The Regular Food Critic

Pro Skateboards on Quinpool - A Lesson in Drink Order Shaming

2023-12-11T14:30:00.000-08:00

This is not the Iced Hot Chocolate, but it is from Pro.

This is late, almost 8 months late to be exact, so yeah, I guess you could file it under "old news", but it's just so good. It goes back to a blistering sunny day in the summer of 2015 when I found myself walking with my most reluctant partner in walking, Hayley Jean Parsons. It was just as I was purposefully transitioning from a person who drinks coffee to a person who is a pseudo-coffee snob, that is, I went off coffee in the most infuriating way I could think of: by kicking drip to the curb and very publically and deliberately waxing poetic on my inclination for only drinking espresso based drinks. I still love watching people react to that sentiment. It's the kind of uncalled for pretension that makes people squirm, especially baristas.

On this particular day, I was trying to stay off all forms of caffeine, so going to a café was my first misstep, but I was also too damn hot, a sensation I fucking hate, so I needed something chilled and refreshing. Without overthinking, or thinking at all, I ordered the first thing that came to mind:

"An Iced Hot Chocolate, please."

Oh no. What did I just say? Everyone is looking at me. Was that a bad order? What does that order even mean? What the fuck is an Iced Hot Chocolate? And then the girl serving us, who I actually really enjoy , gave it to me straight:

"So... you want a chocolate milk then...

Boom. I had just been verbally sucker-punched in my ego's boob. Oochie wah wah. No. No, no, no! I don't want a freaking "chocolate milk"! I want the drink I made up, and I want nobody to say a word about it. I could feel my fingers tighten around the edge of the hardwood counter, but as much as I pulled, I could not for the life of me flip it over to properly showcase my boiling anger. There was a pause, I could see my little sister was starting to break, and I said through a stone cold grimace:

"Yeah, that's right... an Iced Hot Chocolate."

Of course, what I meant was (you might want to turn up that volume for this one):

She knew, that I knew, that she was right, I was wrong, and we were both going to have to let it lie.

The chocolate milk really was a good choice, but it's the intangible things we took away from that day that are most important: a long-running inside joke between myself and Hayley, and for my server, a story of an idiot guaranteed to slay any crowd, at any party, from ~~now~~ then until eternity. And because this was more of a pride-based tragedy than a failure in flavor, beverage volume or anyone's manners, I am going to give that employee a 7 out of Harvey's. That's for calling me out on not knowing what the hell I was talking about and for giving me a much-needed (but definitely not appreciated) lesson in humility. It's something I can never not think of when I walk by, and it's something I know everyone involved will hold dearly for the remainder of their lives. #IcedHotChocolate. The most stupid fucking drink order ever placed. If Rachael Parsons would have been there, she would have killed me.*

*This is grossly exaggerated for comedic purposes, but the order was placed, verbatim. It sure was.

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Sweet & Sour Meatballs: A Prelude to Karaoke...

2023-12-11T13:32:00.000-08:00

Mouthwatering Shades of Bland.

Most people say "If it's brown flush it down", but I say (if it's brown), "No, you can't have a bite. Get away from me." I don't know what it is about that brown color wheel, but I can never seem to get enough of it in my diet. Whether it be from the gravy family, various cooked meats, potatoes, teriyaki-whatever, that coconut soup from Chabaa Thai, those vegan cookies from Planet Organic (or whatever it's called now), or simply hunks of bread ripped from an unsliced loaf, I gotta have it. And if you think I am over exaggerating my penchant for the dirty side of the rainbow, then just take a look at my cooking choices. Almost everything I prepare ends up being a sloppy, unsightly, and incredibly beige catastrophe. Case in point: Tuesday night's "Sweet & Sour Meatballs."

Even though meatballs are objectively the best, they remain somewhat of a perpetual unsung hero. Even Jerri Blank (Amy Sedaris) was embarrassed to admit to Mr. Noblit (Stephen Colbert) that they were her favorite food in Season 2 of Strangers with Candy, and Jerri is someone who shouldn't be concerned with saving any face at all considering she's a self-proclaimed "junkie whore". (See Video).

Luckily for me (and unluckily for Graham), I have zero drive to cook to any standard higher than my own (one which is virtually non-existent), so when I get meatballs on the brain, you better believe we're having them immediately and the recipe is going to be improvised (as George Costanza would say) "up the ying yang, baby!"

But anyone who has seen the original MXC with Vic, Ken, the Captain, Guy LeDouche and the genius voiceovers can tell you that a crapshoot, especially one with a high risk of failure, is a crowd-pleaser. This is why a narrated breakdown of the few completely un-thoughtful and unclear steps I use to personally go from being someone without meatballs to being someone with meatballs makes the perfect think piece for my growing audience. Because who doesn't, however secretly or un-secretly, love manually shapen-ed meats? I mean, come on, "Hashtag Foodie" much?

Step 1: Have meat in, and make sure it's defrosted.

"Fresh" ground meat is smushy and disgusting, and pulling that tightly bound plastic wrap off of it always grosses me out. There is no way to get around the runny and severely off-putting blood/water melange that collects in the corners of the styrofoam. No matter how hard I try, it winds up all over my hands. All over them. Every time. Honestly, this makes me a little uneasy, because unlike most people's hands, mine are in a constant state of disrepair. I'm talking without fail, and I worry that my open wounds (the results of daily cuticle massacres brought on by incessant biting) are just begging to play host to a lethal dose of E.Coli. Death by my own two hands. It all sounds very Shakespearean doesn't it, but also, in a much more realistic sense, extremely unlikely. Anyway, enough about my beat-up old fingertips. Trust me, they don't need any more attention than I already pay them. Dinner, however, does.

I have heard/seen people prepare these things before and when I sift through the totality of my meatball memories I am flooded with flashes of egg and bread crumbs, for what I can only assume is adhesion. But who has bread crumbs and eggs? Sounds like a recipe for the rich and famous, and we at this apartment are everyday people which, surprisingly, does not create a problem. You see, when you don't give a shit about your own cooking, and bring negative-pride to the table, there's no real need to worry when you're forced to sidestep ingredients and think outside the box. I am under the impression that these particular add-ons aren't really critical anyway - that they're there more to complicate things, and make meatball recipes seem harder than they are (or have to be). If you ask me, anything baked or fried long enough will end up sticking together, a theory I have accidentally proven to myself many times over. So keeping that in mind I start grabbing fistfuls of meat with my unwashed hands and begin rolling away.

Quality Control

I aim for golfball-ish dimensions, but there are some fairly distinct indications that each attempt has missed the mark. Of course, this is a place where food habitually un-impresses, so I don't feel any pressure to push my molding capabilities to any new and unnecessary heights. They look the way they look, and if things go my way, they are going to be swimming in a runny rice disaster anyway, making their abnormalities virtually undetectable. That's how it's done people. Hide bad food in big sauce. Volumes and volumes of it. And if you screw it up to the point where no one is willing to polish off a plate, you can always fall back on old faithful. The one guy who will always appreciate your blood, sweat, and tears: the dog.

Step 2: Rice, I guess.

People think rice is easy, and sometimes it is. But you know what? Just as often it isn't. I like my rice "al dente", which I think is Italian for "hard pasta". Graham, however, likes rice done "properly". For this non-occasion, I do try to make it his way, but again, you never know what you're going to get with rice. Rice is a gamble and nobody really cares about it anyway. At least, they shouldn't.

Step 3: Mix a mixture and call it "Sweet and Sour Sauce".

I ask my mother to text me the recipe for her sauce. From what she says, it looks like I need brown sugar, vinegar and something else. I forget. Water, I presume. Oh, and ketchup. That was the last thing. Vinegar and water aren't an issue, but upon light inspection, I realize I have no brown sugar and boy does she call for a lot. I contemplate using the white kind, but it doesn't seem "brown" enough. I look in the fridge and think for a moment. I wonder if raisins would work, but it seems like a long shot. Then I spot the maple syrup. I don't know what sort of pressure and length of squeeze will equate to the one cup of sugar my mother says I need, so I just go with what feels right. I put about 5 seconds worth of maple syrup into the bowl and decide everything is ready to be fired into the oven. The meatballs look so gross with the sauce poured over them, and I can tell pretty quickly I have managed to get the proportions very wrong. It is way, way too watery, but like I said, anything cooked long enough will eventually stick together, even liquids. I hope.

Step 4: Pour a Vodka Soda and forget about the meatballs.

My friend Dianne Hatcher (who has guest written for The Regular Food Critic) got me into these Lime Cordial Vodka drinks, which are just soda water and you guessed it, lime cordial and vodka. They are pretty good at wetting your whistle, and in a remarkable twist of events, I actually have enough of each to make myself a tall one. Yum yum. I even have ice. My ice always ends up having, like, dirt and hair in it. I never know why. I don't know what happens between the tap and the freezer but their contamination is so consistent, it's one of the only things in my life I can truly rely on. That and having to pop an Immodium about twice a week while in the most inconvenient places Halifax has to offer; like the changing room at Value Village or a BFF's birthday party where all her friends from out of town (that I've never met before) are filed into a two-bedroom apartment with one bathroom and zero ventilation. Not. A. Good. Scene.

The meatballs bake at the arbitrarily chosen temperature of 400 degrees Fahrenheit. I hear a lot of people say temperatures like "350 degrees Fahrenheit" or "450 degrees Fahrenheit", so I feel somewhere in the middle would be that sweet spot that cooks every dish to perfection. Timewise, I just kind of wing it. I give myself about 45 minutes of dinner not crossing my mind, and I sit back with my alcoholic beverage to watch Vampire Diaries. Oh god. I can't believe I am about to get myself started on Vampire Diaries, but here goes. This show is cuckoo bananas. I don't even know where to begin. Elena acts like she knows what's best for all the vampires and she doesn't! I hate her! And all I see is acting. I hate when I can't get the fact that a show is just a bunch of adults pretending out of my head. It ruins everything. And I always wonder about the kind of mindset it must take to be able to have someone say to you: "Okay, I need you to be painfully cool and sexy vampire. You're also really clever. Pretend your teeth are longer too... " and not pee your pants. If it were me, I would spend all hours, on set, sitting in a pool of my own piss. Everyday. Or at least until my inevitable termination. Actors, amirite?

Anyway. I peep into the oven to see how my brown balls are making out. Oh jeez, the sauce is so soupy. I don't know how I can still get surprised by my culinary failures. A herculean squeeze of uncalled-for maple syrup? What did I think was going to happen? I eat one to see how bad they are, and also fire one into a bowl for the poochie. I feel bad that dogs have to eat the same thing every day, so I always let Gully have a bit of what we're having. He only gets one life, and he is 10 years old so I mean, come on. Let the dogs live a little. As far as what we're both ingesting, they aren't half bad. Half.

Step 5: When you hear the Pontiac Pursuit (or Percy as we call him) into the driveway, take the meatballs out and serve everything at once. Everything.

This weighs like, 5 pounds

Sometimes the most annoying part about dinner is having to interrupt your seated position to grab seconds. Graham hates this too, so usually we will serve up every last morsel between two plates and just hammer away at them. Plating in this house takes about 1 to 2 seconds. There is nothing deliberate about any of it, except trying to not miss. And speaking of plates, recognize this one? It was featured it in my very first entry. Looks like it's up to its old tricks again!

