thursday night smackdown

Midnight in the Garden of Googa and Mooga

michelle — Mon, 21 May 2012 02:59:57 +0000

I’m a bit tired, crispy and worse for the wear. I blame the giant fire-breathing metal pig. If you can’t make out what is says on the side, it’s “HAMAGEDDON.”

For I Googaed my Mooga yesterday. I know there are many people being complainy about it on the internet, as the complaint-prone among us are wont to do. In response, I offer my only thought: if you really thought that a giant food festival with FREE ADMISSION would not have lines out the ass for Tom Colicchio’s pork belly tacos and beer, you are a more optimistic person than I.*

For my part, I basked on the lawn with friends in the shadow of the robotic dragon swine, eating, among other things, a horse bologna and foie gras grilled cheese sandwich and a wide variety of paletas, pineapple-jalapeño being the best. Yes, horse bologna is what you think it is.

Possibly I ate $15 worth of paletas, because it was really hot and I love paletas, but I will never admit to it.

ASIDE: “Hamageddon” would have been a BITCHING name for one of our annual Smoke-a-Thons, which are no more since the likelihood of finding a rental with a big backyard is zero point none. Dammit!

In other news, I apologize for my absence. My employer’s annual fundraising gala is tomorrow night, and between trying to pull that together and trying to find a way not to be homeless in July, I’ve been preoccupied. Cross my heart and hope to die that TNS will return to normal on Tuesday.

What’ve you been up to? I miss the pitter-patter of your little feet.

*I know there are folks with legit complaints about how the booze acquisition was run, but I can’t speak to that since I didn’t partake. On a hot, sunny day who wants wine or beer when there are paletas?

No related posts.

Awesome Shit That I Don’t Really Want But is On Trend Monday

michelle — Mon, 14 May 2012 20:18:36 +0000

There are a LOT of godawful teapots in the world. The quantity of ceramic wasted on replicating animals, vehicles, hats, cartoon characters and holidays figures in teapot form is offensive.

Do I need to be able to pour tea out of the nipples of a non-specific woodland creature? I submit that the answer is NO.

That being said, I love a well-designed teapot and look forward to the day when I’m able to move into a 4,000 square foot loft and install a room divider teapot display. I mean, how sexy is this thing, right?

We also seem to have developed a national obsession with Russian nesting dolls; I blame Pinterest. It was only a matter of time before one of the nesting doll enthusiasts collided with a teapot aficionado, resulting in the creation of The Ultimate Pinnable Object: the Saint Tea-tersburg tea set.

In the event that you or one of your loved ones are among the Russian nesting doll people, I humbly offer it for your approval.

Good day, sir. I SAID GOOD DAY.

michelle — Mon, 14 May 2012 02:08:55 +0000

I am selling my apartment, job hunting, looking for a rental and have had the single busiest week I may have had at work, ever. Mostly BY CHOICE. Because I have a problem.

Is there anything else I can do to throw my life into complete upheaval? Get a divorce? Adopt several Chinese babies? Start smoking, so I can quit smoking? BECAUSE I WILL DO IT.

I didn’t cook AT ALL this week because of Threat Level Red Overworkedness, but I couldn’t bring myself to waste the duck legs, bottle of port and $8 worth of Jerusalem artichokes I’d bought for the Smackdown. I made the Jerusalem artichoke soup with mushroom puree and duck ragout tonight from Gordon Ramsay’s Maze tonight, instead.

Completely out of sync with the season? Yes. Completely amazing? Offensively so.

I apologize that my killer fatigue means that this post will be written entirely in sentence fragments, haiku and/or non-sequiturs. If I can even eke that out before I fall alseep sitting at the kitchen table.

What smells better than duck braising in port and veal stock?

Okay, fine, cinnamon rolls. I mean OTHER than that. I defy you to respond.

Of course, this intensely wonderful smell is going to waste, because the apartment is now under contract and I have no more buyers to impress.

