the antifoodie

2003-11-25T17:00:00.000-08:00

The holidays are when you think about those dearest to you, so before I head off to St. Louis for some righteous Midwest-style eating and carousing, I want to send a shout out to tha stone-cold B-shiznit, gamely kickin' it in tha ABQ. Last year, said B-shiznit was kind enough to welcome me to her parents' home in South Bend for turkey et al., with part of the et al. being biscuits and gravy from the hand of wassap herself. Now that the B-shiznit can truly get her Thanksgiving on B-shiznit style, she has informed me of a brilliant plan to serve a Thanksgiving dinner consisting mainly of biscuits and gravy. I, as ever, stand dumbfounded by the genius of tha B-shiznit. On her behalf, I would also like to inform everyone that biscuits and gravy is a dish that, ideally, does not call for either cayenne or hamburger meat.

That's what Thanksgiving is all about, right? Eating the stuff that makes you most thankful? I personally would have a Thanksgiving enchilada party if I were going to be here. Though I have to say I'm usually plenty thankful for the traditional grub my mother serves up. If I'm as much of a rock star as she is when I have a family, this is what they're going to be eating:

turkey or some other large game bird; pheasant is mighty tasty too
cornbread dressing, baked inside the bird like God intended
lots o' gravy
mashed potatoes
glazed sweet potatoes, WITHOUT the damn marshmallows
green bean casserole with lots of those fried onion thingies
cranberry sauce (homemade; ideally spiked with triple sec)
cornbread
yeast rolls
mulled wine
an assortment of Wild Turkey cocktails
pumpkin cheesecake

With that, I will go eat my frozen pizza.

2003-11-24T16:58:00.000-08:00

very bad kitty:

Gato Negro cabernet is officially the ass-nastiest wine I have ever consumed. It makes me long for the jug-bottled, screw-topped goodness of Carlo Rossi Burgundy. Spend your $2.99 on Three Buck Chuck cabernet instead.

2003-11-23T18:13:00.000-08:00

no, Mina, your typing assistance is not needed . . . bad kitty.

Busy times in the various domains of the Antifoodie. There was a trip to Houston last weekend to see the family; grandparents' 50th anniversary and Liz's state cross-country meet up in Round Rock, which likes to refer to itself as Austin. Naturally the return to Texas afforded all kinds of rare culinary opportunities. Before I had been in the state for 24 hours, I had: raided my parents' fridge (sadly devoid of Shiner, but the Negro Modelo was nice); eaten my weight in breakfast tacos at the cross-country meet (the difference between Spectator Sister and Participant Sister); and--the coup de grace--made my triumphal return to Jack in the Box. I regret to report that the once-vaunted Chicken Fajita Pita, formerly the premier fast-food item in the country, has fallen from grace and edibility. I remember back in the day when the chicken was actually grilled. Now it's a tepid slimy mess; and the cheese wasn't even melted. Thank God for the curly fries and half of Mom's Bistro Jack. We like curly fries.

The next day featured lots of my uncle's barbecue brisket and ribs, more breakfast tacos, and assorted morning-friendly alcoholic beverages. I don't think my mother will ever let me make her a tequila sunrise again. Or me, for that matter.

In the midst of this epic cholesterol-fest, I realized that I had left not only the lucky underwear, not only the lucky boxers, but also the LUCKY SHIRT in Chicago. And you would think that even given this gross negligence on my part, the Chiefs could still maybe squeak by the Bengals? Maybe? Well, no.

My pain was somewhat alleviated by getting a free round-trip travel voucher for volunteering to leave my overbooked return flight for a later one that same evening. My pain returned when I boarded the flight and found myself surrounded by hyper evangelical teenyboppers from Iowa with an aggregate IQ of perhaps 80, who found it terribly amusing to construct tents of sorts by appending the Southwest blankets from the overhead bins. My pain was again alleviated by the nice flight attendant who brought me two shots of Wild Turkey, declining payment each time. He saved many lives that night.

The universe was further put to rights this afternoon, though, sort of, with KC's season sweep of the Raiders. It wasn't pretty, but hey, after losing to the Bengals anything looks good. And it gives me occasion to bring you (in true Bachelor hyper-hype fashion) The Most Dramatic Boerigter Watch of the Season.

Final drive of the game. Tied at 24. Chiefs are driving into Oakland territory; must reach about the 25 to have a realistic shot at the game-winning field goal. Green drops back, throws towards the left sideline. Pass knocked away by the defense; through the receiver's hands; incompl . . . whaaaaaaaa?? Boerigter has it! On his back! Even in a position generally reserved for roadkill, dude can make you pay. A few plays later, Priest rips off a brilliant run to about the Oakland 22. Next couple of plays stall; on third down, disaster strikes. After apparently making a first-down catch, Tony Gonzalez is called for *offensive* pass interference. The all-universe Tony Gonzalez, playing against the dirtiest, most penalty-prone team in the league, gets called for one of the more rare penalties in football. Third and 14 from the 32; well out of field goal range now. Green throws to Johnnie Morton along the left sideline; in the words of Chris Berman, "Morton can't salt it away." So we have fourth and 14, but at least are not treated to another rendition of "The Worm." The worm has, ahem, turned. Our two most reliable receivers have failed us. Priest has been stuffed on his last two carries. Without a first down, it's overtime or worse; hard-won dominance of the AFC playoff race is on the line. In short: Boerigter time! A yard past the first-down marker, M-Boe shows that Morton punk how it's done. Seconds later, the ageless Morten Andersen takes it 35 yards to the house, placekicker-style, for a 27-24 victory.

Whew. I need a cigarette.

I have perhaps hit a new low in the Cheap Beer from Wisconsin department. It's "fully krauesened," it's a sweet, sweet $6.99 a 12-pack at Sam's (bottles, though the 30-can collection is available for a mere $13); it's presumably the brewsky du choix of Mike Maslowski's alma mater; it's LaCrosse Lager. It's here, it's beer, get used to it.

Even bigger ups to Sam's for having Trevor Jones "Boots" grenache from Australia; and for having my current favorite wine, Rex Goliath "Free Range?" NV Merlot, for $7.49 a bottle. The label features HRM Rex Goliath, a 47-pound rooster that apparently traveled around with a circus in Texas, back when giant roosters counted as quality entertainment. What the rooster has to do with the wine is not elucidated by the fine and otherwise forthcoming folks at Rex Goliath Wines. But it's tasty, and you should get some.

I also bought some "Gato Negro" cabernet from Chile, solely because it was $2.99 and featured a cat on the label. I will let you know if it is worthy of joining the Rooster Wine and the Goat Wine in my all-star oenomenagerie.

Also in the "why not, it's $2.99" department, Charles Shaw has seen fit to jump on the beaujolais nouveau bandwagon. Seeing as last year's $9 Georges Duboeuf beaujolais nouveau was so wretched, this can't be any worse. I have to say I don't get it about beaujolais nouveau. It's not that alcoholic, it's not that flavorful or complex, it comes in extremely ugly bottles, and is generally a very training-wheels sort of wine, apparently marketed to people who usually drink Franzia but feel the need to pop some kind of cork around the holiday season. Why anyone would drink that when they could have the rooster wine for about the same price is beyond me.