This is the main man's portion, not to be confused with the contents of a restaurants slop bucket, or more accurately the unidentifiable rotting carcass myself and the dog once stumbled across during one of our always unpredictable and completely aesthetically displeasing walks through Exhibition Park. Actually, wait, we did figure out what that thing was. It was (once) a deer, and it looked as if someone had fed it a grenade. All hoofs and elbows. It was quite a scene I tell you, and if I hadn't cleared my phone gallery to make room for the shoddy clips I record for these blogs, you would've been able to see what I mean. Probably best I got rid of those though...

So many shades of rust

Mmmmmm. Look at those colors. I mean, I dig what I see, but I doubt any normal person's sensory organs would react well to this. It's a really, really, muted effort with explosive results excelling in the only place that matters: taste. Yes, it tastes like it's meant to and It is filling as fack. Graham eats all of his. His appetite has been insane lately, and I attribute that to his working too much and continually being fed meals with low-quality/ filler ingredients (also known as "my cooking"). He packs away that whole mess and let me tell you, it is a fucking mess. It reminds me of some of my own personal messes, and what they may look like if realized as food; like the time I was fired that second time from that same job, or my haircut/bang situation in Grade 10. I look at him with a raised eyebrow that says "Jesus...." but I am glad he's found it pleasant enough is to cram down his gullet in such total and timely fashion. He is so good at pretending to like what I do.

Otherwise known as "My big break..."

Listen I hate to end so abruptly, but as they say "another day, another dollar", which unfortunately doesn't apply here at all. It is, however, another day, another dinner and although it may not be a "turn of phrase", it fits. You know, as standoffish as those meatballs appear, they were actually quite inviting in real life, and there are no leftovers. I would normally love to elaborate further on that, but my attention has been stolen by the karaoke machine that just arrived at my doorstep. That's right, I bought a karaoke machine for my own personal/apartment use and ever since I opened the box 5 minutes ago I've lost all interest in this review. However, we do need a score. I give this a 6 out of Harvey's - four points being lost for failing to bypass the whole endeavor in the first place and, well, just go to Harvey's. You know, I never learn.

Please stay tuned to The Regular Food Critic for upcoming reviews on Barrington Street's Gingergrass and the spread backstage at last week's This Hour Has 22 Minutes taping!

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@Charmander_on_the_Rock

Lion & Bright: The Place You Can Bring Your Laptop but Not Anymore, Kind of

2023-12-11T12:35:00.000-08:00

There is a story in the Vagina Monologues where
a woman says her vagina is a garden. These
coffee flowers always make me think of that story.

Lion & Bright is on Agricola Street and is somewhat the bane of my existence. Yes, I suppose that would mean I have a pretty cushy existence if a hipster pretentious café is the most antagonistic thorn in my side, but it is a "bane" none the less.

Let's start with how to simply walk into the establishment. Here's a tip, when you enter, keep your eyes down. This is a place where everyone you don't want to see is probably working at their laptop on some artistic endeavour you definitely never want to hear about (and today I plan to be one of them), so if you can navigate without your eyeballs lifting from the floor, I highly recommend you do so. And yes, I know what you're thinking: "Wait a minute, don't I need to be able to see if there's a table available?" No, you don't, because guess what? There isn't.

Of course, eventually, you will get a seat. We do, at least. Today I have in tow two sisters, one nephew, and one Lardene Flart (no, that's not her real name). We came to "work"; Lardene on some photo editing, me on this, but I decided coffee and snack would have to come first or else I wouldn't really have much to work with (although past poor experiences would have probably been enough). We sit down against the wall. I look around. It's fucking packed. Man, this place is always so fucking packed! You just know people love to be spotted here, and I hate that. It reminds me of Obladee. I bet they wouldn't have half the pull they do if there weren't those huge windows looking onto the corners of Barrington and whatever. Because, people go there mainly to be the people who are at Obladee, and of that, I am convinced.

Oh For God Sakes...

Anyway, Obladee is fine. Forget Obladee, back to today. I catch eye contact with some surrounding patrons, and I just know I am making days. One guy has even brought along a stand for his laptop. He wants his laptop and himself to stand out the most. Well buddy, it's working. I can't snap a photo of it, but I can find one on the internet. This laptop stand begs the question "Why?", but it's the non-rhetorical sort, because requiring an answer means opening up a dialogue and I have a feeling me and this man have less than nothing in common, except of course that we are both at Lion & Bright with laptops. Man, I kill myself sometimes, and not in a good way.

But I digress. Where was I? Right, the people are predictable and the tables are hard to get. You know what? They are also a little heavy handed in their distribution. Graham and I watched the worst/best fucking movie ever a few months ago: Curse of Chuckie. The tables remind me a lot of a comment Chuckie made about a woman he was about to kill. He talked about her eyes, screaming about how they were "too fucking close together" right before his little doll hand and doll knife performed some involuntary ocular surgery (see video below, really, see it). These tables are like that woman's eyes. They are way "too fucking close together". I am literally brushing elbows (yes, literally does fit here, don't be pedantic) with the people next to us. In this particular instance though, I don't mind. They are kids and I love kids.

Anyway, I order a coffee. A mochaccino actually. The sisters and the Lardene order food. Here's what we're going to be looking at:

Hayley & Katy - Sharing a NINE DOLLAR mac and cheese (the special) and each getting their own side of leek and something soup.

Lardene - Having the fish tacos and side beet salad.

Basic Bitch, in The Best Way.

Our server. I know this chick is probably awesome, and you never know what is going on in someone's life, but there is something weird going on at Lion & Bright. I always feel as if employees are half agitated by my patronage. It's like they've been instructed to go for an air that says: "Yes, I can take your order, but just so you know, it's not my job to serve you" (spoiler alert: it is). Our food comes pretty quickly, which is huge in my books. When people are hungry, every minute feels like a step closer to death. Our faces light up and the eats seem hot and edible, a great start.

The soup is soup, but it's cool that it's just soup you know? I always tell Graham we should open a place called "For Regular People, For Christ's Sake" because there really are so very few of them out there anymore. Places that when you order soup, you get soup, and when you order a beer, it's just a beer and not something that comes with a description including degrees of hoppy-ness and words like "infused with...", "enlivened by..." or "addition of...". Like, if there is beer in it, I am sure it's going to serve its purpose. And what the fuck is "hoppy"-ness? Do I detect levels of hops with my eyeballs or my earballs? You know what? I don't even want to know the answer. I'd like to exercise my right to refuse to be filled in.

My point is, I like this soup because as you can see, it's a leek soup without bells and whistles, and let's be honest; a haphazard effort at garnishing. Finally, something I can relate too. A normal cup of soup for a couple of normal women. I wish I could have a slurp, but Hayley and Katy must've missed all the episodes of the Care Bear's where they shared their lessons in caring, specifically the sharing one with the popsicles. If you missed it too, you can check it out below:

Two Forks One Cup

Moving on. Let's look at the Mac n' Cheese. That fork is touching the bottom of that plate. It is touching it. Judging by most forks, that has to mean this is one shallow ass depth. Listen, the taste is fine, it's really good actually, but dude, this is NINE DOLLARS we're talking about here. I think they should rename this dish Highway Robbery. Sisters are disappointed by the prospect of sharing now, and they pack it away fast, both driven by their fear of one getting more than the other. We're all a bunch of greedy guts, and that's okay.

Let's talk fish tacos. I have had these here before and they can actually hit the spot if you don't care about money or "bang for your buck". They are drippy, and although some people might hate that, the drippiness is my favorite part of all tacos, fish, chicken, beef, whatever.

For Scale

But there's a big problem with this picture. That is an as served taco portion, but looks more like someone deep fried a witch's finger and plated it for shits and gigs. Granted there are two of these puppies, but for each taco to have that much fish, or should I say that little fish, I mean, there are no words. I had Lardene put her finger there for scale, because it really is super tiny. Guys, it's not that this isn't yummy, but it's almost insulting how minuscule that thing is. I keep expecting our waitress to release some balloons and reveal we're on a terribly Canadian hidden camera show where hipster pretentious restaurants hide behind claims of "quality/local" ingredients and see how much bullshit they can get away with before customers finally break. This taco portion has Lardene at a breaking point. And me for that matter, because the bite she offers up is ruined by the wrappy part being stale-ish.

Lardene is not happy, and I wonder if she is on her period. Women who are hangry and PMSing can be loose cannons and I am not ready to commit to making a scene about this meal just yet. It's not all bad though, the white stuff, whatever it is, is a nice line of sauce, and those orange grated things (carrots?) they are a colorful little addition. Again, hence the word "little". God I feel bad for this taco. It had so much potential. It couldn't have been great. It reminds me a lot of my middle school band "Tender Betrayal" (a name I lifted from my sister Lauren's Harlequin Romance novel), something that sounded like a sure-fire hit but turned out to be a pint-sized effort that was bound to, and did, go nowhere. Oh, Tender B.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

You know what I will get at Lion & Bright if we ever wander back? This fucking beet salad. When the cartoon female exec from The Simpsons first pitched "Poochie" to "Itchy and Scratchy" big wigs, she described him as not simply a dog who got "busy", but a dog who got "biz-zay". This, this here is a salad that gets "biz-ay". I don't even know what's in there, but damn damn-ity damn damn it looks fine. See Lion and B (as I like to call you)? You can do it! I like how that long plate is so long, and I like the idea of starting a meal at one end of a dish and having an end point even more. I didn't have a taste, but I have had this before and I remember thinking it must be the saving grace of the whole joint. If I had to guess how to make this, I would say um.... apples, beets, carrot things, I think I see cashews, and those leaves, I am going to say they are.....rosemary. And one looks like, um, I choose basil. Like I said, I didn't try it so this is me creating a recipe just from this photo, For the sauce, I would say grab whatever cream dressing you have in your fridge and add any green specs you have in your spice cabinet. At the very least, it should look like the one in the photo once you mix the two. Oh! And is that a red onion? Maybe there is red onion too.

The waitress came by to ask us how everything was. I said "Amazing!" with the sort of unbridled enthusiasm only a cock-eyed optimist like Billy Mumphrey could match. Of course I was lying, but I really, really hate to be rude to anyone in the service industry. The fish taco isn't her fault. It's not even the cooks fault. It's the people at the top. They are handing down the orders and those orders need some serious tweaking. When I look at our mains I don't see exquisite plating or scrumptious ingredients, I see many a pinched penny hiding behind the hope that people will interpret small garbage portions as high ~~brow~~ end dining experiences. But I am on to them, and as Marissa Cooper from the O.C. would say (yes, click video):

Once everyone finishes their meals, we leave to search out another internet café as we discover a new rule which grinds our gears has been implemented: no laptops at certain tables. I can feel my "You've gotta be kidding me face" forming and we grab our coats. I realize this is probably just to promote turnover, and it's they're prerogative to decide where we can and cannot set up shop, but it feels a little presumptuous, doesn't it? A little too sure of their popularity.

Listen, Lion and Bright. I doubt this is news to you. I hope you laugh if you read this, and I hope you know no one can ever take away your most valuable selling point: proximity. Your proximity to everything, especially En Vie, gives you a 4/Harvey's. As much as I bitch and complain (or as I like to say "make fair observations"), my North-end-ness and your North-end-ness are bound to cross paths again and when that time comes I just might get the beet salad (which I am giving a separate rating of 8/Harvey's). And a beer. Oh for the love of all that is holy, please don't spit in my beer. Please.

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Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire: What. Does. That. Even. Mean. (Annnnd We're Back!)

2016-11-30T11:23:00.002-08:00

Holy shiza, it's been a dog's age. The Regular Food Critic has completely fallen by the wayside, an oversight which just sucks and begs such questions as How could I? or How dare me? But, fear not. The hiatus was never intended to last forever, or intended at all.

