something…?”

Daphne: “Goodnight, Niles.”

Niles: “YOU KNOW MY NAME?!”

(She retreats all the way into the cave and is not seen again for the rest of the night.)

Niles: “…She. Knows. My. Name. Heh heh heh. High Five!

(He pops up a fin.)

Niles: “Oh. Yeah. …Damn.”

~D

How Things Are From Here

6 Oct

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I am counter-acting last night’s chick-fest with a shit ton of James Bond hotness. It’s all about finding totally realistic balance in life, between men who will ride up on a white horse and pine for you, and men who beat the shit out of people while wearing Armani.  This is all I want.  And frankly, I don’t understand why it’s so difficult for the guy upstairs to get it right.

…And speaking of Bond.  How about a hand for my girl, Adele’s, epic leap into all-time cult status for her newest track to hit the “Oops, it leaked” viral rage.  Love it, babe.  Keep ’em coming.

Since last night actually ended mid this morning, spent the better part of the day working myself up to the point where I would be inspired enough to take a shower and get dressed. This happened eventually, around four…after making “breakfast” and finishing my book. Then a walk n’ talk with a bud, and now home to Bond.

…Oh Bond. There is something about men of extremes. Really does it for this dame, I gotta say. Cuz there’s a time and place for the roguish pretty-boy Willoughby, the right moment for the deeply devoted Brandon, and plenty of space for the sexy “I will fuck you up and look hot while doing it” Bond. Manly men. It’s all we want. Am I right?

…This would be the opposite to “M’s” current obsession of grilled-out rappers, who spend all their time pointing at the camera and tossing their dreadlocks like really disturbing shampoo ads. I only know this, as rounding the corner from 3:00 to 3:30, this is what she was playing on her ipad while zumbaing, to a tag-mix with JLo’s latest album. I giggled a lot in between eating chips. (And anything else that wasn’t glued to the coffee table.) Fun was had. It’s how we roll.

…It makes me miss The BFF…who is alive and well and currently residing on the books of Central Casting. And though I have rehearsals to keep me busy, and buddies to keep me company, you can’t replace a person who is “your person.” The Fella and I both know this to be true. It’s hard when other-halfs move two fucking states away…and you can’t just roll back and forth to one another’s houses anymore, for a talk, or do the weekly dinner makings, or go on ‘ventures. You realize how much a PART of your daily life they had become, and how important that family bond is…even though it’s stretching from casting agent offices right now, to me in sweats, tapping away at my blog per usual.

…It’s weird not to smell garlic cooking on the stove simultaneously…or corks popping. It’s weird to have a Saturday and not text almost first thing in the morning: “Dude, whatchu doin’ today?” And weird to not have our usual play-by-play conversations, over a walk, end-of-the-day.

I’m really proud of her to have made such a huge jump to such a different place. And I know she will make of it the best that can be made, cuz the woman doesn’t waste ANYTHING…least of all time, talent, or resources. She’s gonna be okay. And so am I, (in the current new position of private matters I’ve found myself in, since her leaving. ) It’s just…I wish there was a bridge that could be built to fill the gap, a time blip that could be established…so that no matter where on earth your people happen to live, at the end of the day, all it would take is a button pressing to zap you both into the same kitchen (whoever’s that is) and get back to the way things are supposed to be, when catching up takes place.

~D

Conversations In A Day

11 Sep

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The Cuz has arrived, and thus begins Vacation Part Two:

(First crack of morning.)

Puff: (On the phone.) Where you at?
Me: (In bed.) Huh?
Puff: I’m here!
Me: Wuh?
Puff: I’ve landed.
Me: (Bolting upright.) OH HOLY SHIT-FUCK!  It was 9:45 A.M.?!?!
Puff: Uh. Yeah.
Me: I AM THE WORST!  I thought it was 9:45 P.M..
Puff: Nope.
Me: I will TOTALLY be there in 20 minutes…I SWEAR!