Good Thanksgiving programming on the Food Network. My mother has been conducting a long-standing "you should marry Tyler Florence" campaign; after watching him slather a turkey with herb butter and then cover it in bacon strips, I would have to concede that she has a point. I do not, however, particularly care to watch Martha Stewart "bone" a turkey ever again.

2003-11-12T17:52:00.000-08:00

It has come to my attention that "buffalo nuggets" are, in fact, called "flying nuggets," which in a way is even more disturbing. The Pub also offers "flying catfish nuggets," which I fully intend to sample next time I'm there.

All-star Pub juke box playlist: Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell, Iggy and the Stooges; When the Levee Breaks, Led Zeppelin; Fat Bottomed Girls, Queen. Try it sometime. I do owe a debt of inspiration with regard to the last item.

Fine, fine meal last night. Dinner on Monday consisted of random cheeses and wine at a poetry reading, about three buffalo wings and several pints of beer at the Pub, and then possibly a lot of whiskey. Not to say that this wasn't a fine, fine meal, because it was, but by Tuesday night I sort of needed real food. So I finally made the braised lamb shanks with onions and cherries, mashed potatoes, green beans, and opened a bottle of tempranillo. After a couple weeks of Three Buck Chuck, I was reminded why I am sometimes willing to pay $16 for a bottle of wine. Vina Izadi or something like that, 2000, Spain.

I would be remiss not to note that even after being open for a week, and even after having unconsumed portions funneled back into the bottle, the cabernet variety of Three Buck Chuck is really quite agreeable. Upon my return from Texas, another run to Trader Joe's is in order. Maybe I'll pick up a case and give some out as Christmas gifts.

2003-11-09T14:48:00.000-08:00

And now for something completely different:

You are the green line. You dwell in the ghetto,
and damn, you're proud of it. The streets of
your kingdom may not be paved with gold, but at
least you have a place where you know you rule.
Just don't go cruising too late at night
without a shotgun.

Which Chicago 'El' line are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Oh yeah, and the Chiefs are 9-0, despite the best efforts of Billy Bartee, who possibly sucks more on special teams than he did as a cornerback. Is it any coincidence that he and Deltha O'Neal wear the same number? I think not.

[Speaking of D.O., how about that Monday night game? May the record show that I called his punt return TD ("DON'T KICK IT TO DELTHA!") and my homie from Colorado called the last play of the game ("OK, this is where Deltha O'Neal gives up the game-winning touchdown.") If MNF commentary can feature such luminaries as Dennis Miller and Dan Dierdorf, well . . . I rest my case.]

Boerigter watch: 2 receptions for 45 yards, including a key third-down catch to keep a scoring drive alive. Almost recovered a fumble on special teams. Got big ups from the ever-insightful Dan Dierdorf for being "more than your average receiver," or something.

Schlitz makes an excellent liquid for beef stew, incidentally. I think I liked the lamb stew with Rolling Rock better, though, possibly because I like lamb better. I have a couple of plump, succulent lamb shanks defrosting in my fridge at this very minute. These are destined to be braised with onions and dried cherries in a variety of red wines including, but not limited to, two varieties of Three Buck Chuck.

Mashed potatoes will also be served.

Damn.

2003-11-02T19:12:00.000-08:00

disaster narrowly avoided:

The lucky boxers almost ended up in the wash tonight. If there are any other females out there who also have lucky boxers, please let me know so I don't feel like such a freak.

Bye week for the Chiefs. According to ESPN, this was a "well-deserved" week off. Seeing as every team in the NFL gets a bye week during the regular season, I really fail to see where the deserving/undeserving question enters the picture. Get a bye in the first round of the playoffs, and then we can talk about bye-worthiness.

I just realized that I forgot to publicly gloat about our 38-5 demolition of Buffalo last week. It was really just sort of surreal, especially in that Eric Warfield for once didn't play like the poor man's Deltha O'Neal. I further submit for consideration that Scott Fujita should go to the Pro Bowl this year.

Boerigter watch: he was just happy to be there.

Did you know that there's a convenient word to describe Dante Hall's celebratory "X-factor" arm crossing? Decussate (v.): to cross in the form of an "X." Cool, huh? There are still no words to describe Johnny Morton's celebratory humping of the endzone turf.

Fish tacos were okay. I coated some catfish with Goya Adobo with Cumin and some random Mexican chili powder (available at Cub Foods) and pan-fried it. The adobo is really salty, which is OK, seeing as when you look up "salt fiend" in the dictionary, there I am. Then I broke it up into chunks and put it in warm flour tortillas with large gobs of guacamole. And that would be all.

This morning for brunch, I busted out the Stokes Green Chile Sauce with Pork that I got in Albuquerque. Fry a couple of eggs, put them on top of two corn tortillas, cover with warmed-up green chile sauce, melt jack cheese over the top, add your favorite hot sauce, die and go to heaven.

2003-11-01T14:47:00.000-08:00

Department of knowing when to fold 'em:

So I have cable these days, and consequently I can devote my Saturday afternoons to such diversions as watching the World Series of Poker on ESPN. I don't really have much to say about it, except that it's on and I am watching it. I wonder how many of the people I played poker with in high school are still alive.

Department of one less thing to import from Texas:

Green chile enchilada sauce is, indeed, available in the greater Chicagoland area. Cub Foods stocks the La Preferida marque. If anybody thinks that a marque is a member of the British nobility or the big flashy sign above the box office, talk to Anand and he'll set you straight. Cub also has the best tortillas I have ever seen in a supermarket.

Department of things to do with nasty beer people have left at your place:

Sam Adams Cherry Wheat: return to sender. Or, use it to braise lamb shanks with dried cherries and onions.

Schlitz: pour down sink; strew cans about for that appealing frat-girl ambience. I thought I liked Schlitz, but Old Style is really where it's at.

Bass Pale Ale: use as the liquid in Irish stew; let colonial tensions simmer for 45 minutes or until meat is done.

Though nobody has ever been foolish enough to darken my door with a six-pack of this, I feel I should develop a contingency plan in the event that I find myself in possession of Blue Moon Pumpkin Ale. Like Blue Moon wasn't fruity and flowery and nasty enough without miscegenating with the contents of Grandma's oven. Beer. Should. Taste. Like. Beer. Thank you.

Department of the least nutritious dinner I have possibly ever had:

Curly fries, "buffalo nuggets" with the attendant blue cheese dressing; half a pitcher of Killian's, half a pitcher of Leinie's. Buffalo nuggets are not (necessarily) something you step in if you wander off the boardwalks at Yellowstone. This easily supplants the previous recordholder, which was two pints of Leinie's Red, a manhattan, and a Jimmy's cheeseburger.

Department of what's for dinner tonight:

Catfish tacos. I think. If they work well, the recipe, such as it is, will follow.