As I once said to myself during an exceptionally difficult period which I'm sure we've all experienced, you know the one, that agonizing moment between finishing a family sized bag of chips and opening another: "All good things must not come to permanent ends." My summer hibernation has wound all the way down (which is a more poetic way of saying "I've run out of Netflix shows that interest me") and since everyone is watching fucking Gilmore Girls this week, now, more than ever, is the time for me to be distracted from television and Facebook. Fucking Gilmore Girls. That's a more apt title, wouldn't you say? This show leaves me so utterly and begrudgingly speechless, and not because I wouldn't love to go on and on about how the duos beat-for-beat, who-can-use-the-most-words-to-say-nothing rhetoric absolutely kills me, but because the show very literally leaves me with no words to do so (yes, there really are no words, Rory and Lorelai have taken them all). And might I add, that whole style of dialogue has only ever worked once and that was in a little town called Capeside where 30-year-olds played 15-year-olds and everyone had access to the same thesaurus.

Now, I know I'm going to get flack for that shade. I don't mind. I like Justin Bieber. Not just like, love. So if you can't understand why anyone would slight two women from Stars Hollow who are just trying to make it in their crazy fictitious world, use that little insight to get to your "A-ha" moment. A moment which will probably read like "What? Seriously? How can anyone not like Gilmo - oh. Oh! She's a Belieber. Oooooooo...."

Christmas is Coming. Christ. Mas.

Moving on to the reason I am writing today. Christmas is coming. Says so just two sentences back. I like Christmas because I am incredibly materialistic and cheap, and that makes receiving gifts the perfect way for me to be myself. But there are other reasons too, and they have everything to do with holiday menu items. Well, item.

Because life is characteristically unfair, more often that not the things I enjoy the most occur seasonally. In the summertime I'm living for tans, finding and keeping other peoples' sunglasses, and Iced Hot Chocolates (see past review on Pro Skates in Halifax for an explanation on that). In the winter I look forward to over-sized sweaters to bloat in, not having to explain why I want to stay home all the time, watching Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer (because it really is so strange), and last but never least, crack-able mixed nuts. Oh. My. God. Mixed. Nuts.

She Said I'm Cuuuuuuuuuute!

Before I get into my brief critique surrounding the nutshell boneyard I have at my place right now, I wanna give a shout out to my favorite character from Rudolph. I'm talking about the mammalian hussy that makes Mae West look like she navigates her sexuality about as efficiently as Juliette Lewis does as the other sister in The Other Sister. This is a jezebel who understands how to work a bow, a breathy voice, and lash extensions: I'm of course talking about Clarice, Rudolph's flirtatious/slut-atious love interest. See video below:

#ForwardMuch? I couldn't find any solid information on what our little Horny Spice has been up to over the last few years, but I think it's safe to say that if it's not starring in porn videos, it's definitely working for that "Pick Up the Phone/Cat Got Your Tongue" sex line we all remember so fondly. She's got that same timbre that drove Kramer crazy for Jamie Gertz on Seinfeld. Or "Jane" as she was called in the episode. You know, the woman who couldn't "spare a square". And if you feel like investigating Clarice any further, or you don't want to be lonely (as the jingle prescribes), here's the number: 011-592-1913. Let's all give those girls a ring together.

Most Nuts Good/Some Nuts Bad

About nuts. There are four different nuts that make up a "trad-ish" mixed nut net: hazelnuts (which are simply acorns without the little hats A.K.A. very polite acorns), walnuts, almonds, and the bad ones. The bad ones might be pecans, but I refuse to look into it any deeper because I've already tried and it's actually been hard for me to confirm. Whatever they are, I really hate them. I tasted one yesterday just to make sure I wasn't having one of my exaggerated or just plain false memories, and yes, I do confirm a distinctly terrible flavor. Like burnt dirt. Or what I imagine a fire pit might taste like if I were to fall into it face first and confuse my next series of decisions by putting "choosing to eat" before "choosing to get up". The point is, don't even bother. Unless you're over 80 and 90% of the intel you're receiving from your sensory organs is muffled to a point of almost complete silence, you're going to want to throw these away. Into the fire. Make more burnt dirt.

And then there are walnuts. Walnuts are good. They can be a very humbling nut to crack since many of your attempts will fail and you'll end up getting super down on your lack of strength, and even more so, on how quickly you're willing to give up on cracking them altogether (#WeakBitchQuitter). However, when you do get one opened, watch out! These babies are like mini-pinatas, not colorfully decorated or full of sweets, but man do they burst. If the Honey I Shrunk the Kids laser ever connected with an Amish community, these little guys would be the perfect thing for a couple of oppressed stick-wielding kids to beat the shit out of at some super-drab party. So expect pieces to go flying. And don't be afraid to eat them off the ground, the couch, or if you're snacking on them in the bath, the bath. You deserve the whole fruit of your labor and the 3-second rule need not be enforced here. Need not, but mostly cannot, because everyone knows that this rule has had only one true monitor since 2012, and that's Lisa Gail Allred. Oh, you don't know Lisa Gail? You don't know the song "3 Second Rule"? Well, if you like sassy older ladies who sing in a key you've never heard before and seem to be pushing the boundaries of traditional/enjoyable harmonies, this is your lucky day. I mean that. Oh man, do I mean that. See video below:

Why is she so amazing? Love her. Anyway, Almonds are okay too, but they're so popular and they make me roll my eyes the same way someone does when they tell me not to talk about the Gilmore Girls reboot, making an ass out of me and them for assuming I even watched it. Why, whenever December rolls around, are we so quick to forget that everyone has these in their houses all the time? One of my friends even has a bag of almonds in her Jetta! I've seen it! And are they even that great? Or special for that matter? "Oh, it's that festive time of year again! Finally, I can get my fill of... almonds..." What common everyday grocery item will be the next must-have-for-no-reason holiday staple? Has anyone looked into the idea of Christmas rice?

Nut Jobs

I. Love. To. Get. Off. Track. The main reason I wrote this was to acknowledge the polite acorns. I'll be honest, when given the chance I opt for the bag of only hazelnuts and leave the mixed ones to individuals in possession of a more indifferent palate than mine. I can't get enough of them. In fact, they should eradicate popcorn and serve these nuts by the refillable-bag-full in theaters, or as I like to call them: "the only places left in the world where you can have an awesome time littering with your friends". Seriously, I don't even go there for the movies anymore. I go to Ciniplex to satisfy my primal urge of throwing garbage and having fun with it.

Buy this.

In closing, I would like to encourage everyone to buy some nuts (which I just misspelled as "buts" three times before I could wrangle my fingers properly around my "n" key). I also really hope you guys watch Lisa Gail's complete video on YouTube. I'll leave the link here, as well as the link to her second single "Coffee, or Tea, or Maybe Me". It is a treat and she is a treasure. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if I've already mentioned her in a Regular Food Critic, but I'm too lazy to go back and check. And so what if I did, it's all gold anyway. I couldn't make those tunes up if I tried, but because she can and did, I want to be around her all the time. Oh, right. The food. 9/Harvey's goes to the mixed bag. Harv's/Harv's goes to the solo performance of the hazelnut. Peace.

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PART TWO - The Halifax Crafters Market/"Clean Spoons"

2016-05-03T11:15:00.001-07:00

So it's been like three days since I had that lemonade, and I feel a mixture of "over it"/"could use a glass right about now". Like Miley Cyrus says on the last track of her "Miley Cyrus and her Dead Petz" album: "What does it mean? What does it mean? What does it mean?" The answer, in this instance, being: "Nobody cares. Nobody cares. Nobody cares."

"Ex-squeeze me? Baking Powder?"

After downing my glorified citrus water, I made a quick stop at a soap booth. It had a pretty straight forward presentation going on; there were some shelves, and the soaps which the chick had made (or so she says...) had been displayed in an attractive manner. Or maybe it was just a "regular" manner. It's not like she had dumped them into a pile on the table and been like "Perrrrfect". They were spread out carefully and deliberately. Maybe to "showcase" them in a desirable way, maybe to satisfy OCD tendencies, who knows. But now that I am thinking about it, I'm starting to like the idea of a "dumb, unorganized heap" look. Yeah, I believe that would have been a welcomed twist. It takes a lot of confidence to do absolutely zero set-up at a craft fair, or any fair for that matter, and a "like it or lump it" attitude can only mean that a product is so good that nobody has to do shit to sell it because it sells itself. That, or it means someone is lazy and they suck. Probably something I would have to decide on a case by case basis, but an interesting spin none the less.

Sadly, there was no "favorite imaginary mess". Her area was pleasant, and I was happy to have found it. I like homemade soaps because they're cheap and who cares/whatever, which happen to be the only two pre-requisites that must be met before I commit to any purchase. I asked the girl with the glasses how much they were (aren't they all "the girl with the glasses" these days? I know I am, and I don't even have a prescription). "Six dollars," she said. Awesome. She cleared that hurdle with a bit of height to spare (I would have also accepted "7 dollars"), and I hoped she could keep it up as I continued on to my next questions. She didn't. Instead, she and I got all tangled up in the following exchange, and before I knew it we were in a non-consensual discussion about my breakout:

Me: "So are any of these for like, face washing?"

Girl: "Yeah, this one here. It has charcoal, blah, blah, blah..."

Me: "Oh, neat, and is it good for..."

Girl: "Acne? Yes."

Me: "..."

Me (again): see video clip

Woah. I think Jerry summed it up perfectly in one of Seinfeld's nightclub intros when he said, "Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, that's not gonna work at all." You see, I was going to say "sensitive skin", but my friend here judged my book by its cover-up, and went there. She was doing that thing creative types sometimes do so well: making normal people really uncomfortable through a series of way too honest and unfiltered observations. As soon as the "A-word" was out of her mouth, I began to feel myself move through all the stages of unexpected embarrassment:

Here's a tip - never ever draw attention to someone's bad skin day. It's about as bad a SNAFU as misidentified sausage poisoning (otherwise known as "asking a woman who isn't pregnant about her pregnancy"). If there is something going on with my face, I am usually the first to know. Like I said, my glasses don't even need the glass parts! I can see! I am aware! Here's the good thing, though, and I mean this - this girl (unbeknownst to her) has given me a great story. I really like her for that. I know she didn't mean anything by jumping the gun and assuming I wanted to talk about "pizza face". One of her friends mentioned that she gets asked about acne-prone skin all the time, so it totally makes sense. Still, it was what it was, and every time I think of it I die. In a good way, because to me, it's amazing. Sometimes really painful moments turn into really funny moments upon further examination, and now when I think of this awkwardness, I wouldn't have it any other way. I wish I would have gone back and told her my version of our conversation, and how I am now almost certain it's going to end up being the highlight of my month. Maybe she would have laughed? Or maybe she would have stared blankly at me with that "evil intellectualism" these artsy types sometimes pour on ya. I'll never know. (Oh - and P.S.- the soap is "fleek". Will buy again. And again. And again.)

"Clean Spoons"

Speaking of highlights of the month, there was another contender that occurred within the confines of the Olympic Centre last weekend. While looking at some pottery at the end of our rounds, a dude (Cherakee - might have been your broseph-in-law?) noticed something "funny" going on with little Hayley Parsons' mug. You see, the crafters market has coffee you dispense yourself, and they also have clean cups for everyone to use. The evidence also suggests they used to have clean spoons, too. That is until apparently (as the guy pointed out) Hayley swiped that mug mistakenly to serve as her "cup of joe", leaving all other patrons with only a "dirty spoons" selection. The guy was losing it after we confirmed that yes, that was exactly what happened, and so were we. Hayley was majorly hungover that day, and it was a classic hangover move, as hangovers rarely read and have little to no attention to detail. I was and still am so glad this didn't go unnoticed because it's the kind of gift that keeps on giving (in the form of Hayley's new nickname: "Clean Spoons").