***

Me: (With a toothbrush in mouth while making bed) Oh God! I screwed it all up!
Ma: (On phone, possibly still sleeping.) Hello?
Me: He’s HERE! He’s here already!
Ma: Who is this…?
Me: —I’m twelve hours behind, and I haven’t even gotten up yet hardly.
Ma: What’s happening?
Me: –I even asked him like yesterday to confirm. 9:45 he said. 9:45. Cuz like an idiot I kept thinking it was night and all.
Ma: Is this a wrong number?
Me: MOM! IT’S ME! PUFF IS HERE! I NEED YOU TO FOCUS FOR A SECOND!
(A gaging, choking sound.)
Me: I almost died just then. Fucking toothbrush…
Ma: Puff is HERE, did you say?
Me: YES! YES!
Ma: Well, GO GET HIM! What are you talking to me for?!
Me: I just freaked out, is all. I’m going! I have to–I’m going…!

***

(In car.)

Me: (via text.) OMG, I am the worst ever!! Let the ridiculous “me” stories begin. I am totally on the road right now, yelling at this old lady driving a boat, going negative ten miles an hour in front of me. My road rage is unparalleled with moroseness for not only making a 12 hour difference fuck up, but also being mean to a woman who already lived through eight wars and is prob’ly using a booster seat just to see over the steering wheel…
Puff: …No stress, I’m having some breakfast.
Me: …So you have stories to share already. Awesome. This will never be boring, Puff.
(Picture of breakfast arrives with a ding.)
Me: Hella. P.S. I need coffee like woa. And I look like I just rolled outta bed. Cuz I totally did. If you wanna pretend you don’t know me, I can hire a hot dude to meet you at the terminal and bring you to me. It won’t hurt my feelings.
Puff: … I’m at the Alaska arrivals area. Sitting on a bench.
Me: Grabbing parking now.
Puff: Where do I need to be?
Me: Wait. What airline?
Puff: A-las-ka. I’m right outside on the lower level…

***

(Still in car, calling on the phone.)

Me: So…I’m in the garage now.
Puff: Do I need to be in the garage?
Me: No, I’ll come to you. Only I’m…I’m looping here…
Puff: Huh?
Me: Looping. I’m looping to get out. Then I need to circle around.
Puff: What are you driving?
Me: A PT Cruiser.
(I take the totally wrong lane and end up in “departures.”)
Me: (Totally lying.) Um. I’m in a holding pattern. Almost there.
Puff: Heheh. “Pattern is full, Ghost Rider…”

***

(After another go-round on the terminal attack, and seeing him on the curb.)

Me: Dude. I’m an asshole, and I’m totally sorry.
Puff: It’s all good, cuz.
Me: Also, you know all those things that you wait to do until the day people come, when you are on vacation and just let shit go?
Puff: (silence.)
Me: …Like cleaning your car, doing dishes, dying your hair, sweeping the house, spraying toxic chemicals all over the bathroom and giving your fish a bath? Yeah. None of that was done. So I guess it’s good you’re family.
Puff: Yeah.
Me: I mean, I still need to get my nails “did” for shits sake.
Puff: I’ll go too! I need a pedi anyway.
Me: See. This is why I love you.

***

(On a short walk to coffee shop.)

Me:…And this is our park. And this is our gas station. And that is where The BFF lives. And this is our homeless man. And that is our Yuppie market…
Puff: –When do I get to meet her?
Me: Who?
Puff: The BFF.
Me: She gets off at five-ish, so maybe Tuesday? I dunno. But it’s happening for sure. You’ll love her. She’s like me. Only not at all. And way more fierce.
Puff: I know. I read your blogs.

***

(In Tacoma Boys.)

Puff: Psst…
Me: (In another world smelling a grape.)
Puff: Psssst. Pssst.
Me: (Wondering which onion is the “good” one.)
Puff: Hey!
Me: Huh?
Puff: (Whispering.) The “ginger.” Two o’clock.
(I look. I wrinkle my nose and shake my head.)
Puff: Not for YOU, for ME. (Idiot.)
Me: Ohhh. Really?
Puff: And he’s here with his gramma. Bonus points.
Me: “The good grandson.”
Puff: ‘Xactly.
Me: A “ginger.”
Puff: Definitely.
Me: Huh.