2003-10-26T07:58:00.000-08:00

breaking news from the domain of the Antifoodie:

Crazy mad props to Liz, the older younger sister, for scoring a full ride to the University of Alabama-Birmingham, thanks to her blazing speed on the cross-country course. On the basis of that alone, the good people at UAB are hooking her up with tuition for five years so she can get both a B.A. and a master's in education; books; food; and mad UAB athletic gear. And the best part? She's going to be an English major!

In other news, ESPN has returned to my life after a hiatus of more than a year. I don't know why I ever said goodbye, but we shall never be separated again, at least not until football season is over.

I need brunch. Last night there were, again, gorgonzola mashed potatoes and lamb chops. Caliterra cabernet? Pretty good. $5.99 at your local Dominick's.

2003-10-23T16:36:00.000-07:00

Does this season of "The Bachelor" suck or what?

Bachelor Bob scored some points with me in the first episode, when he (inadvertently?) quoted Journey by saying he was "born and raised in South Detroit," but that's been the highlight so far. I can't stop thinking of him as the poor man's Will Ferrell, with all apologies to Will. And the chicks are even more exceptionally vapid than usual. I just love how they all bitch and moan about how "it's so hard to see the man you're interested in dating all these other women." OK, I feel your pain and all, but WHY DID YOU GO ON THE SHOW TO BEGIN WITH? I mean, this is the fourth season now. We should all sort of be familiar with the premise of the show (i.e., the man you are interested in dates a lot of other women), no? And let's quit with the "most dramatic rose ceremony ever" crap, OK? That possibly beats out "I just didn't realize how hard this would be" as the most overused phrase on the show. I would eschew this schlock in favor of the second Joe Millionaire, but it unfortunately conflicts with Monday Night Football. Bet Fox and ABC never exactly viewed themselves as competitors in that timeslot, eh?

OK, food now. Cheap wine update: Two Buck Chuck merlot has been open for so long that it's now been consigned to my cooking-wine collection, where I'm sure it will acquit itself marvellously. This is not a slam on Two Buck Chuck -- I fully intended to finish the bottle, but got sidetracked with margaritas and such. Tonight I'm trying the 2002 Terra Australis Semillon-Sauvignon Blanc ($4.99, Trader Joe's), along with a Trader Joe's salmon burger, which will be topped with guacamole made from Trader Joe's frozen avocados, along with a side of Trader Joe's salt and vinegar potato chips. Incidentally, Trader Joe's Salsa Autentica is awesome (this is sold under the Trader Jose's marque).

Conclusion: big ups to Trader Joe's.

Not so big ups to the editorial profession. Would you believe that some professional editors are unsure of how to spell the following: allege, accelerate, accommodate, abrogate, acknowledge, corollary, holistic, seize, significant, T. S. Eliot? Huh. I need to figure out where Chicago's editors go drinking, so I can win mad bar bets.

2003-10-21T05:20:00.000-07:00

Enchilada party 2, the aftermath: which got more trashed, me or my carpet?

First things first, the Chiefs did in fact extend their record to 7-0, as I had promised. This is just getting ridiculous. The lucky shirt will have to just deal with having beer on it for at least another week.

The game itself was very ugly and tedious, the sort of game for which alcohol was designed. I lost track of the penalty count after the first quarter. In fact, I sort of lost track of the game after the first quarter, a situation not helped by having to cook and answer the door and keep pace with my guests' drinking. I even missed Rich Gannon getting punked and being replaced by that Tuiasosopo character, whatever his first name is, not that it matters when your last name is Tuiasosopo.

Boerigter was again the man of the hour on special teams. He recovered a muffed punt deep in Raider territory that set up a KC score, and possibly did a lot of other brilliant things, but like I said, my memory of the game is not so hot.

Yeah. Oakland sucks. What else is new?

People really seem to like my enchiladas. There are only two lonely (now crusty) spinach enchiladas left. Had I known that no vegetarians were coming, I wouldn't have even bothered with the spinach. And I didn't *think* I made the margaritas quite so industrial-strength this time, but there exists photographic evidence to prove otherwise. Oh hell, here's the recipe, judge for yourself.

really vicious margaritas:

1 1.75-liter bottle of margarita mix
1 fifth of tequila
about a cup of triple sec
juice of about six or seven limes

Amounts are approximate. As a general rule, it should be 1 part alcoholic substances to 2 parts nonalcoholic substances. (When I make single-serving margaritas, the proportions tend to be half and half, but you can get people trashed more efficaciously if they can't taste *all* the alcohol. I also salt the rim of the glass, which requires more coordination and less of a certain just-get-me-the-damn-booze mentality than is generally found at my parties.) Mix up in a large pitcher-type item, serve on the rocks in large plastic cups, wait a few rounds, take advantage of party guests.

I'll leave it at that and go back to bed.

2003-10-19T20:15:00.000-07:00

The definitive guide to cheap wine will have to wait another week or so. I went to Trader Joe's yesterday with Susan, and I can't possibly call my guide definitive until I have sampled all the $3-$5 bottles I hauled home. I'm currently working on a member of the Two Buck Chuck family (the merlot). It tastes like wine, but I've sort of noticed that it gives me an instant hangover, not unlike Carlo Rossi sangria.

Enchilada Party Reloaded is tomorrow. I hope people actually come, tomorrow being a Monday and all. If not -- there are worse scenarios than being stuck with a month's supply of enchiladas, a bottle of Cuervo, and KC-Oakland on MNF.

2003-10-18T08:13:00.000-07:00

Some thoughts about mashed potatoes:

Anyone who knows me knows that I worship Cook's Illustrated. And I'm not alone, because the Chicago Tribune voted it the best magazine in America. Not just the best cooking magazine, but the best magazine, period. The writing is excellent, they don't take ads, they test recipes with a scientific rigor generally reserved for weapons of mass destruction, and the resulting food is Stuff You Would Actually Want to Eat. And there are no nutritional analyses or airbrushed celebrity chefs anywhere in Cook's pages, unless the professorial bowtie-wearing Christopher Kimball counts as a celebrity chef.

However, I take issue with their recommended method for making mashed potatoes. My one reservation about Cook's is that sometimes, in their pursuit of Platonic culinary ideals, they refine away features of a dish that may be technical flaws, but are so ingrained in the average diner's memory and tastebuds that the "corrected" version just doesn't seem right.

For a long time, my mashed-potato method had been: cut up whatever variety of potatoes you have on hand (usually Yukon Gold), boil them, drain, add lots of butter and milk and whatever else suits your fancy, mash. Then I read Cook's and discovered that I was doing this all wrong, beginning with cutting up the potatoes before boiling. This, according to the magazine, leached the spuds of their "intense potato flavor" and made the resulting product "soft and watery." Well, we can't have that, can we? So I followed Cook's orthodoxy next time out and boiled the potatoes whole, with the skins on (which, needless to say, takes for friggin' ever.) I added the requisite amounts of half-and-half (much better than milk, but not quite as good as buttermilk) and butter (the one point on which Cook's and I agree absolutely) and mashed away.