Jerusalem artichokes: three thoughts.

1. Who thought it would be a good idea to cross-breed a russet potato with a grub?

2. They are neither from Jerusalem, nor artichokes. Discuss.

3. Oh-uh:

Gerard’s Herbal, printed in 1621, quotes the English planter John Goodyer on Jerusalem artichokes:

“Which way soever they be dressed and eaten, they stir and cause a filthy loathsome stinking wind within the body, thereby causing the belly to be pained and tormented, and are a meat more fit for swine than men.”*

*ETA: Shit y’all, John was SO RIGHT.

Career Advancement: An Update in Seventeen Syllables (2012)

From ten resumes,
Four in-person interviews.
But no job offers.

Do I have spinach stuck in my teeth or something?

Also: mushroom puree looks like baby poop.

See? Baby poop. Color AND texture.

But it tastes like an umami bomb. Mushrooms, butter, salt and pepper, Cabernet vinegar, a bit of duck braising liquid and heavy cream. Who knew? I mean, I probably would have known if I had stopped to think about it for three seconds. Because hello, sauteed mushrooms and duck-infused port and veal stock? Kill me now.

This is a plate of food I would expect to eat in a really nice restaurant if I were out to celebrate something. In February. Thus, while I highly recommend this book and recipe, I would also recommend that an 86 degree day is perhaps not the most appropriate.

IMNSHO: OMFG.

I apologize deeply for this hot mess of a post. If you need something better, go re-read this one, or this other one. Especially if you represent an organization that is considering offering me employment. Those other ones are really good, I swear. They have full sentences and everything.

To appease the angry blog gods, I humbly present an offering of cuteness in the form of the TNS canine mascots upon their return from two days at dog camp:

Do Food Bloggers Dream of Electric Ducks?

I’m Not Angry, I’m Just Disappointed

michelle — Tue, 08 May 2012 21:33:29 +0000

“Whinge: A Post.” 2012. Plastic, circuit board, solder, wire, flat-panel monitor. On loan from collection of the artist.

I mean, I realize that sometimes a post is just a dud, and there’s nothing to be done.

But you’re such a wonderfully vocal and funny bunch that I was looking forward to a zany comment thread full of over-the-top invented art-speak for everyday occurrences. I guess you all had to wash your hair that night. I understand.

Tonight, I had grand plans for chicken thighs and Israeli couscous and veggies with ras el hanout and yogurt sauce followed by a post regaling you with my newly-discovered fear of random quantum events. Alas, that will have to wait, because I neglected to take into account that today is the single busiest day in my entire work year. I’m not sure when I’ll get home, but I’m sure that when I do, I’ll be lucky if I can make it through a single beer before I keel over dead on the floor. Pray for me.

Also: Counteroffer to our counteroffer! Negotiations proceeding apace! Whee!

No related posts.

Awesome Shit That I Want Monday

michelle — Tue, 08 May 2012 02:09:57 +0000

Shall I tell you want I want, what I really really want? It’s for the people who made the offer on our apartment this morning to accept our counteroffer. Fingers crossed!

In the absence of a real estate contract, I’ll take these mod French onion soup bowls.

I’d really rather have the real estate contract, though.

PS: As long as you’re here, you might as well give the ceviche some lovin’.

Mealtime Intersectionality as Categorical Imperative

michelle — Sun, 06 May 2012 08:17:12 +0000

In tonight’s post, we probe the liminal space between “raw” and “cooked” and explore how the resulting tension manifests in the eater’s experience of flesh-as-food.

In other words:

I made ceviche.
I have recently been viewing modern art.

Before getting into the nitty gritty, I must state that I only realized it was Cinco de Mayo AFTER I made the ceviche, and this dish is in no way an attempt to observe that most Corona- and guacamole-fueled of holidays. I mean, I appreciate the commemoration of the day Mexico finally banished the last of the chupacabras from the Yucatan peninsula as much as the next gal – yay, Mexico! – but, you know, not my country.*

*Oh, Like YOU know what Cinco de Mayo is really about. Go drink your $3 frozen strawberry margarita and give me a goddamn break.