Move over General Hospital, there's a new soap in town...

Like I said, my purchase (although a bit prickly) was a success. Me love the soap, and even though it's not a snack, it still deserves a Harvey's rating. A good one at that - 9/Harvey's - for the laughs and the product itself.

Oh, for crying out loud. I almost forgot the real snack that I had - Lure Caramel Co. toffee. Holy shiza. This stuff it addictive. It was like Hanson's first album was playing in my mouth, and no one is telling me to turn it down/off. What makes it even more incroyable is that the fact that it is hand-made! By Kate Melvin! I cannot wait to go to Lure in Indian Harbour and make myself sick! Just ask Natalie how fast I eat at a chocolate shop! Yum! Thanks, Kate! Harvey's out of Harvey's! And now that that's all wrapped up in a nice wordy bow, I am going to peace out and make lunch. It's almost 2:30 for god sakes, and I still haven't made any of my daily cheese-based meals! Pull it together, Tuesday! Is it Tuesday? I never know what day it is...

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PART ONE - The Halifax Crafters Market/If this was an album dropping, it would be called "I'm Getting On The Horn"...

2016-05-02T12:16:00.000-07:00

I made fun of Beyoncé yesterday on Facebook and everyone's mad at me. ANYWAY... if you were in the city this weekend, you probably took a bunch of fliff-notes out of your bank account and stopped into the Halifax Crafters Market. The Halifax Crafters Market is where (mostly) way too talented people try to cash in their brainchildren for (mostly) way too few dollars. That's right. There were some D-E-A-L-S carving out property at this little pop-up fair. I am talking, of course, about cousin Rachael's coloring books (which are basically being given away for 15$), as well as her original hand-painted totes, apparel, greeting cards, and prints. What I am not, I repeat, not talking about the five-dollar cup of lemonade my "hangover self" (who always gold-digs my "regular self") forced me into buying. Sadly, not at all.

Before you start asking yourself what my problem is with ~~lemonade~~ everything, please keep in mind I'm not trying to wage war on the cool cats (How does the old saying go? "Every time someone says 'I don't believe in hipsters' somebody sends back a fish taco at Lion and Bright"?). We all know you can't please everyone, and what is perhaps even more important to remember is that everyone can't please me. It's not anyone's fault, except probably mine, so offense need not be taken. On that note...

$2.00 too many...

I once complained (via email) to Maynards about a
package of Sour Patch Kids I bought in the New Orleans Airport. As I pounded away on my keyboard, I discussed how my candies seemed "damp" and that it "didn't matter if they only cost a dollar" because "it wasn't about the price, it was about standards." Although I am sure that statement rings true for a lot of people, it doesn't for me. I polished off the whole bag sour-y sweetness before I could even hit send. Because of course I was still going to eat them, a little wet around the edges or not. Standards, As if. The truth is it's always about the money and within two weeks I had a cheque in the mail for a cool $1.49. Cha-ching.

The point of my story is to demonstrate my history of being "cost sensitive". Five dollars for a cup of lemonade is too much. I should have just asked for the lemons instead. It may not have necessarily been more "bang for my buck", but at least it would have been "bang". I had to play along, though. The dog and pony act had me right where they wanted me and they knew it. Must've been my eyeballs doing their best impression of really thirsty red grapes that gave me away, but, if wasn't those two face raisins, then it had to have been the smell of last night's booze naturally off-gassing from my pores. Either way, they were waving liquids around in front of a vulnerable Saturday morning liquor zombie, so obviously they had my attention (which gives me an idea for an alternative album name: "Desperation Hydration: Struggles of a Waterless Parched Person").

Becky with the good hair...

They had some choices in the "flavor" department, so I decided to go with "SeaBerry" (or as I like to refer to it now, "Really?"). I watched one of the gals pump a squirt (ew - "pump a squirt" - no!) into my cup and then start cranking on the old-school-machine-squasher. Judging from the progress they weren't making, it was clear that some sort of short-cut would need to be taken soon, otherwise, I would have had to go back the following day to collect my drink. And take a short cut they did, because after about the second lemon they began ~~topping off~~ filling up my bevvie with water. A lot of it.

All that water got me thinking: What am I paying for? The manual labor? The physical exertion of bringing the arm upwards and downwards for a maximum of twice times? I felt like some fool throwing bills around so two roommates could make money while they figure out how their hilariously expensive and so obviously unnecessary 16-piece vegan-metal hand-juicer works. (#FiveDollarsFiveDollarsFiveDollars)

Watching them reminded me of when I was a teenager and used to carry around a little lantern with a lit candle inside to "get around in the dark". In my house. I could have turned on the lights, but I wanted to use the lantern because I thought it was cool, and even more so because I wanted everyone else to think it was cool. They didn't, and I retired that habit fairly quickly once I realized it wasn't catching on. It wasn't very practical anyway, ya know, and neither is the jig they pulled down at the Crafters Market. And on top of the "Why even?"-ness of it all, I just realized while writing this that lemonade isn't even a craft! It had about as much business being there as I have in complaining online about something I actually enjoyed - none! Jokes on me, though, because all arbitrary and unasked-for observations aside, I did buy the lemonade. And that can only mean one thing - the hipsters won Saturday.

This whole post is essentially just one long tug on a couple of strangers' chains and is built upon only two facts - one being that the lemonade was damn delicious and the second being that I am a cheapskate. Which is why I give the price of the thirst quencher a 3/Harvey's ("three" being the amount of loonies I believe it should have cost) and the taste a 9/Harvey's because I love lemonade. I'm serious. I love it.

This isn't the end...

I have more on my experience at the HFX Crafters Market coming up later tonight, (#cleanspoons and #soap), so prepare for my usual flooding of your newsfeeds! And remember I am still campaigning for me, myself and I. If you can, please share this link! If you want, please follow me on Twitter! And, if you haven't already, like my page on Facebook!

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Home Cooking - "Put down the spoon, you're killing you..."

2016-04-19T11:12:00.002-07:00

When I was around 18, and my little sister was 8, we spent a lot of time on an all-ages educational website called Poopy-Joe.com. Poopy Joe had a lot going on entertainment-wise, but somehow we always found ourselves clicking on either "The Poop Machine" game or the cooky vid with a familiar poppy lilt, titled "Oops, I Farted Again". Sadly The Poop Machine is not able to be attached to this blog, but if you're ever looking for a way to kill a few hours (or you're drinking alone and don't want to get lost down the Facebook rabbit hole firing off unwelcome friend requests and private messages) feeding this virtual face and butt is a pretty ridiculous way to do it. Yes, the sound effects are uber-disgusting (mute is always an option), but the speeds in which each meal plows, or slugs, through the intestinal track are fairly spot on. I mean, the corn barreling down, only to jettison itself into the toilet to the sound of a machine gun? It was, and still is, very ahead of its time.

As was the bathroom humor spin on Britney's billboard classic seen above, where she spends the bulk of the clip tooting out fancy-free and footloose flames. For users looking for the amusement value of the "Poop Machine", minus the interaction, this is where it's at. The jerky, dated computer generated ~~dancing~~ squatting and arm-flailing won't make you feel like "you're there", but considering the context, you'll be glad you're not.

Amazing, right? But wait, what does a cartoon shitter and a gassy pop princess have anything to do with this blog post? Well, it all comes back to the weird food our bodies can and cannot (or should and should not?) withstand. Poopy-Joe.com teaches us the fake risks of real indigestion, and the gambles we take on the stuff we're not so sure about. "Stuff" like my Tuesday Case Study: The meal I cooked (badly...) in March, that I am now going to try to eat in late April.

Frozen - Like That Song By Madonna

I re-discovered the freezer months ago when I realized it was capable of solving my issues with never finishing, or wanting to waste, my dinner. You see, I have trouble parting with my leftovers (hence the word "my"), which is really just a nice way of communicating my distaste for sharing, and that's where the freezer comes in. The freezer "freezes" things, prohibiting growth and change - much like the way Scotiabank "froze" my account when I deposited that empty envelope as a teenager, or the way I "froze" in my snake costume after laughing so hard I peed my ~~pants~~ scaly unitard while performing in my elementary school's production of Marco Polo. In this instance, "freezing" helps me pick up where I left off with a past meal by completely eliminating the chances of bacterial poisoning (something that usually occurs when it is stored in the favorable temperatures of anywhere besides the freezer). I know. That's a lot of scientific jargon for a wordy blowhard like me. You must be wondering if I've always been this in touch with my savant-ness, and how well I actually knew Oliver Sacks - The answer, of course, is a shaking fist and me saying "That's enough from the peanut gallery!" I mean come on. Jeez... (RIP Dr. Sacks)

Anyway, after this game-changing brain wave, I started firing even the smallest amounts of uneaten food into the icebox... and the most undesirable. Lone, half-gnawed slices of pizza can often be seen through the frost on the Tupperware containers, as can old sandwiches and noodles with varying toppings and sauces. The majority of this collection is seriously, seriously old, a prime example being the eyesore that can be seen in three of the next five photos. I made this particular concoction about three weeks ago, and yes, I plan on finishing it today. I know some people will think "Ew - gross - what even is that?" but don't worry, I know exactly what this is and where it came from. After all, I was the one that tried to make it, and then somewhere throughout that same process, ruined it. It's like that beer with the salt and pepper facial haired man and the name of that book says: "I don't always make shrimp teriyaki, but when I do, I don't." Wait, I think I am making Dos Equis and Don Quijote one thing instead of two things that are very different...

You never know when you've added too much sauce until you've added way too much sauce...

Yes, this is shrimp teriyaki. Or more accurately, this is what shrimp and too much teriyaki sauce looks like after it's been viciously overcooked and frozen for twenty-one days. I like shrimp, and since all the ones I eat have had a bit of a tough go (as in, they used to be alive, curling their way through the sea, and now they are mostly just dead and expensive), I have decided to incorporate more into my diet. Like a healthier alternative to beef, or chicken, or pork, or what-do-I-care. Too bad "eating well" doesn't look the same for everybody. I have seen shrimp teriyaki done properly, and I don't remember it making me question if a really sick cat mistook my rice for a safe place to empty its insides. The visuals speak for themselves. See that swirly dehydrated-anus looking thing? That used to be a crustacean, and I ate it. And I ate that Van Gogh's-long-lost-(allegedly)self-mutilated-ear-part-looking mushroom over there on the left, too.

You know, sometimes people say that food, flavored or not, tastes like nothing and you think, "How the hell can that be?!" Well, it can be. This dish really tasted like nothing. It sure felt like something though. Like I was eating one of those "potions" you serve to your parents as a child, made exclusively of inedible ingredients. This particular creation has a texture of Barbie Doll head, along with a granular taste - like rocks that haven't yet gone through that Rock Tumbler you regret asking for last Christmas. It's different, and I appreciate the freak flag it's trying to fly, but all those things I just described, to me? Those are indicators that scream "Put down the spoon, you're killing you."

That look Jerry Seinfeld gives after he says "Nah, no-one's ever been shot in the city..."