The resulting potatoes were . . . interesting. There was certainly a lot of Intense Potato Flavor, but the texture (which presumably had been rescued from a "soft and watery" grave) would have benefited from being, well, softer and more watery. No matter how much dairy I added, these potatoes seemed dry and clumpy. They tasted fine and were deemed worthy of seconds by the people who came over for dinner that night, but I wasn't convinced.

So last night when I needed something to go with my grilled lamb chops and green beans, I got out some potatoes, CUT THEM UP, boiled them, and made my usual version of mashed potatoes (with the addition of about 1/2 cup of crumbled gorgonzola cheese . . . orgasmic.) And you know what? I was happy.

A word about lamb chops: grill them. Get the nice thick loin chops, rub each side with the cut side of half a clove of garlic, brush with olive oil, and sprinkle with salt and pepper. For apartment-dwellers, disable your smoke alarm and heat a grill pan as hot as you can. Sear the chops on each side for about two minutes, until there's a nice intense crackling brown crust, which traps in all the juices. Lower the heat and cook to desired doneness (in this quarter, that would be rare.)

Incidentally, shiraz is the way to go with this particular meal. The hipster twentysomething wine du choix these days seems to be Yellowtail Shiraz, possibly because it's $6. In a way, it's the PBR of wines. You can spend more and do better, but you can also spend more and do worse.

Next time: the definitive guide to good cheap wine.

2003-10-13T16:05:00.000-07:00

A few perplexing things to ponder, none of which relate to food or football:

1. When someone in the elevator tells you that you look like someone from 'Six Feet Under,' what is the appropriate reaction? I presume he meant one of the living people, but still.

2. Actual bumper sticker: GOD [heart] YOU. People. Using a pretty picture as your verb DOES NOT EXEMPT YOU FROM THE RULES OF GRAMMAR. We have become so inured to expressions of the I [heart] NY, Jesus, my grandkids, etc variety that the [heart] has clearly been established as a first person singular verb. So, the correct version, for those who choose to wallow in icon-induced idiocy, would be: GOD [heart]s YOU. I'm sure God knows what you mean and all, but as far as I'm concerned you just wrote your own ticket to grammar hell, where you will diagram sentences for all eternity while listening to the Chicago Manual of Style, 15th ed., on tape.

3. Some of you have asked what exactly a communications associate does all day. The answer is, I spend a lot of time asking myself such things as: why is it "parents-in-law," but "in-laws"? Why not "ins-law"? I think the plural should pass to the next-in-word-order. And it's not like we never pluralize prepositions-cum-nouns, like "ins and outs" and "ups and downs." Sadly, I can't come up with any good reason why the plural of "In-N-Out" should be "Ins-N-Out" or "Ins-N-Outs" rather than "In-N-Outs."

Mmmmm, In-N-Out. [wink]

OK, there is a number 4, and it does relate to football. Rams-Falcons? Monday Night Football? What gives? Can we just demote these two pansy-ass dome-dwelling fascimilies of NFL franchises to the arena league already? A prerequisite for NFL membership should be that you must, under all circumstances and weather conditions, play the game outside on grass like the good God (who doubtless [heart]s his own handiwork over green plastic carpet) intended. Especially if you play in, oh, Atlanta. If the Pack can maintain the frozen tundra, there's really no excuse for anyone, anywhere, to have a dome.

While I'm rolling . . . number 5. What's up with the very special "IN! COM! PLETE!" chant those precious Broncos fans have seen fit to inaugurate as a Mile High tradition? (Excuse me, that would be "Invesco Field at Mile High," the specialness of which needs no comment from this quarter.) Is that supposed to be intimidating or something, having 79,000 orange-clad captains of the obvious syllablizing in perfect unison? How can anyone participate in that without having their balls retract and never, ever come back down?

Oh, I almost forgot this week's Boerigter Watch! (Some people may point out that there really ain't much to watch, but these people are obviously straight males.) Sadly, he was sucked into the infinitely sucky vortex of the Chiefs' offensive playcalling, and only had one catch for 7 yards. They did go deep to him once, but this was when it was still looking like Trent Green had been repeatedly hit with the ugly-pass stick, so the ball was uncatchable. BUT! M-Boe continued his special-teams godliness and downed a punt at the GB 2 yard line.

2003-10-12T10:35:00.000-07:00

OH. MY. GOD.

Make that: SIX AND OH. MY. GOD.

Is this what teams of destiny do?

Do not be fooled by the 40 points and Trent Green's 400 passing yards and the way Johnnie Morton made Al Harris his own personal Deltha. The Chiefs won this because of defense and a good old-fashioned smash-mouth running game. Sure, neither of these were in evidence until midway through the fourth quarter, when Jerome Woods providently reminded everyone what KC football is all about, but what we got was enough. For this week, at least.

Other moments of beauty:

1. Dexter McCleon breaking up a couple of certain long passes, with just a well-timed flick of the wrist. But not in a fruity way.

2. Jerome Woods, the Human Plus-Two Turnover Margin, popping Ahman Green like so much Orville Redenbacher's on the Packers' first and only offensive play in OT.

2a. Green, from the sidelines, watching Eddie Kennison go in for the winning score on the next play.

3. Priest going over the top for a first down on 3rd-and-1 late in the game. That, my friends, is all the air attack you need. Well, that and the game-winning TD pass.

4. Pretty much every time Priest touched the ball in overtime.

Raiders are up next. Anyone who looks past this game is stupid. Sure, we're 6-0 and they're, uh, maybe 2-and-whatever, but they are Lucifer's team, and at this point only the minions of hell can stop the Chiefs. I think it's going to be much more of a battle than anyone aside from seasoned AFC West-watchers and embittered Cheifs fans realizes. In any case, I can't think of a better occasion for Enchilada Party 2.

2003-10-11T16:45:00.000-07:00

Before I have a new victory to gloat about, a few observations about last week's Donkey Demolition Derby and the bookending drives on Interstates 70 and 55:

Shiner was indeed obtained. I had a nice conversation with the liquor store dude in Blue Springs, MO, that went like this:

Liquor Store Dude (noticing Texas ID): So, what brings you to town?
Me: Chiefs game.
LSD: Uh, you a Dallas fan?
Me: No.
LSD: Texans fan? Denver fan?
Me (perplexed by the logic of geographical progression): No. Chiefs fan. (Solely to confuse him even more) I live in Chicago.
LSD: Oh, you're a Cubs fan.
Me: Sox. I live on the South Side.
LSD: Oh.
[long pause while he processes my whiteness]
LSD (reverting to a corner of the universe that makes sense, unlike white Sox/Chiefs supporters with Texas IDs): Chiefs are gonna win.
Me: You think?
LSD: Not by much. But they're gonna win.

And apparently, he got the most important guess right.