I’d been wondering if I could use ceviche as the gateway preparation that would eventually endear me to sushi. I have a lot of texture issues when it comes to food, and sushi is high on the list of mouthfeels that squick me out. But everyone LOVES the fucking sushi SO MUCH and I’m getting tired of being the toolbox who always gets the tempura shrimp; the only other people who get tempura shrimp at sushi restaurants are toddlers, and in New York, even most of THEM think that’s lame.

I do, however, love a good scallop, and a barely cooked scallop at that, so I decided to try a tropical-esque, spicy ceviche with enough color and flavor to get me over the rawness hump.*

*“Rawness Hump” is the name of the new comedy special I’m filming as part of an Andrew Dice Clay retrospective.**

**Not really.***

***It’s actually called “Fuck You, You Fucking Fuckers: Dice n’ Easy.”

While diced scallops – fresh dry scallops only, please – marinated in a combo of lemon, lime and orange juice, I diced up some red bell pepper, jalapeño, papaya and cilantro. I also mixed up a dressing of more citrus, a little fish sauce, sugar and salt in which to toss everything.

The scallops spent about an hour sitting in their acid bath and as you can see, the post-acidulation scallops look pretty much the same as the pre-acidulation scallops. Don’t get me wrong, I know that soaking seafood in acid doesn’t actually cook anything. Still, I was hoping for more of a cosmetic change to make the first bite easier by fooling my brain into thinking it was eating something cooked.

Oh, well.

I drained the scallops and tossed them with the dressing and accouterments, then scooped some into a cocktail coupe; you eat with your eyes first, dontcha know. It’s pretty, n’est-ce pas? I wonder who I have to talk to to have it officially designated as “art”? Sure, it would eventually start to reek as it sat on display, but that would just add another layer of depth as it forced the viewer to ponder his or her own mortality and relationship to the natural world via an intimate encounter with crustacean decay.

Plus, if MoMA considera a bowl full of mussel shells to be art worthy of display, THIS TOTALLY COUNTS. Call me, Maja Oeri and Hans Bodenmann! I have a chicken carcass and a pile of cucumber peelings I think you’d find really provocative, and I’m willing to offer it to you at a deeply discounted price!*

*In all seriousness, some of the MoMA is mindblowing – the Cindy Sherman exhibit is pretty killer, and you can’t go wrong with the Diego Rivera gallery – but parts of it make me want to punch an art student in the balls. Maybe I’m a philistine, but some of the installations and what they ask me to consider produce nothing more than irritation, then anger, then boredom. I’m looking at you, Lawrence Weiner and your “Wall Pitted by a Single Air Rifle Shot.”

Anyway, ceviche. It looked lovely. It smelled good. It tasted…like spicy raw scallops, and as usual, I couldn’t get past the texture thing. Which was a damn shame, because the freshness, heat, tang and gentle sweetness were delightful and well-balanced; not to mention it was dinnertime and I was really fricking hungry.

Brian has no such qualms about raw protein and loves all raw seafood, so he happily scarfed down the entire bowl while I had a gouda and cracker appetizer followed by a cereal entree.

If you’ll excuse me, I have to go examine the intimate relationship between evacuation, small spaces and the way we communicate through a series of universally agreed-upon symbols that may nevertheless be re-ordered in ways that produce confusion and division that belie our innate interconnectedness, by which I mean play Boggle on my iPhone while taking a shit.

