Eating feeds the body
Eating well feeds the soul
Do not fail to look for the spice of life
The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind. --Humphrey Bogart
Toyota Chief Overshoots Congressional Hearings by 150 Miles
01:07pm , 1 Mar 2010 Article: 2485
The reputation of the Toyota Motors Corp. received another black eye today as the president of the embattled company missed his scheduled appearance at congressional hearings after he overshot Washington, D.C., by 150 miles.
Toyota President Akio Toyoda said he was having difficulties with the brakes on his 2010 Toyota Prius, which finally came to rest after crashing into a blacksmith's shop in Colonial Williamsburg.
In a brief statement to reporters, Toyoda said, "I knew I should've driven my Chevy today."
In yet another embarrassment, Toyoda, the grandson of the carmaker's founder, realized for the first time that his family's name is spelled differently from the company's. Toyoda said that all members of the Toyoda family would be immediately recalled to fix the spelling error.
Chris' Cosmic Kitchen - A Review
12:59pm , 15 Feb 2010 Article: 2484
Take a quick run through your vocabulary and mark all the superlatives, because after eating at Chris' Cosmic Kitchen you will want to have them handy to use when you tell your friends about it. You can start with, "It was quite possibly the best [your choice of menu item] that I ever ate!", and proceed from there. After several months working my way through the extensive and luscious (one of those superlatives I told you about!) menu, I can honestly make the claim above about every item.
Chris's Cosmic Kitchen is one of those rare jewels you find in the strangest locations, this one is dead center in a small strip center beside a busy artery leading to/from Wrightsville Beach. I never would have stopped if I hadn't run into them (@CosmicKitchen) on Twitter.
Every customer is greeted like a regular, which you soon will become. Above all, you cannot leave without sampling the cheesecake. If you must, take it with you for later, but at only $3.95 it is NOT to be missed.
I could ramble on, using more superlatives, but let me end with this: Go there, order something, eat it slowly - and if you are only visiting Wilmington, do it early in your stay, because you will want the opportunity to come back again.
The Perfect Candy
11:57am , 27 Jan 2010 Article: 2483
The Fireball requires little introduction, or praise, to cast into the pantheon of great sweets. It begins with a gentle ruse:
"Yes, I am a candy, I taste good, don't worry about the whole 'fireball' moniker, no fire here."
No matter how many you've had in the past, for the first thirty seconds you think, Not bad, I can handle this. Then slowly the spice kicks in, and whether you are watching a movie or driving or swimming in a cold Maine saltwater pool, there is nothing that can save you. The spice has laid itself into your gums, into your tongue, into your sinuses, and you're a goner.
But what makes the fireball a perfect candy, instead of simply a mean, nasty, artful candy, is that in the end it says,
"Hey, just kidding. I'm really a candy."
The sweet white center emerges, and you forget all about the spice, and wonder what possibly could have been the big deal. I've eaten a lot of candy in my time, but in the end, you would have a hard time convincing me that there's ever been a greater expression of candy genius than the deceptively simple, elegant fireball.
Insurgent Suicide Terrorist Squirrels are Bent on World Domination!
Know your enemy
I first became aware of the Insurgent Suicide Terrorist Squirrels in
2005, and started then proclaiming their insidious plan for world domination, but you wouldn't listen - even when squirrels got high on crack and terrorized South London. Even when scientists finally broke the secret squirrel code.
Not long after that, scientists proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that squirrels are sneaky. I even presented photographic evidence that they've taken on the Jedi religion and started building their own lightsabres.
But now.. now I have the final documented evidence that should shake you to your very bones...
I have a love affair with food. When I say "food," I mean food. I mean the French bread I tear off in hunks and stuff in my mouth as I run out the door. I mean the brownies a friend bakes for me and which I parcel out in slivers for weeks. I mean the soup, freighted with its nuggets of onion and squash and potatoes, which I spend all afternoon making and whose aroma rises, steaming, toward my face at dinnertime. And when I say "food," I mean too that stuff that foams like endless verbal meringue across the pages of cookbooks and novels and menus. I mean the liberally sprinkled adjectives: "freshly ground," "extra spicy," "braised to perfection." The lingering step-by-steps: "saute until golden," "whisk until light and fluffy," "season to taste." I mean the groaning, page-long tables of Thomas Wolfe, the banquets spread before Odysseus and that wine-blue sea, Levin and Oblonsky's dining, William Carlos William's plums, the catalogs of the young Gargantua's meals, Proust's madeleine, the ghost of Christmas Present's puddings and chestnuts and stuffing and cakes, and the fact that Babette spends all her fortune on one supernal meal.
I love food - and giving it up, or limiting it in any way, is VERY difficult. So I'm having some trepidation as I say goodbye to all my nutritionally unsound friends and move towards my date this summer with a bariatric surgeon.
Thank You for Flying
01:06pm , 10 Dec 2009 Article: 2479
Today, you can fly on one of two types of airlines, depending on whether you'd rather go Chapter 7 or 11.
Before deregulation, air carriers didn't go broke very often, and there were commercial routes to every airport in the world, including a direct flight from New York to a cow field outside of Duluth. Tickets were expensive, though, so the only people who were up in planes were the type of people who tended to look down upon others anyway.
That all changed in 1978, when Congress decided it was time to let air travel be enjoyed by a different class of people: crying babies. Suddenly, airlines found themselves competing in price and service, which they classified as "no fair." Carriers like Braniff (Slogan: "We Figure It's Good Enough If We Get You There By Wednesday") went out of business. The remaining airlines adopted a "Spoke and Wheel" system, which meant that if you were flying from Los Angeles to San Diego, you had to change planes in Reykjavik.