About the game itself:

1. I knew it was going to be a quality day of Middle American values (i.e. football, barbecue, and military spending) when the Air Force sent over one of those B-2 bombers from Whiteman AFB for a pregame flyover. I'm not saying that we do or don't always deploy these in the service of honorable objectives; I am, however, saying that they are really damn cool, and I wish the Air Force Academy recruiters who had phoned me in high school had been a bit more convincing ("Who cares if you get raped by 85 percent of your male classmates? You get to fly a B-2 one day! If you sleep with enough of your commanding officers, of course.")

2. The food at Arrowhead, as always, did not disappoint. The one thing that made the infernal traffic into the stadium tolerable was that my open car window was often six feet away from ribs and burgers on the barbecue grill, bacon in skillets, etc. While we didn't do any actual tailgating (largely because I would have been responsible for it all, my father's culinary talents being limited to getting himself a Pepsi from the fridge as a last resort after all his minion Pepsi-getters have gone on strike) we did get some fine barbecue from the Fiorella's Jack Stack outlet inside the stadium. It was kind of far from our seats, but I didn't mind the walk, since it meant I didn't have to witness Clinton Portis going 65 yards through our theoretically "improved" defense for a score. I was sort of disappointed that I didn't have an excuse to get breakfast at Arrowhead, too. Before one game, when I really didn't have my shit together and didn't get up in time to eat before leaving, I ended up scoring what rates as one of the more pleasing breakfasts I've had -- a "baked, char-grilled" cinnamon sugar pretzel, and a truly killer $6 stadium screwdriver. Hey, I defy you to find non-spiked citrus products in a stadium, even at 11 a.m. And at Arrowhead, $6 buys you a lot of screwdriver. I should note that Vinnie's (the pretzel purveyor) has since dropped the "baked, char-grilled" descriptor. For those who are confused by this idiosyncratic preparation process, it simply meant that a previously baked pretzel was grilled over charcoal to warm it up before being coated with seasonings and turned over for consumption. In their review of stadium food some years back, SI urged all Arrowhead/Kauffman patrons to stop by Vinnie's, "if only to find out what a baked, char-grilled product tastes like." Um, it tastes like a pretzel.

3. The Chiefs now use Ram Jam's "Black Betty" as their kickoff anthem. Apparently the level of ethnic inappropriateness achieved through the Chop just doesn't cut it anymore. I don't know what was wrong with "Start Me Up," except that every other team in the NFL (and Microsoft, for a while) used it too. How about "Bad to the Bone?" That has a pretty badass opening riff, and anyone who digs "Black Betty" will also dig George Thorogood.

4. Speaking of George Thorogood, does Deltha O'Neal suck or what? That wasn't a nonsequitur. Deltha O'Neal's suckiness inspires in me (despite his affiliation with an enemy team) a level of pity that I previously only felt for George Thorogood's liver. Let's recap Deltha's afternoon in Kansas City (not necessarily in chronological order). He fumbles a punt and sets up a Kansas City touchdown. He gets burned by the prolific Trent Green-Johnnie Morton combination on a touchdown pass. Trent Green sucks, and Johnnie Morton is about 50 (which didn't stop him from busting out a particularly inspired TD celebration that the limitations of the English language prevent me from describing here.) Ingredient D fumbles another punt, but luckily his teammates expect this to happen and cover his ass. I would be remiss not to mention that he picks off Green, but like I said, Green sucks, and apparently suckiness attracts. But wait! Deltha fields a punt, *hangs on to the ball*, and prances 60-some yards for a score! Ye gods! Oh, oh, but wait! There is a flag on the play! And wait again! There is another flag on the play! And they're *both on Denver*!! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the only way Deltha O'Neal can score on a punt return is if not one, but two, of his teammates commit flagrant holding.

Now some people may raise the (totally bogus) assertion that Dante Hall benefited from uncalled clipping on his TD return. To this I say: a) why do they call it clipping? That puts me in mind of circumcision. Bad name. b) Dante is God. It does not matter. Clipping only influences outcomes for mere mortals, i.e. Deltha O'Neal. c, and most pertinently) *it is not a clipping penalty if you are taken down by your own teammate.* That is not clipping. That is ineptitude. And in the NFL, as in life, ineptitude is its own penalty.

Boerigter watch: A couple of near-misses on offense, which I entirely blame on TrINT Green. He's running the money routes, too . . . downfield and across the middle. Someday he'll make some hapless CB or safety look like, well, Deltha O'Neal. What really broke my heart, though, was the brilliant end-around on the opening kickoff that he almost broke for a score. Almost. It got the crowd totally fired up, and then the Boerigter-less offense goes three and out. When God has given you Marc Boerigter, it behooves you to show a little more appreciation than that.

Packers-Chiefs tomorrow. I have a bad feeling about this, but then, I always do. That's just the way the Chiefs are. I don't know what I personally get out of being a Chiefs fan. I try not to think too hard about it. Really, if there were any justice in the world, I would be a Broncos fan. I grew up in Wyoming. As a child, I would "play John Elway" with the cute boy down the street. This consisted of enacting various imagined scenes from the life of John Elway, in which my friend would be John Elway, and I would variously be members of the Denver receiving corps, enemy defensive linemen, or Mrs. John Elway. But -- my father was the one person in Gillette who grew up in the shadow of Arrowhead Stadium, and thus I am what I am today, i.e. a Chiefs fan who has never witnessed a Super Bowl victory in her lifetime.

Sigh. This is depressing. I think I'll watch baseball.

2003-10-09T18:21:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Hilligoss said she would buy the pork chops herself.

*disclaimer*: i am not in fact married, but am willing to pretend for the sake of euphonious literary allusions.

I never knew that "Hilligoss" and "Dalloway" were both dactyls until now.

Anyways. Tonight I bought pork chops and am in the process of preparing them, because it isn't fall until the Chiefs are 5-0 and I have made smothered pork chops. The genius of this recipe (courtesy of Cook's Illustrated) is that you get to use a lot of bacon fat . . . to cook pork. If that won't make the state of Iowa happy, I don't know what will.

Mashed potatoes will also be served.

Why is pork "the other white meat"? Does that imply that it aspires to be chicken? Why would anything aspire to be chicken? Chicken sucks!

Um, what else. I'm really just killing time until the 30 minutes of simmering are up. Simmering. Possibly that was metaphoric. Sadly, I simmer in resentment and passive-aggression and confusion and barely suppressed rage instead of, say, onion gravy. Oh to be a pork chop.

2003-10-06T01:08:00.000-07:00

Dante for president!

Best damn football game I have ever witnessed, and probably ever will witness.

Did I say my first child was going to be named Dante Halligoss? Forget that. All my children will be named Dante Halligoss. Along those lines, the Chiefs should just change their name to the Kansas City Dantes.

I have much, much more to say about the past 24 hours, but I just drove 500 miles and have to go to work, uh, later this morning.