Into the compost it goes! Now you can appreciate all the vibrancy of the brown color wheel, which, as I have mentioned in the past, is a personal favorite. The way the broken plastic bowl plays off the garbage-ness of the contents almost convinces me to give this disaster another shot at being lunch, but then I'm reminded of my easy-to-prepare fallback: an incredibly bland, 4-piece handheld sammy. That's right, no plating required. It is a simple as one single slice of fake turkey, two lightly veganaise-ed pieces of bread from Organic Earth (doesn't matter what kind, just as long as they're tan-ish), and three rectangles of Old Cheddar. Sure, it may look like the kind of sandwich that could depress the "Target Lady", or prompt a kindergarten teacher to place a call to child services, but this is made by grown-up hands for a grown-up bod and it is my adult right to control my own malnutrition. Mine and mine alone.

Dog food and the wishy-washiness of leftovers...

Speaking of malnutrition, that pic with the rice, black bits, and the old coffee has reminded me I need to feed the puppers. Gully eats "whole foods" now - which means liver, rice, carrots, and whatever else I think looks neat in his dish, but regardless of the recipe it somehow always manages to look like the bottom of a green bin... or canned Irish Stew.
I know, I know - who cares!? My point is I need to wrap this up. I have to provide for this animal at some point this morning, so let's get down to info that actually matters, like the Harvey's Scale. Today it has to be broken down into two separate ratings. The first travesty gets a big fat zero, all thanks to the fact that it sucked the first time I tried it, and it sucked even worse almost a month later. My "Trad-ish Turk Sam" (which is "cool" for "traditional turkey sandwich") gets a seven because of it's simplicity and it's ability to not make: 1) a mess, or more importantly, 2) me sick.

Oh yeah, and while we're waiting for fame and fortune...

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Seven Bays Bouldering & Café: PART 1 - The part where we aren't climbing anything yet...

2016-04-11T11:52:00.003-07:00

The photo on the left was taken from 7 Bays website - on the off chance they
get mad at me for stealing it, I have the image on the right ready to take over.

I've never thought to myself while at a café eating a lunch, drinking a coffee, or writing a rambling: "Hey, you know what would make this place perfect? Adjacent indoor ~~rock climbing~~ "bouldering" wall(s)." I just haven't.

It's like Scott Aukerman (or whatever his name may be today) of Comedy Bang!Bang! says in one of my favorite sketches: "Maybe it's just me, but for me..." Yeah, for me? I don't think that would have ever been a naturally occurring idea, and for those of you who have met me, you know that says a lot. That's because I am a person who is writhe with ideas. In fact, I'm surprised/offended it isn't my nickname at this point. I mean, how many episodes of inventiveness does one need to demonstrate before it sticks in everyone's head as a defining quality? Have I told you about the "B-Safe-Let"? Have you seen "Plate Pants"? I think Kristin Wiig said it best while slaying an impersonation of Kris Jenner: "What do I have to do for attention, kill somebody?"

Anyway, enough about the misgivings of everyone around me. The union of rock-climbing and café-going isn't necessarily an "unholy" one. You could say it is out of left field, but I personally am partial to the left side of things anyway, being left-handed and all. So what if it isn't one of those "sure-bet" DTF on POF kind of matches? FRED on Agricola gets away with cutting hair just around the corner of their dining area. CUTTING. HAIR. AND. SERVING. FOOD. They might as well be grooming dogs, which is a type of hair I am never thrilled to find in my lunch, but at least am very used to. But regardless of what animal is shedding nearby, human or canine, somehow they've made it work. And you know what? The peeps over at 7 Bays Bouldering have made their niche market work for them too. Quite fabulously, in fact!

Make Parking, Not War

Let me start with the parking, because in this city, it's important. The parking here is amazing in that it exists, and there seems to always be an available spot. It reminds me of something that doesn't remind me at all of the concrete mind fuck also known as the new Halifax Central Library's parkade. I have cursed more and put more dents in my Jeep within the confines of that Queen Street free-for-all than anyone could ever imagine - unless you can imagine the number one. One dent is what I put into my vehicle while pin-balling towards the exit, but to this day, it still feels like a million. In other words, the parking here is (comparatively) a flirtatious, tall glass of water. Drink it down, drink it in.

Along with the love affair described above, you will notice upon your arrival a series of garage doors. You know the ones - they look like really wide and tall multi-paned windows. Okay. Although I have no confirmation on what this space was before 7 Bays settled in, I'm going to go ahead and guess that it was a CrossFit... "whatever"? All ~~signs~~ garage doors point to CrossFit, because we are living in a time where it is more common to find a bunch of individuals running around and exercising really loudly behind these retractable passageways than it is to find the usual suspects - greased up mechanics getting their "lean on" inside the auto-body shop. Of course, none of these observations are relevant to this review since in this particular case you find neither. In this case, the big bad shutters keep the rock climbers safe from looky-loos like me (or, I suppose, the environment?), and have nothing to do with car repairs or people throwing kettle balls at each other. Because that's what CrossFit is... right? Cacophonous shouting and hurling gym equipment like a Real Housewives hurls her wine ?

The Café with The Elbow Room

It's inconspicuous, it's spacious and it's got a one-room/one-toilet bathroom. JACKPOT). This is a good, no, a great place to grab a bite, to get a beer and to get a table (finally). However, it is not a safe place to get a London Fog. Jessie Redmond tried pulling that stunt and I immediately (and unfairly) teased her for being "so fancy", for the sole purpose of giving myself a cheap chuckle - unfortunately at her expense. Jessie - you and your London Fog. We both know I will probably never let you live it down, and that sure is ridiculous! Oh, friendship!

This is also the spot to be if you were hoping to see men in long, breezy shorts. That is, apart from the yoga studio, but at 7 Bays instead of getting and eyeful of dudes pinching their testicles in ways that make your own private parts cringe, you can watch them standing next to each other, looking at/talking about the rock wall they seem to rarely be climbing!
Seriously, there are so many long shorts in here. Some of the shorts are tolerable, but others are definitely made from hemp and possibly...oh man... by hand. Here's a pro tip: Thin material? Wear JOCKEYS. Women aren't men. We don't like to see the shapes and sizes of sensitive areas through your clothing. If you ask me, catching a glimpse of a penis form without warning evokes the same squirmy feelings I get when I hear the words "epic" or "sensual", or when the insides of a person's elbows somehow make their way into my line of vision (please. god. no.). But enough about free birds, let's move on to something that actually stokes the appetite as opposed to extinguishes it: Tea and good food.

Tea: Rooibos Ginger

This little tea is so cute! The mug reminds me of the ones that were used when I would serve tea at the Chester Legion. That was back when I was a better person/a little Brownie. If you're unfamiliar with Brownies, a Brownie is a tiny girl who is forced to do good deeds, such as brighten the days of the local seniors and participate in the Terry Fox Run. They also have to serve tea and triangle sandwiches to people a couple times a year and from what I can remember I was always stuck serving egg salad. Such an injustice. Do you know what someone eating an egg salad sandwich asking you (too closely) for "Another egg salad sandwich!" looks/smells/sounds and sometimes feels like? I cannot be around egg salad to this day. I'll never understand the public ingestion of the egg salad sandwich. It's so polarizing. Makes me want to cry for everyone involved.

Rooibos is my favorite tea, and ginger is one of those buzz foods I've heard you're supposed to be having, so I thought it would be a smart choice for me. And it was, but here's the thing - tea is just hot water with maybe one spec, one teeny tiny spec, of flavor, and no matter what that "flavor" may be, it all tastes like wet loose-leaf the end. Wet loose-leaf that I have acquired one hell of a taste for, so when critiquing this beverage, as far as hot paper-water goes, this cup was everything I could have hoped for and more (taking into consideration the self-reflection brought by the glassware). Thumbs up for sure/Will order next time.

Dumplings and Spiralized Salad for Two (...for One)

I chose the furthest table away facing everyone's backs because I hate when people watch me eat stringy things/salad/tacos etc. That's messy stuff. Stuff that isn't easy to figure into perfectly bite-sized portions. Today it seems that one patron in particular couldn't care less about those feelings of mine. This "dude/dooood" has decided to come chat up his bro who happens to be sitting at the table directly across of me. And, and, he keeps facing me! Do you know how hard it is to eat spiraled vegetables? In a civilized way? In a way that says "I'm not 3 months old?" It can't be done! It's like what I imagine seeing someone trying to eat a slinky while driving alone on the highway might look like - insane. Trust me. I know. I once spun a slinky into a light fixture at the request of a man who was clearly deranged, just so I wouldn't hurt his feelings. There is no way that that didn't look nuts (it definitely did to my co-workers), and I can only assume a mouth half-full of similarly shaped bits leave me appearing no less certifiable. All issues aside (you know, a bib would have been nice) the taste of this dish makes it worth finishing in one sitting. The sauce is scrumtrulescent and the filling-ness of it was - I don't know - does "100%" mean anything to anyone? I was pretty full. On healthy stuff. That's hard to do, at least for me it is.

Oh my God, and then there were dumplings. Dumplings are amazing, but before I get to them, did you all know that I used to work at the Black Market Boutique for my sister who is a now part-owner (where else could that slinky story have taken place)?

Anyway, this particular night I was closing the store with my friend Ari. Suddenly, I began to sing an original tune, one for all the lonely women out there who, at times, find themselves spending the majority of their evenings in. Alone. Ordering take-out for two (for one). You know what I'm saying. We've all done it - made it sound like we're placing orders for two or more people, knowing full well the numerous Asian "combos" scheduled to arrive at our doorstep are for us, and us alone. Hence the song's title "Tonight, I'm Ordering in for Two (for One)". It was a stunning display. Almost as if I had immaculately concept-ed a song not unlike the way Jesus was immaculately concept-ed, and the profound results of that evening are reminiscent of how I put my order in at 7 Bays. See how there is a paper bag there? Next to the dumplings? Yeah, I asked for those to be brought to me in a take out container. I, for no reason at all, pretended they were for someone else, and the chick at the counter believed me... that is, until she slid them my way following the veggie bowl of awesomeness. They just smelled so good, like the way the plastic lining of a fruit roll-up smells good, and before I knew it I was humming "Tonight, I'm Ordering in for Two (for One)" and ripping into them. They were, hands down, the best dumplings I have had in the city. For real. I know what you're thinking: "Were they really that good, or were you really that hungry?" Unfortunately, there's no way to tell. Sorry. Go try some and let me know what you think?

Yes, You Should Eat Here and YES WE ARE GOING CLIMBING

Everything I ate here was super, super Harvey's-esque, so I am giving it an 8 out of Harvey's. It was tasty A.F., it was fast and I had a whole seating area to myself (huge selling point). The rock wall is also on the agenda. That's right, myself and a few friends plan to tackle that thing this week and I will write the second part of this review upon its completion. There will be video, and I plan to wear one of those extra-thick, anti-incontinence maxi pads because I know for a fact I am going to pee my pants laughing. It's happened before, it will happen again. I guess that means I'll be joining in the breezy short brigade since a queen-sized panty liner isn't the easiest thing to conceal in a pair of knock-off Lulu Lemons. I just hope they have some new "fresh boulders"...?! Stay tuned, like usual!

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Planet Organic (or as they like to be called - Organic Earth): Vegan Cookies - can they really make up for your "Car Licorice"?