***

(Gigantic crash at base of stairs.)

Me: Sunofabiscutcruncher!!!!
Puff: (From the kitchen.) Are you dead?
Me: The damn paper bag broke. I just shattered an entire bottle of red.
Puff: (Now from landing.) Where?
(I move aside and show the kinda blood spill that only makes it on C.S.I.)
Puff: Oops. Want help?
Me: No. I’ll just lick it up. Its fine.
(Beat.)
Puff: You’re kidding. Right?
(Beat.)
Me: Sure. Okay. I’ll go get some paper towels. Be right back.

***

Puff: (From sink.) Um…
Me: Are you washing the bananas?
Puff: Wine spill. And you might wanna watch for glass splinters. I got one.
(He shows his finger, which is leaking the identical color of red as the wine bottle did.)
Me: That is exactly the same color as the wine.
Puff: Yeah.
Me: …Maybe we should toss the bananas.

***

The BFF: (On phone.) You called?
Me: Yeah. Come meet Puff and help cook Fajitas.
The BFF: I’m…(I accidentally blank out and have no idea what she says right here. I think I was putting junk away in the crisper.) …and then I will, at around 9:30. Okay?
Me: That’s P.M., right?
The BFF: Yes.
Me: …Just making sure.
The BFF: I’ll buzz you.

***

(While watching “Snow White and the Huntsman,” both basically ignoring it as we are on our computers separately…he to FB, me to blog.)

Puff: She. Never. Closes. Her. Mouth.
Me: My god. It’s all I’ve been thinking

~D

Death Of Micros

30 Aug

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I put a mug of water in the microwave the other day, and when I pressed the “two,” it began to spark like the fourth if July and make my lights blink.

…So I stopped it.

…Then, because I’m a human, I tried it again.

It was a bad idea the first time, so the second really didn’t work out well either. There was smoke.  A small fire…whatever..I “lived.”  This is the same trial and error the Cavemen went through, (sorta), so…at least I’m keeping to tradition in our historic breed of stupidity.

…When I reported the episode on FB (as I do most of my major life travesties), my Uncle had the best conclusion: I have too much iron in my water, and the thing-a-ma-bobs that zap the do-hickeys knew it. The water broke it.  Works for me.  As long as I’m not to blame.

Actually, I’m pretty surprised it’s lasted this long, truth be told.  I’ve been through two T.V.’s., three DVD players, four coffee pots, two toasters, three apartments and eleven years with this one piece of kitchen equipment.  And I’ve used it at least three times a day, for all those years.  That really ads up.

…When we were doing that film shoot last month, the house we were staying at had no microwave at all, and it was a total baffelment to us. Over and over again. All weekend.

“But how do you defrost meat you forgot to take out of the freezer?”

“How do you make just one mug of tea?”

“…Or warm up the left-overs?”

…I’m told all this can be accomplished on a stove as well, but that is just nonsense.  Why worry a stove over twenty minutes, when you can fix any kitchen problem you have with a microwave in only a buck-thirty?  You need some melted butter?  It can do that! Warm the syrup? I’m on it!  Heat the beans? No problemo!  Steam the tortillas? Si! 

Maybe this is a huge part of why I’m not a Master Chef right now; but my microwave has been my key mode of eating-salvation since the day I first packed up my room and moved out on my own.  With theatre schedules and long rehearsals and double jobs and early mornings paired with late “nights” (actually ending at dawn)…it is the ONLY way I have managed to eat at home for most of my adult life, on the kind of manic schedules that I run on.  And I ain’t the only one!  I know this because of the instant empathetic panic of my friends upon viewing my FB post…which equalled four offers for a free replacement within — I am not kidding you — three minutes of posting.

Three. Minutes.

…People have incurable diseases, a bad kidney, need bone marrow and even just blood donations on a daily basis (we are told)…but when something really fucked up, (like a broken microwave) happens, by God…people will step up!!!