Oh, and you know what I'm not going to do? Tempting as it is, I'm going to refrain from directly taunting any Broncos fan of my acquaintance. Why not? Because, unlike them and their organization, we in Kansas City are what we like to call "gracious winners." This means we do not take out disrespectful ads in other cities' newspapers which a) are instances of extremely poor sportsmanship; and b) we are incapable of, you know, backing up on the field. Look, we may not have won a Super Bowl since 1970 and we may not be beautiful enough to be in Coors Light commercials having three-ways with "twins" and our city's most distinctive geographic feature may be . . . well, we really don't have one . . . but WE HAVE CLASS, which is something certain Rocky Mountain choads have demonstrated a fundamental lack of with their little pregame psy-ops campaign. I don't know whether a somewhat sloppy one-point victory will be enough to gain any respect from those smug bastards, but I do know that I personally wouldn't fuck with a metropolis that's two hoots and a holler away from the world's largest concentration of B-2 bombers.

Bedtime. More equine postmortem to follow.

2003-10-04T08:49:00.000-07:00

Off to KC in a matter of minutes. Am coming back tomorrow with a) Shiner Bock; b) a Marc Boerigter jersey; c) bragging rights. I have to pack, shower, and initiate the noble experiment of eating leftover meatloaf and eggs for breakfast. Why not? It's not that fundamentally different from traditional breakfast sausage.

2003-10-03T18:39:00.000-07:00

New Hampshire "won" (if this can indeed be considered a victory) the vote in the Free State Project. On behalf of Wyoming, I would like to thank 20,000 Libertarians for staying the hell out of the greatest state in the Union. Go to www.freestateproject.org to check out this insanity.

I'm going to have a cheeseburger at Jimmy's. I need this.

2003-10-03T10:28:00.000-07:00

writing from work . . . over lunch, of course:

The meatloaf recipe. Finally. No, actually, I don't think I will give a recipe per se, because I think recipes are overrated. So, in anti-recipe format, here is how you make meatloaf.

Get about 2 pounds of mixed ground meats. I like to use 25 percent lamb, 25 percent pork, and 50 percent beef. Put it all in a big bowl. Add seasonings as you like -- chopped onions, salt, pepper, parsley, and minced garlic are highly necessary, sage is nice too, and you can get really creative and throw in some grated carrot (not too much) or grated parmesan cheese. Finally, add something to hold it all together, like about 1/2 cup of breadcrumbs and a little milk and a beaten egg. Forget everything you know about salmonella and shove your bare hands into that bowl and mix everything up really, really well. Make love to your meatloaf. It's fun! When you're done and have cleaned up and smoked a cigarette, shape the meatloaf into a -- get this -- loaf. Something kind of oval and rounded on top, like half of a semi-deflated football. THIS NEXT STEP IS VERY IMPORTANT. Drape uncooked strips of BACON over the top of your meatloaf. Make a nice solid blanket of bacon all over. Oh man, you know what would be really good? Cook a few strips, crumble it up, and *add it to the actual meatloaf during the seasoning stage.* My god. Excuse me while I take a moment. Now, bake the thing (in some kind of baking dish; not a loaf pan, necessarily) at about 400 degrees for maybe an hour, or until it's, you know, done.

If you have meatloaf, you have to have mashed potatoes. Not negotiable. A very foolish person has asked me whether mashed potatoes "out of the box" will "make you fat." The answer is no, because mashed potatoes out of the box do not contain enough goodies to make you fat, and this is why mashed potatoes out of the box should be universally condemned. From this it follows that they also taste like crap. And you know what? Mashed potatoes are very easy to do right. Boil about 6 good-sized red or Yukon Gold potatoes, cut up in quarters to facilitate the cooking process, and for God's sake leave the skin on. Drain and return to pot. Add about half a stick of butter, salt and pepper, and about 1/2 cup buttermilk. Maybe more than that, depending on how things look. Now, mash to desired consistency. I like chunks myself, but you don't have to.

You can add all kinds of stuff to mashed potatoes. Chives and bacon is tasty, goat cheese, grated other cheeses, horseradish, sour cream, whatever. But not too much at once. I kind of favor the minimalist approach. If you want, throw in about 6 peeled cloves of garlic while you boil the potatoes and mash that in there too.

All right, lunch break is almost over. I have to figure out how to tailgate out of my Volkswagen. Luckily, it's a hatch, and I don't care if it smells like barbecue forever. Why don't they make barbecue-scented air fresheners for cars? That would shred.

Under 48 hours till kickoff. I figure the Chiefs will be up 14-0, or maybe 14-3, this time Sunday. Dante's gonna run back the opening kickoff, and on our first actual drive the Holy Man will get himself one of his trademark 6-yard touchdown runs. It's been an AFC West kind of morning. I ran into one of my surprisingly many pro-Denver friends on the bus, and some dude in the elevator was wearing a Raiders jacket and taunting one of my co-workers about how the Bears were going to lose. This is the difference between Broncos fans and Raiders fans. Broncos fans tend to be nice, wholesome, if somewhat misguided people from scenic Western states who, philosophical differences aside, you don't mind sitting next to on the bus. Sure, they can be obnoxious, but in the generally harmless way in which most beer commercials are obnoxious. They heroically wore orange for many, many years, and for this I give them loyalty props, if not aesthetic props. Though this is unfortunately coming to an end soon, they are undefeated and are entitled to some bragging rights. Raiders fans are punks who taunt middle-aged women in elevators, even with a 2-2 record that really should be 0-4, and that's all that needs to be said about that.

I of course did not see any Chargers fans during my commute, because Chargers fans do not exist. In my anti-trinity of enemy AFC West fans, if Raiders fans are the Father and Broncos fans are the Son, Chargers fans are Wholly Ghost.

Hey, I just told you about putting bacon on and in meatloaf! Forgive me one awful pun.

2003-10-02T05:53:00.000-07:00

All right, I'm already going to be late for work, but I have to at least keep my blog more current than Anand keeps his.

Big props to Jessamine for feeding me dinner the other night. It involved duck sausage from Chinatown. Duck sausage from Chinatown is a beautiful, beautiful thing. She also coined a very amusing nickname for a certain person of my acquaintance, but I really can't think of a way to justify incorporating it into a paragraph on duck sausage.

Tonight I will post recipes for meatloaf and mashed potatoes. There have been requests, and threats to eat mashed potatoes "out of the box" for want of guidance. People: do not eat mashed potatoes out of the box. More on this later.

2003-09-29T17:36:00.000-07:00

Guess where I'll be next Sunday?

This is the end of my regular-season spendthriftery, though, because I gotta save up for the Super Bowl.

I guess I should watch the Bears and Packers in a few minutes, seeing as they've already eaten up most of my evening. Commute time? 90 minutes. I hope the new Soldier Field collapses and swallows everything in it. Actually, I hope that doesn't happen. The commute tomorrow morning would be even more of a bitch, what with all the cleanup and rubberneckers and grieving Cheeseheads pouring in from up north.