No Martha This Thankgiving
10:47pm , 24 Nov 2004 Article: 747
Martha Stewart will not be dining with us this Thanksgiving. Since Ms. Stewart won't be coming, I've made a few small changes:
Our sidewalk will not be lined with homemade, paper bag luminaries. After a trial run, it was decided that no matter how cleverly done, rows of flaming lunch sacks do not have the desired welcoming effect.
Once inside, our guests will note that the entry hall is not decorated with the swags of Indian corn and fall foliage I had planned to make. Instead, I've gotten the kids involved in the decorating by having them track in colorful autumn leaves from the front yard. The mud was their idea.
The dining table will not be covered with expensive linens, fancy china, or crystal goblets. If possible, we will use dishes that match and everyone will get a fork. Since this IS Thanksgiving, we will refrain from using the plastic Peter Rabbit plate and the Santa napkins from last Christmas.
Our centerpiece will not be the tower of fresh fruit and flowers that I promised. Instead we will be displaying a hedgehog like decoration hand-crafted from the finest construction paper. The artist assures me it is a turkey.
We will be dining fashionably late. The children will entertain you while you wait. I'm sure they will be happy to share every choice comment I have made regarding Thanksgiving, pilgrims and the turkey hotline. Please remember that most of these comments were made at 5:00 a.m. upon discovering that the turkey was still hard enough to cut diamonds.
As accompaniment to the children's recital, I will play a recording of tribal drumming. If the children should mention that I don't own a recording of tribal drumming, or that tribal drumming sounds suspiciously like a frozen turkey in a clothes dryer, ignore them. They are lying.
We toyed with the idea of ringing a dainty silver bell to announce the start of our feast. In the end, we chose to keep our traditional method. We've also decided against a formal seating arrangement. When the smoke alarm sounds, please gather around the table and sit where you like. In the spirit of harmony, we will ask the children to sit at a separate table. In a separate room. Next door.
Now, I know you have all seen pictures of one person carving a turkey in front of a crowd of appreciative onlookers. This will not be happening at our dinner. For safety reasons, the turkey will be carved in a private ceremony. I stress "private", meaning: Do not, under any circumstances, enter the kitchen to laugh at me. Do not send small, unsuspecting children to check on my progress. I have an electric knife. The turkey is unarmed. It stands to reason that I will eventually win. When I do, we will eat.
I would like to take this opportunity to remind my young diners that "passing the rolls" is not a football play. Nor is it a request to bean your sister in the head with warm tasty bread.
Oh, and one reminder for the adults: For the duration of the meal, and especially while in the presence of young diners, we will refer to the giblet gravy by its lesser known name: Cheese Sauce. If a young diner questions you regarding the origins or type of Cheese Sauce, plead ignorance.
Before I forget, there is one last change. Instead of offering a choice between 12 different scrumptious desserts, we will be serving the traditional pumpkin pie, garnished with whipped cream and fingerprints. You will still have a choice; take it or leave it.
Martha Stewart will not be dining with us this Thanksgiving. She probably won't come next year either.
Wait a Minute...
07:19am , 20 Oct 2009 Article: 2478
Sometimes, actually more often than I'd like to admit, I think about all the waiting I do. For the water to boil. (Put a glass lid on the pot. Watch.) For the coffee to perk. (Do nothing. Get anxious. Try to enjoy the rich aroma.) For the book order to arrive. (Count days. Check calendar.) For the phone call. The doorbell. The letter. The kids. Selective amnesia. Sanity. Peace of mind. (Stop thinking. Right now. Be grateful for what you have. For where you are. Eat a piece of chocolate. Have that glass of wine.) In the grocery checkout line. (Look at other people's items moving down the conveyor belt. Read magazines you wouldn't be caught dead buying. Wonder how many cats the person in front of you has.) At Starbuck's. (I got a free coupon last weekend because they missed my Venta Half-Caf No Foam Latte and served the lady behind me first.) For the sauce on the stove to reduce. (Reduce? How long DOES that take? Should I mow the lawn in the meantime? Watch an episode of "The Sopranos"?) For the pasta to be done al dente. (No problem; taste pasta from the boiling water every 20 seconds. Is it softer yet? Are you taking the edge off your appetite? You burned your tongue; don't let that deter you.)
Waiting coaxes me into another dimension. I realize the freedom of my mind. There's one key. Patience. I can do it.
House Sitting for a Baron
05:19pm , 8 Oct 2009 Article: 2477
I went over to my neighbor's place for a visit, so he left town.
I guess that's not precisely what happened: I was asked to "house sit," as if his home needed supervision to keep it from jumping on the furniture and staying up past its bedtime. It sounds pretty benign, until you consider that inside the house are two cats and two dogs — one of which is a puppy named Baron.
To be more precise, Baron is a 9-month-old Great Dane, so when I say "puppy," I mean "mastodon." This is an animal that with a little training could easily dunk a basketball. He weighs five pounds less than I do, unless he's just had a bowl of food and then he weighs five pounds more than I do.
The other dog is a small Labrador named Duchess. Baron likes to pick her up and carry her around like a tennis ball. Duchess's face, when he does this, communicates the message, "You're the human. Would you please do something?"
Disclaimer: The articles on these pages probably aren't true. Names may have been changed or made up - or not. Quotes are most likely fictitious - or not... Opinions expressed do not necessarily represent those of the author - maybe...
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