…Incidentally, I am not making fun of said people (who are lovely) or the above medical emergent needs.  I am only admitting to my own part of slightly exaggerating the woe undertaken by the “inconvenience”  of having  no microwave for twenty-four hours.  I mean…I managed to reheat those take-out, left-overs from the “M” wine-and-dine-night, just fine.  But it did take twenty whole minutes. And I kinda burnt some stuff on accident.

…Which never woulda happened with my “old friend.” 

Never. Woulda. Happened.

~D

P.S. A very special thanks to S.M. and J.M…for their much appreciated replacement donation. I owe you both some whiskey.

Happy Birthday, Julia

15 Aug

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Bon Appetite!

Today is Julia Child’s 100th Birthday.

After a long day of dealing with the public at large (and the problems they invent purely to torture us), The BFF and I decided a virtual get-away was required. 

…So we took up the copy of, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” her Mother had gifted her one Christmas, and started peeling back the pages to build a “servantless cook” three-course meal…on the kinda budget that two dames, two days before payday, can manage.

Taking a cue from le filme, “Julie and Julia,” (which we will be viewing while consuming said culinary arts), we decided to cook and document in tandem.  Since I’m primarily only good for Sous Chefing, I’ve been nominated head of this department.

…So, with French music cued up…and speaking in psudo-French-Julia Child accents…we begin.

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The evening’s menu includes:

Artichauts Braises a la Provence
(Steamed artichokes braised with wine, garlic and herbs)

Gratin de Pommes de Terre Provencal
(Scalloped potatoes with onions, tomatoes, anchovies, herbs and garlic)

Bifteck Saute Bercy
(Pan-broiled steak, with shallots and white wine sauce)

Crepes Fine Sucrees
(Light batter crepe Suzette)

We toast a glass to Julia. And let the games begin!

7:00 – We return from the produce-rich love of our life: Tacoma Boys.  Fruit and veg harvested yesterday, is all we will allow to touch Julia’s recipes.

7:15 – I make a quick run to the market.  We missed the milk.  Balls.

7:30 – The raw onions are making me cry, and I’ve already washed every dish and pan I’ve ever owned in order to use them all over again.

7:44 – The Chambord-spiked crepe batter is now commencing it’s two hour rest and chill in the fridge.  The Artichokes, are over flame with white wine and generous amounts of garlic. We are half way through the first bottle of red drinking wine, and the onions and garlic are in their bath of olive oil in prep for the potatoes.

7:51 – The BFF begins work on the steak, spewing French words at random and dancing to the “Girl from Impanema.”

8:00 – I am charged with the very important task of cheese grating.

8:07 – We open another bottle of wine. (It’s an Argentinian Malbec…but I don’t think Julia would mind.)  And the potatoes go into the oven.

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8:15 – We sit and make fun of our wine.  The BFF demands we include its liner notes, which are the following: “Baguala.  Wine made in the  Calchaquies (spoken phonetically by the BFF incorrectly as “CHAK-WE-LAZ!”) valley, a place where the stars contemplate the world from above.  A place so high, you can see through the paths of memories and tradition.  A place where the mountains as tall as giants paint the colors of the sun…a place of history, beauty and heritage…This is Baguala.” It cost five dollars.  Not bad.

8:20 – We check on artichokes and have a dance party in the kitchen (away from the stove.)

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8:25 – The BFF calls her Mom in Alabama to toss up a “Thanks” for our evening’s inspired delights, while we wait for things to simmer.

8:36 – Let the meat pan-searing begin!  Soooo much butter.  We love you Julia.  We love you like our favorite lip gloss and Christmas morning.

8:42 – A debate about what Chambord is: raspberry or blueberry, commences.  We ask BFF Mom and she says “Raspberry.”  Insist on a taste-test.  We do a shooter.  It reminds me of pancake syrup, but I don’t know which kind.  “It tastes like cough syrup.  But in a good way!” The BFF says. (Incidentally, The BFF Mom says try sinking Chambord in Mimosas.  Apparently, it’s awesome.)