Finally . . . does anyone know where I can find kee mao chicken? This hole-in-the-wall Thai joint across the street from my high school had it . . . a generous styrofoam bowl filled with steamed rice, topped with ground chicken cooked with red chiles, garlic, onions, and basil. It was a vertiable perfect storm of empty carbs, protein, grease, spice, and sodium, especially when liberally doused with soy sauce, and damn am I craving it right now. Despite living a block from about three or four Thai restaurants, though, I can't find it anywhere. I'll attempt to recreate it at home and post the results if I have any success.

2003-09-28T16:41:00.000-07:00

Six days out of the week, food is what sustains life, and accordingly that is what I write about. But on the seventh day . . .

4 and 0! 4 and 0!

And it gets better, because next week the Broncos (also 4-0, though much less deservingly so) are coming to Arrowhead. I think a road trip is in the offing.

Did I mention last week that my first child is going to be Dante Halligoss? It's not as farfetched as it seems, since I was a y-chromosome away from being George Brett Hilligoss.

Boerigter watch: not much receiving action, but he's tearin' it up on special teams. Got himself a fumble recovery and some nice hits. My dad claims to have seen someone in a Boerigter jersey at the Houston sports bar where he watched the game, so I guess there's hope for me too.

I suppose I should comment on the baseball playoffs, but frankly, who cares. Like I said, the Chiefs are 4-0.

2003-09-27T10:03:00.000-07:00

I think I might go to Wisconsin today. I feel like taking a drive, and Wisconsin never disappoints. There is topography. There is cheese. Seriously, Wisconsin is possibly the most underrated state in the Union. You know those Wisconsin tourism commercials where a gospel choir implores you to "stay just a little bit longer" as idyllic scenes of wholesome people fishing, hiking, and skiing flash by? Gets me every time. I'd even go ice fishing this winter. If anyone can hook me up with one of those little outhouse-type things on a frozen lake, let me know.

2003-09-25T21:45:00.000-07:00

domesticate this:

I would just like to establish that, while I may be a fabulous cook, I am a lousy housekeeper. Normally this would not bother me enough to warrant a mention, but my mom is here visiting and I suddenly feel like a failure as a responsible adult. Privately, though, I think I have my priorities straight.

Media watch . . . one of my more agreeable responsibilities at work is to comb through the Trib and the New York Times in search of articles pertaining to education, child development, relevant policy issues, etc. Being the conscientious employee that I am, I leave no corner of the paper unexplored, because God forbid that a story about Head Start legislation should crop up in the Dining Out section, and I wouldn't know about it because of silly prejudices about which sections of the paper are likely to be "relevant." This is how I came across an article in the New York Times food section yesterday about tailgating at Arrowhead (which, for those who are out of touch with the finer things in life, is the Land of the Free and the Home of the Chiefs.)

I guess I should be pleased about this, but wouldn't that amount to buying into the New York Times' subtle but omnipresent (and highly irritating) conviction of its own importance? It's great that their intrepid reporter finally got himself some decent barbecue and all, but I'm not going to play the Midwestern rube who drools all over herself when bastions of Eastern cultural hegemony deign to notice what goes on west of New Jersey. Oh, let's throw down. I resent this story and I begrudge that reporter every bit of brisket he sponged off the good people of Kansas City. The very fact of the article's existence betrays attitudes that I find, well, offensive. First -- why is this even a story? Kansas City has good barbecue and devoted football fans, and most Sundays in autumn these two civic features find particularly felicitous joint expression in the Arrowhead parking lot? And this goes on *all over* America's heartland? Excuse me if I fail to see the news angle here, or even the fresh-and-timely-feature angle. This is not news. This is news only if the fact that people in New York (or so I've heard) eat slices of thin pizza folded in half lengthwise is also news. But you don't see that on the front page of the Times dining section, do you? What I'm talking about is a certain Middle-America-as-object-of-sociological-inquiry attitude that, frankly, pisses me off. I would love to rip off long passages from Levi-Strauss about the inherent problems of writing that has as its raison d'etre the otherness of the other, but it's been a while since Reading Cultures, so I will simply say that we (as enlightened Western intellectuals) would never dream of overtly approaching a, say, Third World culture through the quaint-but-endearing-ways-of-others lens . . . so why is this OK in the case of our own homegrown subcultures? Respect the redneck, people. Just print the damn brisket recipe and let that speak for itself.

In other news . . . I miss being a student, men are confusing (I was going to say men are idiots, which they are, but decided to acknowledge the possibility of user error), my cat needs to be disciplined, and the banjo part on "Gallows Pole" off Led Zeppelin 3 sounds strangely, janglingly haunting when played through my computer speaker at work.

2003-09-24T18:16:00.000-07:00

Chorizo 101:

It's autumn in Chicago now, and in autumn one's thoughts naturally turn to beer and sausage. But alas! I had committed to writing about Mexican food in my next post. Not that anyone, you know, cares, but I am nothing if not a blogger of principle. I will eventually get to Sylvia, her restaurant, and her fine, fine enchiladas, but for now there will be a compromise topic, and that compromise topic is chorizo. Mexican sausage! I love how these things work out.

I actually have no idea what's in chorizo. The brands I buy are apparently exempt from USDA regulations about listing contents and fat grams and such, but hey, I'm still alive. What I do know about chorizo is that it's really, really tasty, probably involves pork and its anatomical environs, and contains a lot of spices. When you cook it it gives off ridiculous amounts of orange grease, so it might be a good idea to drain it on a paper towel before consumption, unless you enjoy licking orange grease off yourself or have a cat who will oblige.

To cook: think ground meat for tacos as opposed to brats or Polish. Eating chorizo in link format would probably result in sensory overload, and that's before it reaches your digestive system. Just cook it until it looks done . . . doesn't take long. Then, as previously mentioned, drain off as much of that orange grease as you can bear to part with.

What do you do with this stuff? Again, I have no idea. Maravillas puts it in a burrito, with splendid results. My personal uses of chorizo do not (to my knowledge) conform to the standards of authentic Mexican cuisine. To quote: this is NOT Mexican food. Hell, it probably isn't "cocina latina" food. But it is damn good.

My personal favorite is a recipe I sort of invented last night, when my friend Sean and I got really hungry at Jimmy's. Alas, the kitchen there was closed and we were both, uh, disinclined to drive anywhere, so we ambled back to my place and I started doing stuff with random protein sources I found in the fridge. Oh, who are we kidding. Random fat sources. Anyways. Since I'm not terribly original, I essentially started making what I had made the night before; i.e. a standard quesadilla, but with chorizo. I didn't have that much of it left, though, so I padded it with some scrambled egg. Put the egg and sausage on one half of a big tortilla, throw in some grated cheese, fold the tortilla over, cook on both sides until nice and crispy and the orange grease begins to manifest itself. Add some guacamole if you want non-animal-based-fat as well. Sean expressed longing for a certain other agricultural product of Mexico, and I can't say it would have diminished my enjoyment any.