2016-04-05T12:28:00.002-07:00

This is a fast and furious review (not to be confused with a review of "The Fast and the Furious". We don't "allow" that sort of "garbage" on here). It's going to be unfussy, and just the way I like my morning baths - quick and dirty. Actually, I don't know if you could technically call what I do in the tub a "bath", per se. It's actually more of a sterilization session if anything, where the water is scalding, and the traditional "scrubbing" is... minimal. But it all does go down "in the bath", and I think that may be the only criteria in order to constitute a bath being taken. So, yeah. The hell with it. Let's call them my "morning baths".

Anyway, apart from my body's entire disinfection via submersion into what is essentially a boiling porcelain cauldron, I have a few other rituals that I find help jumpstart my day and my version of daily productivity. Using the bathroom is one of them, but it's so hard to capture that whole scene with only words. It's the kind of experience that needs to be filmed in order to really be felt, but since we still live in a world where videotaping one's self in the middle of toilet-time is considered "taboo", or "disgusting, or an "audition for Two Girls One Cup", I can't really take the leap and publish one here. I can, however, go over the more "vanilla" details of my routine, beginning with (and really, ending with) getting coffee from Planet Organic. Sorry. Organic Earth. Jesus.

As my readers should by now be aware, I only drink espresso-based coffee drinks. What can I say, it's the L.A. in me (for the record I have never been to, or know anyone who has been to, LA.). To be more specific though, I tend to lean towards either Mochaccinos or Caffé Mochas. What is the difference you ask? Ask somebody else. I'm too embarrassed to admit my not knowing by having to pose that question to any barista, so I don't have the answer and it's safe to assume I never will. Now, I used to go to Java Blend everyday fir my fix, but the problem with JB is that it is really popular for coffee pickups. This means you can almost guarantee on running into somebody you know, somebody you kind of know, or the worst of all the offenses, somebody you barely know, while you're there. It really is murder having only seconds to decide how or if to acknowledge someone (Do I wave? Does this person even remember me? Do they think I should say "Hi"? Do people nod at one another anymore? Do any of these coffees come with a gun so I can just put myself out of my misery right here, right now?) and if it can be avoided, then you better believe I avoid it.

Needless to say I had to find a substitute coffee haunt, and since for the longest time I vowed never to return to Pro Skate because of my pride and inclination to be disproportionally embarassed (I'm obviously exaggerating and love Pro and the peeps there- Hi Chantal!) I tested the waters at Organic Earth. And that is where I found myself this morning, with Hayley Parsons, ordering my stupid drink and getting two of my little favorites - the vegan cookie and the peanut butter ball.

I am not vegan if that's what some of my posts have suggested. I know me saying that implies that I think of the term as some sort of cruel accusation, but I don't. I'm just not. Even if I try to tell you I am when I'm drinking, I'm still not. I do like vegan food, though. A lot, and since vegans so desperately want the rest of us to hop aboard the canola-oil-powered vegan train, they make it a point to ensure their meal alternatives are f'ing amazing. Case in point: this vegan cookie you see on your right.

Okay. I forgot to take a photo of this before I started eating it. This cookie is only $2.50, maybe. I forget. Point is, it's so freaking good. They're big too, and dense as hell. As you cannot really see, there are seeds in there, there are chocolate chips, and there is a lot of brown (in other words check, check, check). I like to have this little bugger first thing in the morning to make up for my even more "first thing in the morning" snack - my car licorice. Car licorice is licorice you keep in your car to eat while you're on your way to get your "real" breakfast. It's yummy, often frozen, and really terrible for you. But like I said, you throw back a couple a vegan anythings after two or three Twizzlers, and everything kind of just sorts itself out. I'm sure of it.

To even further satisfy my sweet teeth, I like to grab a classic peanut butter ball. This one goes down fast, and since I want to save it for later, you won't be getting a good look at it. Though, I did take the time to set up a really stunning photo, incorporating such props as a mirror and natural light streaming in through a window. I tell you, it was quite a scene. I could barely get through this shoot without tearing up at the raw beauty of it all. The peanut butter ball is however much money, and is a gift from god. If you haven't had one, go buy one now. If you want to buy two, then buy two. And so on, and so on, and so on.

The coffee at this place is good. I think it's Java Blend so I mean, yeah, it is what it is. There is a super nice chick who works behind the counter with glasses and she is cheery up the wazoo. The debit machine can sometimes be a sticky wicket, but no need to be a dick about that. It's just a touchy piece of shit and that's life. The only reason it bothers me so much is because I have to hang onto it longer when it's screwing itself up. Hanging on means exposing my horribly hang-nailed thumbs to whoever is working. They are not a pretty sight, and it gives me anxiety thinking about the level of disgust that is being experienced by whoever lays eyes on them.

Anyway, that's about it. Organic Earth is pretty solid (though the groceries are hella-expensive) and I give their café a 6 out of Harvey's because that's the first number that came to my head, and my Mom always said when you're writing a multiple choice exam, you gotta go with your gut. She wasn't necessarily generous with the advice, so I have been forced to apply that to basically everything life hands to me. (Just kidding, she also told me that "There's more to life than just partying"...)

I leave you on this fine Tuesday afternoon with some killer dance moves performed by myself, dressed up as my alter-ego, 17-year-old male rapping/dance battling sensation Jonathan Mosher. This one is for the girls.

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Burger Week: Sampling the Basics in a North End Kitchen/Oh Jeez...

2016-03-21T12:09:00.003-07:00

If you're in Halifax, and have read any signage over the past few days, or picked up a copy of The Coast (however begrudgingly), then there is no way you don't know it's "fuckin' Burger Week, brah"! For those readers who are unfamiliar here's the 411: Burger Week is a 7-day totally "hot ticket" period. It's during this time when almost every restaurant and their dog try to ham-burgle one another's thunder (and patrons) through varying combinations of extra-special paddies, toppings, condiments, and buns. It's culinary madness. People get mentally bent, using social media as a common place of worship, and some fliffer* down at "B.W. Headquarters" has even gone so far as to bestow upon our city streets some highly flamboyant, customized transport. That's right, you may not have a car, but the last six days, and upcoming one, do. Of course, it is a Mini Cooper, so it's more like having its own customized set of power wheels, but it's "a set of wheels" none the less. *For insight as to what "fliffing" is - see video below.

Surprising to nobody, this is a problem for me. Listen, I love burgers, and I have nothing against "weeks", but I hate when the intangible get cars over people (specifically, people like me). As far as I am concerned, events do not need their own vehicles, but if I am wrong, and they do, then come on. I can think of so many more deserving occasions that have come and gone without their own "tribute joyride". For example, (in particular order):

Me, when I (in my opinion) pulled off cornrows at my rural high school graduation.
Me, when I convinced Sobey's to reimburse me for a pizza I felt was "sub-par" by reporting that "its inability to rise had ruined my (non-existent) 7-year-old daughter's birthday party, leaving all the (make believe) guests in (equally make-believe) tears".
Me, when once, at a friend's gathering, I successfully relocated my "number two(s)" from a toilet that refused to flush, to an undisclosed outdoor area in Chester, Nova Scotia completely undetected by other party goers, like the National ~~Trainwreck~~ Treasure that I am.
And me, when I openly discussed that time (A.K.A. "The Purse Story" for those confidantes who are already familiar), at a friend 's gathering, when I successfully relocated my "number two(s)" from a toilet that refused to flush, to an undisclosed outdoor area in Chester. Nova Scotia and published those details on the internet for everyone to read (see "Number 3").

Yes, I have seen the similar recount of poo-toting which also hit the internet today. May all the women who have taken (fecal) matters into their own hands stand tall and strong together - with light hearts and heavy purses.

Are you picking up what I am putting down here? I should be driving a fleet of these
things at the rate my milestones are piling up but hey, their dime, their rules, and let's be honest - that whip is kinda wack anyway. On the plus side, our eateries make up for the annoying parts of Burger Week with the ever elusive, economic unicorn: "reasonable pricing" (usually around 6$). A-ha, so this explains why the meaty contenders are only here for a limited time! God forbid we Haligonians be privy to really sick and affordable burgers the other 358 days of the year, because that would be absurd, right? "No one can be expected to keep up that sort of wizardry, at least not year round!" (someone has obviously and unfortunately decreed...)

Relax, Yo

"Do I look fat in this body?" #BurgerWeekProse

I know what you're thinking, "Give Burger Week a break, you stupid bitch!"*, and you're right. There is definitely more to this festive time than grinding the public's gears with its fleeting nature, adding to the antagonizing hashtag population, and that "dude" in the funky squirrel suit. I'm talking of course about raising money for Feed Nova Scotia. That is awesome, and a sentiment to which I do declare "Holla! Holla! Holla!" (which is Real Housewife of New York City speak for "Gettit Girrrl"). But guys. Guys. "Do-goodery" does not "a great comedy make", so while I wholeheartedly applaud turning community-wide interest into bank for those in need, this isn't really the place to delve into those particulars. No, this is more of a place to dwell on less-important/unimportant observations; like how on earth I could interpret Burger Week as some sort of a personal slight, or how through a series of rash decisions in the kitchen I ended up "making it my own". So please, forgive me for putting a pin in the goodwill, but I'm just the Regular Food Critic, not The Regular Philanthropist.

*Sidenote: I've decided to take the term "you stupid bitch" back from the douchebags, and now Graham and I put it at the end of every sentence, almost like a term of endearment i.e. "Graham, can you ask for no whip cream on my Café Mocha, you stupid bitch?" or "Jill, the roads are really bad so be careful, you stupid bitch." It's a good thing, trust me.

Graham's Truth About Burger Week

Back to the subject at hand. The other night Graham went behind my back and had one of these Burger Week burgers. I am not saying it was part of a malicious agenda or anything, but wasn't it? Or rather, couldn't it have been? From what I understand, he and his buddy Matt McNair snuck off to Relish to scarf down a couple of real doozies, otherwise known as (see video):

Wow. Stop yelling, amirite? Now, I don't know who has and has not seen The Jinx, but let me tell you, looking into those black, beady, and I'm guessing astigmatism-ized eyes of Robert Durst whilst being interviewed by Andrew Jarecki has nothing on the cold and heartless stare of a man who has recently enjoyed a burger and fry combo without you. And did anyone else feel the scathing casualness in his tone? He's a little too laissez-faire, like he's got something to hide, which could only be the fact that he was really glad he stepped outside of the home for dinner. Ouch.

I could feel his allegiance to myself and my cooking weakening, and became overwhelmed by that "Not on my watch!" sensation I often get when my back's up. It was obvious this Relish ~~person~~ establishment had tickled my man's taste buds, given his figurative crank a helluva turn, and god knows what else. I had to wonder, what did Relish have that I didn't have? I mean, I pretend to be a foodie, I am fake-interested in quality meal options, could it be that I was underestimating the pull and power of Burger Week? Was this one of those situations where the phrase "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" actually applied? Growing tired of asking questions nobody cared about, I concluded it was. I had no choice but to spring into action, (food)-fighting back against public enemy number one, otherwise known as my boyfriend's wandering palate. And since I literally have the attention-span of a 32-year-old woman with a terribly short attention span, I knew I had to come up with my own creation fast - before I came up with nothing at all and just decided to watch some more episodes of Buffy.

Making My Burger Week Contribution with Whatever the Opposite of "Imagination" Is...

I don't know if you've picked up on this from reading any past reviews of mine or Graham's cooking or not, but we don't really have like, a lot of "ingredients" per se. There is some food in the house, but food and ingredients are two different things. Food is like: I have an orange, I have rye bread, and I have flaked coconut - I have food. But when I have ingredients I have like: noodles, butter and that dusty parmesan that comes in the shaker - I have the ingredients - for one of my favorite meals, which I call "Noodles, Butter, and Parmesan". And speaking of parmesan, I heard through the Google grapevine that the powdery-est versions we keep as kitchens staples are more wood pulp than cheese. Isn't that nuts/the best? Those ~~crafty~~ Krafty kids, they really got us didn't they? As "Mark" from the makers of "Jeff" wold say: (see video)

Buns? More Like Zzzzzzz....

