That something?  Meet Crude, the little lip balm company that could.  That can!

Today, Daily Candy covered us:

And usually I wouldn’t encourage the gossip train, but let’s play telephone on this one.

I don’t know what this place is anymore.  Don’t get me wrong, I still like the zebra.  (Isn’t she cute?  Yes, she is.)  But I used to come here to complain about things and I’ve recently discovered that complaining about things isn’t all that fun.  And it’s really dorky to not complain about things.  And then Eric was all, put the stuff you cook on there, just so you can remember how to make it again.  So I did.  Twice.

But I’m not a food bloggity blogger.  Can’t use words like mouth feel or sumptuous.  Just. Like. To. Eat. is all.

And even though I’m nicer now (in theory) and I like people more and being cranky less, I certainly don’t want to talk about any of that.  And then there’s that whole work thing distracting me from this talking aimlessly about nothing to no one in particular thing.

This summer will be packed, as I mentioned earlier, with tons upon tons of bbqs, and as I did not mention earlier, with sailing and with non-bbq parties and all sorts of other things that have me more interested in them than this.  “All things are cyclical.”  (Are all things, really?)  I guess what I’m saying is,

1.  Seat Hogs

Who among us, when the opportunity presented itself, hasn’t tried to carve out a little extra space in a crowded world?  You want a seat?  The magic words are EXCUSE ME.  Voila!

2.  Train Pigs

You hate people eating?  Fucking deal.  You live with 8 million other people, and you’re not going to like what everyone does.  I hate it too, to a gaggy degree, but have a little empathy.  Someone who prefers consuming food within our filthy subway system has bigger problems than your opinion of her, even if it is just transient low blood sugar.

3.  Subway Douchery

Formerly funny, now a big win of reportage is a girl eating a quarter watermelon?  Sure, it’s a strange choice, but the area around her isn’t even polluted with watermelon debris.

I get why we need to commiserate — living here can be hard.  But if it’s not rewarding enough to shut up about all this petty, unfunny stuff, there is a lovely home for you in the suburbs.

1.  Was baby not cute enough to begin with?  (It was.)

2.  You’re forcing me to imagine your little one dolled up in the slutty lycra stylings of Bebe.

Anyway, Disney really butchered Obama.

He looks like a hybrid Governor Patterson/ Chris Parnell.

Besides, he would never wear such an ill fitting shirt.

From Esquire’s Women issue:

18: Chantal Williams, Cashier

I want to be accomplished, self-sufficient, and loved.

Life in eight words.  Chantal is master of the succinct.

I’m also the sort of person who consistently wonders at the end of a day of travel that I woke up in New York City! and here I am in Omaha! San Francisco! South Jersey! tonight, where a whole other set of lives I had no idea about are perpetuating themselves, enjoying a new angle on the sun, and so on.

I wear this one particular pair of shoes all the time, because they’re super comfortable, they’re small enough for cold morning feet and they expand with twelve-hours-standing-up feet, they look presentable enough with a suit or jeans, and I can run in them.  (Yes, run. in. them.)  Longer than life workdays, conferences, important meetings, and memorable days walking around my city and countless others.  They were born in Los Angeles, when I realized I needed a grown-up shoe that wasn’t a heel, and they came all around the country with me, through twenty-something states, sixty-something cities and two other countries.

It’s been almost five years with these shoes, just a little longer than my marriage — they incurred their first scratch at the hand of the front door at Kleinfeld on the day I bought my wedding dress.  They’ve driven my car and run me down the street in rainstorms and strolled me to the subway in 100 degree heat.  They have something like 1200 miles under their belt.

Which is why they’re shot to shit.  The edges of both heels are chipped off, there are multiple divots bored into formerly pristine leather soles, they’re drowning in scuffs, and there are three deep scars from the three! separate! occasions! on which I stepped in glass (the last of which poked a tiny hole through not only the sole but the lining and then my skin).

But the crux of this is that I cannot part with them.  Nor am I going to commit some blasphemy like resoling, which could ruin everything.  The flex-to-firm ratio here is exactly why they’re runnable, why they’re comfortable, why they’re flexible, and why they’re my shoe best friends.

Right now I’m just wondering how many miles we have left together — wondering if we’ll ever start out in New York and finish the day in Portland! or Boston! again.

I never thought years would run together for me the way they seemed to trick my parents when I was a kid — naturally, when you only have nine years under your belt, they’re a little easier to keep track of.

Anyhoo.  (Only jerks say anyhoo.  And only very, very smart people type it.)  I’m going to self-impose the sit-up tax proposal of 2003 starting today (wishful thinking that Bloomberg will hop on my bandwagon, of course).

$32.81 at the grocery store.  33 sit-ups.  Check.

(But I’m not sure 33 sit-ups will be much in the face of the mozzarella, parmesan, heavy cream, and Oreos that came home with me.*)

*this list is real.

Doesn’t matter because they won’t be touching until they get in my belly.

This evening’s culinary treat consists of an asparagus salad over pasta…

(Thin slice a bunch of asparagus, finely dice a red onion, add a big handful (maybe two) of grated pecorino, some salt, a lot of fresh ground pepper, my favorite olive oil in the world, and about a half cup of vinegar (red wine).)

…and a chocolate mousse dessert which I totally shouldn’t be eating but oh well.

(I usually do this with egg whites, but tonight I did about a half cup semisweet chocolate, melted and added to two egg yolks whipped up with a quarter cup of sugar and then added to 3/4 of a pint of heavy cream (whip before combining, and combine a little at a time so you don’t unwhip the cream with all the subsequent spooning), and save the remaining 1/4 fresh whip for a topping.  Chill for an hour.)

…all you want to do is make some pickles.

Not really, but that’s what I did, because I’m preparing for the summer of Consistently Awesome BBQ.  And what do you need next to a gorgeous, dripping, cheese-globbed burger?  A crispy delicious pickle!

Sterlize jars, boil vinegar and water mix (50/50 makes a tangy pickle; go with less vinegar if you’re more mild), add whole garlic cloves, pepper flakes, some fresh dill, a few bay leaves, and half a tomatillo pepper to each jar, along with the freshly washed and cut cucumbers, then pour the liquid mix in, seal up the jars and refrigerate.  In as few as three days, they’re perfection.