By this point, we felt it was wisest to stick with water as our beverage du choix, but I don't have to tell you that this dish cries out for beer. My current Mexican favorites are Negro Modelo if you like dark, Pacifico if you like otherwise, or Leinie's Original if you go to the Co-op and note, as I did, that their chilled Mexican six-packs are crap. If I were serving this as a breakfast dish, I would throw together some tequila and orange juice and write off the rest of the day. And yes, I know tequila and orange juice results in a "tequila sunrise," but I'll be damned if I reference the Eagles in this blog.

All right. The breakfast quesadilla, people. Don't say Taco Bell thought of it first.

2003-09-21T15:48:00.000-07:00

And the home of the . . . CHIEFS!

The announcer at Reliant Field was fond of encouraging us to "get behind our Texans." Well, the Chiefs got behind the Texans. We got behind the Texans and made them our bitch.

I don't know; if I fly 1100 miles to see a football game, I kind of like it to be competitive and interesting. On the other hand, if the Texans had played like a competitive team, that would have meant something was seriously wrong with the Chiefs. Though it's bad form to bitch about a 42-14 outcome, I would like to note that: a) the first half seemed to indicate a troubling KC tendency to play to the level of their opposition; b) I miss the days when defense was what KC football was all about; c) our secondary still sucks; and d) my man Marc Boerigter totally got robbed of a score when Trent Green threw behind him in the endzone. Aside from that, football-wise it was a quite satisfactory afternoon.

When I got home, Mom, bless her heart, had Shiner in the fridge and meatloaf, potato gratin, and apple crisp in the oven. A nice interlude in what will otherwise be a day of mediocre stadium barbeque and Southwest Airlines peanuts. For having been in Houston about 36 hours, I've really eaten ridiculously well. Last night we went to a great enchilada joint in our neighborhood that I will review when next I blog.

2003-09-20T01:13:00.000-07:00

Post-publication realization: damn, was that long.

I'm tired and am going to bed. Long flight to Houston from Chicago on Southwest, the Incontinent Dog of the Skies. I'm here to watch the Chiefs slaughter the Texans on Sunday. Historical justice through football, or something like that. My folks' kitten is curled up on the desk asleep. It's all very endearing, and I think I'll do the same, only in a bed and not half as endearingly.

2003-09-19T23:43:00.000-07:00

Um, yeah. I'm a hot woman who likes to do things to meat; specifically, eat it. I like it thick, red, and bloody. All right, that's not really sexy anymore. If you do find that sexy, you're a sick bastard.

I started this not as a lame attempt to achieve sexual release (which happens as often as I need it to and is never lame), not because all my friends have blogs (though many do), and not because I hate animals (I have a cat and would never dream of serving her au jus with a side of asparagus). For a long, long time, my dream career was to be a chef. I watched the Food Network. I subscribed to Food and Wine and Cook's Illustrated. I was the person friends called when they wanted to know what to do with fresh salmon, how to cook spinach, what wine to serve with roast pork. My mother and I would converse at length about what stinky cheeses we had in our fridges. I once served handmade chicken enchiladas with green chile sauce imported from Texas to about 40 people up in Chicago. Food was great. Food was life. And I was, as they say, a foodie.

Then I went to northern California.

Northern California has much to recommend it. The scenery is nice and if you're an English major, as I was, you probably wouldn't mind ending up at Berkeley or Stanford for a Ph.D. Though I have no particular fondness for hippies and probably would have found most of them supremely annoying, San Francisco had a fairly bitchin' music scene back in the day, aside from that overrated piece of crap about wearing flowers in your hair. Napa and Sonoma wines can be really good, if widely overpriced. There are worse places to live, and I've lived in at least a couple of them.

Now, the counter-recommendations. There are four main reasons why I personally could not deal with being a Northern Californian, the last of which inspired me to start this blog.
1) It's cold. In July. Don't give me that "nice and temperate" crap. If I'm living by an ocean, and it's summer, I want to be swimming in said ocean without incurring frostbite.
2) Raiders fans.
3) Self-righteous liberalism run amok. In downtown San Francisco, you will see signs along the lines of, "I gave a homeless woman some money, and she used it to buy food for her kids." Is that so? Did you give her a lift to Whole Foods in your Land Rover and help her pick out organic mac and soy cheese for the kiddos? No? Well, you clearly have more faith in humanity than I do. Look, I'm not against charity. I am against the inculcation of white guilt as municipal policy, and I am against blithe self-deception as a way of alleviating white guilt. But I digress.
4) Four people are in a restaurant that trendily bills itself as a "cocina latina." A glance at the menu reveals guacamole, chiles rellenos, and enchiladas (primarily Mexican or Tex-Mex), pupusas (Salvadoran), banana-leaf tamales (like ones I had in Belize), empanadas (veering into South America), and so forth. The four people begin discussing what to drink with this food. One diner, who has expressed interest in enchiladas, remarks offhand, "I usually drink beer with Mexican food." There is a moment of uncomfortable silence. Finally, one of the SF residents says, "This is NOT Mexican," and appends a comment about cultural insensitivity. We will not mention that the beer-desiring guest lived for a long time in Houston, has been to Mexico repeatedly, and knows where enchiladas tend to hail from. We will not mention that she would have felt fantastically stupid saying, "I usually drink beer with food that has been produced in a 'cocina latina,' whatever the HELL that is." And finally, we will not mention that food involving cheese, grease, meat, and assertive seasonings is, in fact, better matched with beer, or with a margarita if you must be classy. There is a reason that Mexico and Central America are not especially known for their vineyards, but do in fact produce some excellent beers. It is because that is what tastes right. That is the authentic accompaniment to food from anywhere under the "cocina latina" umbrella.
So, how does this exercise in foodier-than-thouness end? The culturally insensitive one gets her damn (Mexican) beer. The culturally sophisticated one gets a glass of killer (California) cabernet. Shit, if you really LIKE cab with Mexican, that's your own business. Just don't try to use it to rack up foodie cred.

This was when I knew for sure that the foodie gig was something I wanted no part of. Sure, there had been other things that had annoyed me for a long time -- the way certain menu items at certain bagel chains involve sundried tomatoes; the general fetishization of slimy red imported oil-packed vegetable matter; the way nobody prepares fresh fish with just butter and lemon anymore; the way meat and potatoes has become associated with everything retro, unhealthy, unenlightened, or midwestern; the way my favorite restaurant in Chicago, which prepared amazingly delicious and creative and honest food using only American-produced ingredients, went out of business while a block away, Spago, a bastion of trendy nouveau mediocrity, swarmed with people on expense account, tourists, and high-maintenance women out with overcompensating men.

So. This blog (hey, it's easier than learning HTML) will be a place where I can articulate a saner, more honest, more intelligent, less poseury/auteury approach to food. You know, an approach that results in stuff people actually want to prepare and, more importantly, eat. This is where the sundried tomato backlash will begin.

What will be posted: recipes, thoughts, restaurant reviews, whatever else strikes me as appropriate. I reserve the right to go off on at least one (but no more than seven) non-food tangents a week, which will most likely have to do with literature, football, music, or cool places I drove to on the weekend.