Anyway, anyway, my point is that we aren't operating with fully stocked cupboards or fridge over here, so thank god for my innate inventiveness. If you ask me, in order to make something remarkable, or at least to create a buzz, you need to pinpoint where everyone has laid down their comfort zones and face-plant outside of all of them. Case in point: traditional loafy, puffy, boring buns. Snoooooze-fest. George Costanza once said that toilet paper is the one thing that had never changed in his lifetime, and probably would never change afterward. He was only sort-of right (which means completely wrong) but you know, I see what he was getting at. I think the same could be said for hamburger buns. Why haven't we pushed for further development? And for god sakes, don't say using a leaf of lettuce is a viable substitution. It doesn't count. On the other hand, something that does qualify is one of my old favorites - Premium Plus Crackers (Salted Top Edition).

Crackers are good for holding in your hands and making low-budget sliders, as will be demonstrated in a few moments. They also make great buns because they are the same color as buns, and they are almost the same shape, in that they are a shape - so close enough. They are hard but not too hard, and they are crumbly but not too - well actually yeah, they are too damn crumbly, but you have to pick your battles carefully. That's why. when I noticed the 50 sleeves of saltines we had tossed into the back of our kitchen cabinet, and nothing really surrounding them in terms of "other options", I knew they would (have to) be the perfect foundation for my Burger Week burger. Fingers crossed...

Paddies? Might as Well Be Frosted Tips!

In terms of the literal "meat" of the thing, I wanted to keep it flimsy and gross. Luckily, I was in possession of some 50% off, "teetering on the edge of expiration" deli meats, which were no doubt meant to be my burger substitutions. And to elevate the gourmet-ness of it all, rather than offer only one type of animal source, I was able to offer up two: turkey and roast beef. They both have that characteristic ~~slime~~ shine, and they are wet, so you know they're ... wet. As you see in the photo, my signature color scheme and style came through fairly effortlessly; muted fleshy/beige-y/bready shades on a yard-sale worthy place setting, and as I could smell, something in that mix really belonged in the garbage. Apart from that, the visual is spot on and after mulling over the idea of adding anything else to, you know, bring some (or any) flavor to the dish, I decide toppings and sauces are very "been there, done that" as far as Burger Week burgers go and call "cut".

Eat. Gross. Yikes. (See Video)

It's a minimalistic masterpiece, and a triumph in terms of prep time, which has got to be under 1 minute. Reflecting on the many victories occurring across this meal's journey to fruition, I realize I have probably broken records along the way for something and/or anything and am therefore in the running for some non-descript award The Coast will likely be taking votes for later this year. Because how can you not love this burger? With no ingredients set in stone, it's essentially the sandwich equivalent of a "choose your own adventure" (Do I got with the pink or the brown meat? Two crackers or open-faced?), and I don't know about you, but that sounds rad.

"Kudos Elaine, on a job.... done." - J.Peterman

In terms of taste, the beef version was okay. The turkey however was, well, the turkey was what should have been thrown away in the first place. I had one bite and was like "Oh my god...where's the dog?" (just kidding our dog only eats whole food now... and tampons.) I give this meal a 2/Harvey's for having two chances to taste good and not really getting any of them right. That being said, would I make them again during a non-"Burger Week" week? Sure. Do I think I could get other people on board? Never, but that's someone's loss (I will let you decide whose exactly). Please check back to The Regular Food Critic as Gingergrass and Wild Leek reviews are being picked away at, so. freaking. slowly. Someday. Someday they'll be done.

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Why Starbucks is Cheap: A Mic Mac Mall Excursion Written by Guest Critic Dianne Hatcher

2016-03-05T11:17:00.000-08:00

Second guest spot goes to Dianne, who went to Starbucks which, for a Mom, is all about downtime and stretching out the experience...

"I would be willing to pay double the price for a Starbucks coffee if I had to, and I mean that. No, I haven’t added a shot of Bailey’, it’s simply due to the fact that if I’m drinking a latte, 99% of the time it means I am alone. I’ll explain later, but since I have a family, that shit is priceless. So reviewing a latte is the best excuse to get a little break.

Google maps told me the nearest Starbucks is 47 minutes away. Rural Nova Scotia is probably the only place in the world where a Starbucks is not within walking distance. I wonder how easy it was for Starbucks Execs to do a market analysis of the South Shore and decide not to set up shop. I purchased this particular latté at the Starbucks in Mic Mac Mall. I ordered the Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte. It has got to be the easiest drink to order from the menu - a drink where you don’t have to embarrass yourself in front of strangers fumbling with the words while the barista repeats it back to you like "DID YOU MEAN….this?”. God, I hate that. I mean I hate that when it happens to other people when I'm in line behind them. I order the exact same drink every single time I’m here, since forever, which goes to show how daring I am at trying new things. I used to order a Skinny Vanilla Latte because I cared about the extra calories and fat (skinny is skim milk/fake sugar) and I would rather replace those calories with chemicals than risk my vanity. Now I’m married with two kids and I always get a hefty muffin on the side, so I might as well end the charade and get a normal drink from now on. I’d be doing myself a favor and making the drink even easier to order - "Grande Vanilla Latte please!"

Waiting for my drink at the counter, I watch the baristas working. There is so much mystery around the Starbucks barista, more than any other person that well, makes coffee. Don’t they receive a ton of training and have to pass a complicated test to be able to work there? I don’t know, I’ve just heard that. Well, my barista today is ‘in-training’ and the others are commenting on how great her milk froth is, and that they couldn’t even make that. Should I be happy I have the trainee? I’ll go with that. My biggest complaint about their service is they never spell my name right on the cup!! It’s always with one "n". I get it, most Diane’s are with one "n" - but not me. Everyone who has a weird name knows what that’s like it makes you insane. And I apologize to my son Jaxon for ruining his life with the name I gave him, I must have been feeling ironic when I picked out his name. Just once, I want to go back to the counter, slam my drink down and demand a new one because my order was wrong only for the fact my name was wrong. But I’m not a complete bitch, except in my head. However, my constructive criticism for Starbucks is that they should include in-depth studies of baby name books as part of their orientation. You know, to familiarize themselves with spelling. Minus five "Harvey" points for that oversight.

My latte is really sweet. It reminds me of my sweet, sweet alone time. Now that I live in Chester, I don't mind paying so much for the Starbucks latte, it’s a symbol of Mom freedom. Those few hours alone to run errands. I take a closer look at the actual Starbucks logo now, to see if their symbol resonates with me. I attached a pic. It’s kind of a mermaid with wavy hair, wearing a crown but also with two tails. Umm, what the hell is that supposed to be anyway? Why have I never noticed how crap it is? They are lucky their coffee is so good because their branding fails. I never considered myself to be overly "deep", so I refuse to waste any personal time searching for meaning in a half woman/half fish caffeine goddess.

Okay, so I know you all think I could go to Tim Horton's, or a local coffee shop for that matter. Anything being better than paying for high priced fluff. But local coffee shops with their organic blends are more pretentious than the fake hipsters at Starbucks. I walk into an organic coffee shop and feel like I’m Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman walking into a dress shop on Rodeo Drive. I get the "You don’t belong here" look, due to my brand names and washed hair. On the other hand, you have Tim Horton's. That place is like a special club for members only and since I don’t have my seniors discount card (yet), I don't feel at home there either (though I could totally work with that aged vibe, being in the 35-45 year-old bracket now). Plus, Tim Horton's is in Chester, which means if I’m there my kids are probably behind me screaming for a Chocolate Chill and Timbits, so there is zero chance of a positive experience.

So I guess what I am really paying for is the total Starbucks experience. The experience of having silence for a few hours. My skinny vanilla latte is really good cold too - I usually drink it over 2-hour+ period, because when it’s done I have to go back to being responsible. Yes, I savour the hell out of it. Today, I will give my drink an "8 out of 10 Tim Hortons", because let's face it, I’m Canadian and everything coffee is compared to Tim’s."

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"Pivia" Café Part 2: A Cup of Coffee i.e. Whatevah Written by Guest Critic Hayley Jean Parsons

2016-03-05T11:00:00.000-08:00

I mean, it's pretty, right?

First guest critic Hayley Jean Parsons, the youngest of the four Parsons sisters. This is a little overdue, but here it is nonetheless. Part 2 of our Pavia (or as Hayley calls it, "Pivia") trip...

"It’s overpriced. It’s overhyped. It’s absolutely mandatory for every food blogger to have an abundance of photos of it (remember if you didn’t Instagram it, it didn’t happen). Yes, we are talking about your morning dose of caffeine in whatever form it may be.

Although it pains me to say it, I am unfortunately one of those annoying people who claim they "can’t be human without their first cup of coffee". Of course I can, it’s just my scapegoat if ever I am interpreted as being a raging bitch. Once I decide I’m able (and willing) to step up to the challenge of being a good person; I bite the bullet and buy coffee #1.

My choice of coffee depends solely on my financial state. If I have money to burn, I usually get a double cappuccino. When I’m poor A.F. (seriously, it’s either one extreme or the other) I get a large "drip" coffee. Cheap. Effective. Boring as hell. And since we're on the topic, allow me to reminisce about the other day at Pavia, I decided to channel my inner Beyoncé and splurge on a double cappuccino and a muffin! Whateves right? They gotta know what they're doing! Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

We forgot to keep a picture of Pavia's Coffee.
Close enough.

Okay so let’s start off with the muffin. Honestly, it was fine. I’m not going to let the muffin take the heat for something it didn’t do. It was pretty moist (cue the gags), nutty, and some would even say delicious. Unfortunately, I was too blinded by my coffee (or lack thereof) to even notice all of my muffin’s wonderful attributes. The coffee was overshadowing the rest of my order, and not in a good way. It was as if I had asked for a paper cup with a small side of coffee. It looked more like something made for a kid’s menu that only children under the age of 12 could order off of. Do you see what I’m getting at? It was so tiny. The tiniest.

I looked at my coffee, enthusiastically said "Thank you" as if I’d never been so grateful in my life (fake it till you make it right?). I walked over to the coffee station, sprinkled some cinnamon on top, grabbed a lid, and was ready to go…or so I thought. Some way, somehow, the lid was too small. I’m telling you, there’s no way in hell they could sell a coffee smaller than the one I ordered, but the fact that this particular top wasn't fitting means they must, and that is just obscene. The size of the too small lid tells me they are basically serving something up in thimbles, and to me, that just doesn't seem practical. I rectify my terrible mistake by fetching the correctly sized lid, and I put it to the test. This one needed to prove itself. My sister and I put the top on my coffee, took it off, put it on, took it off, so on and so forth until we were confident it was the one we were looking for.

This lid was definitely not trying to pull a fast one on us. This second lid, this was the lid for me. And, um, anyways. Then we left. Pavia keeps their original rating of 0/Harvey's for putting me in a situation where I am humiliated by having to make two trips to the coffee station."