Spicy Scallop Ceviche
2 tbsp. + 1 tbsp. fresh lime juice
2 tbsp. + 1 tbsp. fresh lemon juice
2 tbsp. + 1 tbsp. fresh orange juice
8 oz. fresh, dry sea scallops
1 tsp. fish sauce
1 tbsp. sugar
pinch of salt
1/4 c. diced red bell pepper
1 jalapeño, seeded and minced
1/4 c. peeled and diced ripe papaya
3 tbsp. finely chopped cilantro

In a medium bowl, mix two tablespoons each of lime, lemon and orange juice together. Cut the scallops into a half-inch dice and add to the juice. The juice should cover the scallops. Cover in plastic wrap and stash in the fridge for one hour.

Take the scallops out of the fridge and drain off all the juice. In a small bowl, mix the remaining citrus juices, fish sauce, sugar and salt together; stir briefly to dissolve the sugar.

Pour the dressing over the scallops and toss in the peppers, papaya and cilantro. Serve immediately.

To Whom it May Concern

michelle — Fri, 04 May 2012 11:50:48 +0000

Before I get into the meat of this post, it has just been brought to my attention that Chef Spike Mendelsohn, Douchey McHatterson himself, will be shilling for acid reflex meds.

A few reactions:

I want to know just how long he has been hiding his battle with acid reflux so I can become appropriately outraged.
He is apparently advocating the use of low-fat cheese and turkey bacon, so you can’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth. Is he even really a chef?
I would be perfectly willing to shill for Paxil or Depakote for the right price.* “Paxil: Calming Your Anxiety So You Can Spew Obscenities on the Internet Since 1992.”** I would also happily endorse Advil, which keeps me from digging my uterus out with a spoon on a monthly basis.

*Note: The right price could be measured in dollars, but I’m also open to a lifetime supply of tacos. You’re on notice, GlaxoSmithKline.

**All the more impressive, given that the commercialization of the internet is generally agreed to date from 1995. Whatever, I’m sure sites like this are totally what the creators of ARPANET had in mind. Thanks, Al Gore!

With that public service announcement out of the way, we move on to this chilled cucumber-yogurt soup with candied fennel and lemon gelée, a Michael Psilakis recipe published in Harvest to Heat.

I’ve had a bit of a trying day, and nothing is as comforting after a day of feeling like shit than a hearty bowl of cold cucumber soup with lemon gelée, am I right or am I right? The thin body, the pops of salty sourness, the chill – it’s truly restorative, so much so that I had to sear up a two-inch-thick piece of prime ribeye to serve as a second course and was later forced to eat some Haagen Dazs chocolate-peanut butter ice cream. You know, to tone things down.

I have a strict no-talking-about-work-on-the-blog policy, but feel fine telling you that I’m selectively looking for new opportunities, opportunities that may be more in line with my career dream of being paid to spew obscenities on the internet. (Or, more realistically, to spew non-obscenities in support of a non-profit that really speaks to me.) I had an interview Monday for one such opportunity (the non-profit one, not the obscenity one) that I thought would be an amazing fit for me, and found out today that they’d gone with someone else.

On one hand, YOUR LOSS, organization that shall remain unnamed. NEVER WILL MY HIGH-QUALITY BAKED GOODS GRACE YOUR OFFICE GATHERINGS.

On the other hand, GODDAMMIT.

Because I’m looking for more creative, writerly-type jobs, the rejections sting in a pretty personal place* that leaves me feeling like a giant sham and takes me to a mental black hole where I think it is reasonable to suspect that every one of you is really just my mother-in-law and sister leaving comments under assumed names by traveling around the world to visit and post from different IP addresses. Possibly a nephew is in on it too, to distribute the workload.

In addition, three rejections in a row have come after interviews, which is forcing me to self-asses to determine whether I:

Have developed a subtle nervous tic that causes me to give my interviewers the finger.
Eat so much garlic that it ACTUALLY come out through my pores.
Think I am speaking sense, but am actually coming across like Hal from Infinite Jest.
Always have a booger hanging out of my nose.
Have some other yet-to-be discovered infirmity.