8:48 – The steak is set to rest as more butter and shallots, make out in over flame.  Meanwhile the dinger goes off, and potatoes come out of the oven, as The BFF de-glazes the pan. Whatever the hell that means.

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8:54 – Shallot, wine, butter and herb steak sauce commences.  The BFF is with wild abandon throwing in more herbs as she sees fit.  I say thee, ye!

8:55 – The BFF: “I think I burned my face on the steak.  But it’s okay, cuz it was just a little point on it.  Right here.”
             Me: “Was it on the steak or the sauce?”
             The BFF: “The steak.  But it’s not that bad.”
              Me: “Well, we suffer for our art.”

8:57 – Lemon butter for artichokes commences.  At last count we are at two sticks of butter in total. 

8:59 – I am head of plating.  It’s my favorite thing of all time.  All we anal-retentive people love it.  Ask around.

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9:06 – We eat!  Main course of yum plus a movie date 🙂

9:51 – With faces of delight (from both film and food) we head back to the kitchen.  Me for KP, and The BFF for the crepe finale!

9:59 – The BFF: “I fucked the fucking crepe.”  (Translation:  “Oops. Practice round.”)

10:05 – Me: “I need some water, maybe.”

10:06 – I drink some.

10:11- I unwisely flirt with this one dude via text, while waiting for dessert.  Autocorrect makes my drunken postings even worse than normal.  He’s a good guy, understands the work at hand, and is awesome about it.  Also, he might be a few gone as well.  I think it’s all very charming. This will change tomorrow when I read it here in print, sober.

10:15 – Me: “I’m a total lush.”
               The BFF: “I just heard this thing about some people with 15 tigers in Chehalis, and they were drug addicts.  So people are fucked up.”
                …I don’t exactly know how to take this.  I think she’s drunk too.

10:23 – The BFF describes the fine art of making “CREPES DU SOL!” (Crepes of the sun), in step-by-step detail.  I pretend to listen.

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10:28 – Crepes are done.  And now we drizzle with goodness and eat.

10: 40 – The final fork full. Death by crepeing.

…And now, we have completed our pledge, are kinda snockered, and have a kitchen to clean.  But with our last conscious thought we would like to toss a final toast of petite Chambord to le Julia:

Happy Birthday, and long may she live in our food-gluttoned hearts!

***

The BFF and I would further like to thank this evening’s sponsors:

Land O’ Lakes butter
Chambord Liqueur
Tacoma Boys Produce and Meats
Baguala 2008 Malbec & Chalk Hill 2007 Chardonnay
My Kitchen

…Let the food coma commence.

‘Night all.

~D

The Seduction Of Me

1 Jul

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Overcompensation is a large part of why people like me, become people like me. 

…I happen to be spending a great deal of time seducing myself lately, for instance. 

I don’t know why I do this.  I almost always sleep with me, end-of-the-night, regardless of whether any wining or dining has taken place to blur my better judgement. 

…As with nearly every habit I have accrued over the years, it must have happened slowly…bit by bit…like a time-release drug. I certainly don’t recall making a conscious-choice decision about it.  I’m not even sure how the entire routine even came together.  All I know is that one night, not many nights ago, I paused mid-sequence and realized I was having the most intense deja vu  imaginable.  It hit so hard, I actually paused mid-pour of alcohol, to really commune with the moment.

Now, the thing is…before her trip to CA, The BFF and I had just been talking about deja vu’s and what it is that they signify.  I don’t happen to believe in past-lives  (if I did, I was two generations older…and Jewish)…but still have always had an inkling that “time” must have something to do with it.  Maybe a burp in space, or a stutter in the plot sequence the Universe likes to watch…like a royally large and intricate soap opera on reality TV.  But BFF thinks it’s more a “linear existence colliding” kind of thing.  You know, multiple worlds wherein we live our lives unbeknownst to the fact that we are living the same exact existence,  one world over, simultaneously. Only in this one, the chair is green, and in that one: the chair is red.  Times infinity.