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Heated "Iced Hot Chocolate" From Pro Skateboards - A Love Story

2016-03-02T08:43:00.002-08:00

Well, what a whirlwind it has been since I published my self-reflection on the Pro Skate incident. You know, the one I covered (in great and embellished detail) just yesterday on this very chunk of online real estate. Let me tell you something, opening up about being a dumb-dumb has seemed to be a good thing. As was bound to happen, I find myself now a raging inspiration for anyone and everyone who has made an ass of themselves at a food/drink establishment simply by failing masterfully at being a normal human being. Look at me, basically saving lives by promoting social adeptness through the awareness of social ineptness. I'm not much of a public speaker, but yes, I will be available for talks at your university graduation and/or high school assembly. If I can pencil you in.

I guess I really am "the change" the world needs, and that's a big deal, right? Wrong. The real big deal is this coffee my main man just brought through the door. It's from the ladies at Pro Skate, just around the corner from this very living room. They had heard my story and were so deeply affected, that when Graham ordered my "Iced Hot Chocolate" heated (and by that I mean, when he ordered me a Mochaccino), they felt he must have been mistaken. For all they knew, I took my drinks cold. And decaffeinated. So they left me a note, just to make sure. See?

If that isn't spunk, then I don't know what is. A personalized cup, with a message, just for me. A way for her to say she knows, that I know, that she now knows. It's a dialogue and I love it. A true "day maker". And check out that score! I dedicate it to the "Iced Hot Chocolate" in all of us.

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Water: A Closer Look/Pavia Café Part 1

2016-02-29T13:41:00.002-08:00

What does the snowflake mean?

Water doesn’t get enough reviews, good or bad, so I thought it was a great subject for my second official critique. Specifically, the water I bought at Pavia on the 5^th floor of the Halifax Regional Library on Spring Garden Road, or as I like to call it, "the place where I backed into a concrete parking barrier and went into a subsequent blind rage". Here it is, amongst some of Hayley Parsons' knickknacks, and apparently it's called "Eska".

Yup. That’s water alright. Check out that glass bottle. It’s transparent. Classic glass. I like how the neck swoops and tapers in traditional bottle fashion. Makes it easier to grip in case this empty ever needs to become a weapon. Pavia sells these puppies for 2.50$, which is super annoying when I remember that I have loads of this shit at home, and on tap none the less.

Our Barista made Hayley a vagina in her coffee.

Pavia (or “Pivia” as Hayley Jean calls it) is kind of "too cool for school". They have weird coconut water that I didn’t photograph, but I distinctly remember reading the label and saying to myself “Oh, jeez...” which is never a good sign. The sandwiches are wrapped in paper and are like 9.00$ with tax. Nine Dollars! And they don’t even offer up a preview! I mean, if I am gonna drop a "T" (that’s a ten dollar bill) on some bread and some middles (i.e. meat, lettuce, pickle, tomato), I want to see how stacked those middles are. How do I know Pavia isn't just hot potato-ing my lunch and after a series of unwraps won't leave me with a pocket-sized panini or some shiz? Don’t trust food you cannot see. Words to live by.

And that's how it's done!

And speaking of words to live by, sorry, I mean not speaking of words to live by, back to the water. I opened the cap and like clockwork, off it came. I give the makers of Eska points for being predictable in a really necessary way. I peer deep down the neck and just as it seems from the outside, the inside also appears to be 100% l'eau. Looks wet in there, as it was bound to be once the manufacturers filled ‘er up, and although visual evaluation is important, I try to use all my senses when performing my assessments. My ears feel at ease, happy to be in the absence of those deafening sounds of carbonation. I am also relieved by the lack of scent. Smelly water can ruin thirst and appetite, just take a stroll down by the ocean next time the tide goes out and you'll see what I mean. Yikes. But it's the taste (or lack thereof) that is really going to make or break this beverage. I hate to dish out a "thumbs down", so I cross a few of my digits for Eska instead. Water's gotta be a tough one to fuck up, but I am sure it's been done before, and will be done again.

Down the gullet it goes. I am supah hung over, so it might as well be liquid gold. Too good, and I immediately am struck by the panic one gets when you realise the amount of water you actually need is going to cost about 10$ more than what you are willing to spend. Apart from that though, I'm impressed. It’s cold, flavorless, and basically serving the only purpose I need it to: lubing up/cooling down my burning throat from the previous evening's one too many smokes and twenty too many ounces of vodka. It’s like an icepack for your insides and boy do I need it. The whole thing goes down fast and I decide I want to keep the bottle after, and only after, my little sister asks if she can have it. So I take it home, where I get some use out of it, as is captured in the image above. Here you can see Graham Ferguson demonstrating how to undertake a refill, and yes, this can be done in the home. If however there is confusion on how topping off a container works, check out the video tutorial below. It's a quickie, so don't blink, or you'll miss it.

Pavia’s water gets a "zero out of Harvey's" for costing me money (which is the rating system I have settled on: zero being bad, Harvey's being the best for obvious reasons). Almost everything I eat/drink will receive a "zero out of Harvey's" simply for breaking my bank, so I insist Eska and the dumb-dumb library café not take it personally. It's just me being cheap and bitter, not necessarily in that order. There's an opportunity to make up for this bad score anyway with Part 2 of my review, which will be on a cup of coffee purchased by Hayley. Stay tuned, I have a feeling this one is going to be a doozy.

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Breakfast on Allan Street ft. guest cook Graham Ferguson

2016-02-29T08:54:00.000-08:00

Breakfast... pasta?

What are plates made of? I mean, if they aren’t china or plastic. Is it glass? Are they glass? Do I have glass plates? Or maybe they’re ceramic. What is ceramic? Is that what people call pottery when it’s really, really good?

Anyway. The plate, glass or ceramic, is quietly amusing. It’s got these flowers I've never noticed until I had to write about them. It’s painted with what I imagine vibrant shades of green, yellow, purple and pink look like when they sleeping off a hangover. I am assuming this is a regulation sized plate, but apart from Google, there really is no way of knowing. It’s a plate. It seems to be able to carry the weight of a loaded bagel with a side salad and, therefore, is meeting its minimum requirements. This flatware refuses to go above and beyond, and I dig that. I hate finicky dishes. They’re so “Look at me! Look at me!”. I mean, this is an apartment, not some hipster-doofus pop-up restaurant where you are forced to eat soup out of a piece of artisan driftwood. Thank god.

But enough about hipsters. Look at that bagel. That’s straight from the freezer, that is. We don’t defrost them. We hate middlemen when it comes to cooking. We jam our bagels right into the toaster. Hard as rocks. If you notice, there is a little bit of, like, cheese baked into the top. That’s how you know it’s good. When it has things in/on it. Seeds, red specs, green lines, in the words of Michael Scott “It’s allllllllllll goooooooood.” Graham made this meal. From what I can tell, he has used our Veganaise in lieu of mayonnaise, or as we like to call it in our household: vag-inaise (that’s a soft "g", like vag-isil). I love Vaginaise, hate Miracle Whip, and Graham respects that. Points for Graham. And points for me too I suppose, for choosing a man so up with "the times".

Bacon was on sale. It’s definitely the bad kind. The kind that would make PETA members have a worldwide, collective aneurysm, but when something is 3.99$ ethics go right out the proverbial window, don’t they? To balance out the exploitation of pork, I have requested he use the vegetarian turkey meat for the top layer. It comforts the bacon. It says “It’s okay.” We also have some tomatoes in there, which I’m not wild about, but it’s more of a “Whatever” attitude than an “Ew, gross!” attitude. Sometimes they hit the spot though, so that’s why you won't hear me cut them down completely. Ambivalence, I think they call that. Actually, no. I'm pretty sure it's indifference. Anyway, today I welcome them into my lunch menu. It should be noted that these tomatoes aren’t a certain kind or anything. It’s not like we only eat Hot House or Cherry. We don’t care what the specifics are, as long as they are spherical-ish and red-ish. A tomato, is a tomato, is a tomato, am I right?

Day 2: All done!

And then we have a leaf of kale, which Graham washes, but I never do. I never wash any of my vegetables. Or fruit. Or hands. My immune system is incredibly jacked. Oh my god. Oh my god. I almost forgot about the pickles. Here’s the straight dope. There are three things in our diets that are only done right when they are homemade: Bread, salsa, and pickles. These pickles are mom-made. They were also free, as most mom-made things are. A gift, from our friend Greg and his mother, actually. Gordan Ramsey always says your main dish must have a star. These pickles are the star of my bagel club, and entire refrigerator. I love pickles. I love pickles! And hot peppers, but’s that’s another story.

When I bite this sammy it is, as my brother in law would say, “way supes" (short for “super”) good. It tastes like you would imagine it should taste, but I do hate when I get a fatty bit of bacon. I hate the fat. It’s so fucking gross. Enter the dog, who usually gets whatever pieces I come across. Dogs are great to have around while you eat. They make the bad parts go away. They “take care” of them. Dogs are the best.

I confess, I only eat half of everything because I get full very easily but it doesn’t mean I don’t thoroughly enjoy it. My main concern is this pasta salad anyway. I lurrrrrve pasta salad. Homer and Bart once sang “You can’t make friends with salad!” as they formed a conga line in the Simpsons' living room, but I think they were wrong. Graham could make loads of friends with this salad. He did cheat though. He is only responsible for boiling the noods (short for “noodles”). He bought the salad pre-made at Superstore and then added the quintessential starch himself because as we always say, "What baby wants, baby gets". What a guy. The salad is amaze-balls, and the noods are actually health noods too. I got them in the organic section, so you know they’re gluten-free or something equally grabby.

You know what is elevating both the side and the main? Cracked pepper. I am obsessed with large amounts of pepper. And it has to be cracked. Big flecks, that’s what I’m looking for. Sometimes I go a little nuts, and have been known to ruin meals by being too heavy handed with the pepper-mill. Just ask Mary Mills, who used to watch me make bowls upon bowls of her homemade soup completely inedible because I didn’t know how to say “when”.

Which reminds me of a story I would like to share. There once was a time, in Prince Edward Island, when myself and three sisters came together for dinner at an Irish Pub. We ordered some grub, went through the motions that go along with dining out, and eventually our food arrived. I had the pasta. As is customary, our server asked if we would like pepper on our meals. We said yes because we're no idiots, which was followed by her lifting from the ground a three-foot novelty peppermill. The thing was huge, awkward and watching her try to wield it around the table was sketch comedy gold. We exchanged knowing glances that said "What the hell is going on here?/We are witnessing something amazing..." and tried to swallow the hysterics building in our guts. Here's what I don't know for sure: this girl was new, was the victim of an ingenious joke, and somewhere out of view was a huddle of jackass co-workers laughing their asses off at the fool who actually fell for the clown-size peppermill prank. I love it. Made me want a big-ass peppermill of my own.

Anyway. That’s enough about seasoning. And the salad. And the club, I suppose. Oh. To drink! To drink I had….hmmm, let me take a picture. That’s a crazy dirty mason jar that I poured my rooibos tea into. I intend to drink, like, 8 of these daily but unfortunately my first glass always lasts until bedtime. Ugh. I need to shape up and take this water/tea intake mission more seriously. It’s just so boring drinking tea. I don’t even remember it’s kicking around half the time. Oh, tea. Why you gotta be so vanilla?

This is going back in the fridge until tomorrow...

That’s the end. The end of my first food critique. What a gas it’s been. A roller coaster of emotion built on a foundation of mindless drivel. Oh my god. My stomach hurts. Nooooooo! This always happens! Which leads me to a very important scale of truth: How long does a meal sit with me before I am clambering down my hallway to the washroom? In this particular case, there seems to be about a 30-minute window between the last bite and needing some serious privacy upon the porcelain throne. Is that what plates are made of? Porcelain?

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