Not that I’m giving up or anything. But I reserve the right to 4-6 hours of pity wallowing following each rejection, along with a nice dinner out every few weeks. Friday: The Modern at MoMA, where I will eat the holy hell out of some Long Island duck breast with peppercorn-crusted apples and pistachio-truffle dipping sauce.

*I mean, emotionally. Not in my lady parts or anything.

Okay, so maybe a chilled soup was not exactly what I needed tonight, but there is no denying that this is an excellent specimen. The three components were each simple to make; the gelée is little more than fresh lemon juice and gelatin sprinkled with coriander; the fennel gets candied in a simple syrup infused with fennel seeds and black pepperdown; and the soup is a simple puree of cucumber, mint, parsley and dill with a bit of olive oil and goat’s milk yogurt whisked in.

The resulting soup, once strained, was pretty thin, and I admit that I didn’t have high hopes for it; cucumber water is meant for cocktails, and salty lemon Jell-O probably shouldn’t even be A Thing.

And yet! It was wonderful. Light and refreshing, with a lovely balance of sour, sweet and salty. Brian was enamored as well; something I hadn’t expected. I’m not sure it’s quite on par with the honeydew gazpacho, but it’s up there.

In closing, please contact me for all your communications needs at michelle at thursdaynightsmackdown dot com. I specialize in left-wing rants and strongly worded letters about poor customer service, and offer special consultation services on proper deployment of the f-bomb.

No related posts.

Three O’Clock is Always Too Late or Too Early

michelle — Wed, 02 May 2012 02:09:50 +0000

“Through the lack of attaching myself to words, my thoughts remain nebulous most of the time. They sketch vague, pleasant shapes and then are swallowed up; I forget them almost immediately.”

I did a Google image search for “nausea,” which I am currently experiencing thanks to a serious overindulgence in Cinnamon Burst Cheerios, and came up with this cat.

The obvious interpretation is this is an existentialist cat pondering the utter banality of his existence, and also he hates you.

As it turns out, it was just a poorly selected photo for a website about feline nausea, which afflicts far fewer cats than feline ennui.

In any case, my current nauseous state is not conducive to writing about the raw fish I prepared but then couldn’t bring myself to eat for dinner tonight.

What did you have for dinner?

No related posts.

Awesome Shit That I Want Monday

michelle — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 19:10:12 +0000

We’ve been making the shift from beer people to cocktail people over the past year, because as we get older and have less time to waste we want to get drunk faster.

I kid! It’s just fun to explore a whole new world of flavor profiles and combinations. We’ve always been able to get drunk plenty fast anyway.

In honor of my new, swankier lifestyle, I think I need some new, swankier glassware. I’m digging these to add a touch of bling to my otherwise utilitarian life. No longer will I drink double gin Moscow Mules out of juice glasses!

Granted, they’re not inexpensive, so I can probably only get one or two, which will lead to solitary drinking, which is probably not a road down which one should wander. Thus, I will cleave to my juice glasses, and admire the bling from afar.

Loose Links Sink Ships

michelle — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 20:15:53 +0000

We have nine showings this weekend, along with an open house on Sunday afternoon, so I should be sleeping on a giant pile of money by Wednesday.

In the meantime, I offer the following for your Friday afternoon amusement and/or disgust:

- Sure, I acknowledge that it’s gross, but admit it: you like the fries, too.

- EVERY ELEVEN DAYS. And I never go, which means some people are going even MORE frequently to drive up the average.

- He’s spawned his own tiny douchebags, and now he wants YOUR children under his sway, too.

- This inspires me to found my own magazine, Nut Punchers: A Guide to Nut Punching. (via The Spiteful Chef)

- (1) “The Gambler’s Fallacy” is my favorite and (2) I have to physically restrain myself from using this on Facebook seventeen thousand times a day.

- This should only be viewed by those with strong stomachs, and not within a half-hour of waking up in the morning. I learned the hard way.