…Either way, you can’t deny the strangeness of the sensation when you’re having one.  A deja vu, I mean.  A little like the feeling of someone walking on your grave.  Privy to things you shouldn’t be.

…Well, I was standing there, pouring out a glass of Pinot Noir, when I realized that eery sensation of having lived that exact moment before.  So I stopped.  And with the previous BFF conversation in my head, gave it my full attention to soak up every aspect and clue that I could.

Turns out, on reflection, the deja vu, was considerably less intriguing than I originally thought.  Mostly because as I tried to trace its roots back to an original source, I realized it only reached to yesterday. 

…Or maybe the day before that.

…Or the day before…

…Or…

…Well, shit.

To the best I could compute while standing there with the wine bottle hovering over the glass, (and math has never been a strong suit, so it’s understandable that it took me a while to put it all together)…either I was living all the linear existences of The BFF’s theory (with the only change being the make of alcohol I was pouring out), OR I had to face the fact that I had formed an intricate habitual sequence whose end-game was to get me to bed every night, with a contented smile on my face.

…It goes deeper than that, but ultimately this is the hard fact.

Here is what I found out, using my best Sherlockian cross-examinations:

I’ve taken to routinely coming home from a long day at work, dropping my drawers soon as I pass the threshold in favor of something “more comfortable,” and proceeding to the kitchen to “gourmet” myself something sinful. Fetish viewing of garlics and butters and various meats searing in a pan, having the kind of slow-cooked-sex they put on HBO (usually featuring Vampires), then follows.  And as the smells of warm, caramelized deliciousness fills the apartment and  dusk falls…I begin the lighting of dozens of candles strewn about. Once the whole place looks like the bowels of the Paris Opera house during the Phantom’s reign, I move to the bar and pour out a glass of something that marries well with my dinner’s post-coitus rest from the pots and pans, set some music on  shuffle, and settle in for a candlelit dinner, for one.

…What is so unusual about this deal is that I am not one to cook foods “over time,” and let the meat and veg indulge in brine and sauce saunas.  Usually, the end-of-the-day signifies total exhaustion, where just scrambling an egg and throwing it in a tortilla is about all I can muster.  And usually, in these gray and rainy days of epic Seattle-proportions, I want LIGHT, LIGHT, LIGHT…in blinding wattage, from every outlet orifice.  And usually, I am merely a “social drinker”…certainly imbibing from time-to-time, solo, but nothing like what calculated to quite the bottle slaughter of late.

Naturally, this got me to thinking. 

Why?

How?

What does it all mean?

…Which brought me ultimately to: “Overcompensation.”

It’s why I do almost everything that is eccentric or bad for me. Either it is to compensate loss of power, loss of control, depression, angst, jealousy, worry or lust.  When you think about it, I suppose this is not outside of the norm.  If you feel shitty: you wanna fix it.  If you lose control: you wanna reclaim it.  If you have a highly stressful job, and no money: you wanna forget about it.  If your emotions tell you its time to start shopping for a significant other again, but  you really just don’t wanna deal with all the crap that goes with it: you wanna reaffirm that you are fantastic catch who needs NO ONE to wine and dine you and complement your ass.

…This is the conclusion that I have come to.

I am spending every evening courting myself into believing that having a crap job, being poor, worrying about waiting for the next shoe to drop, and that I am prob’ly going to die alone as a re-formed virgin because my junk wasn’t used so long it resealed itself up like a skin graft, isn’t my true reality.

…And I am doing this because my entire life is spinning out of my control, on a trajectory promising gross amounts of changes.  And soon. And I Fucking. Hate. Change.

I am doing this, because if you can’t have exactly what you want in this life, you go out and get the best compensation package that you can.

The ONE good realization in all of this, I suppose, is the fact that I now know at least three new things about myself:

1. I can cook. If I really want to.
2. Lessening alcohol units to “one” will save lots on the house bar tab. And my head the next morning.
3. I am a good date.  In case anyone wondered.

~D

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