


Totally wrong order, but you get the picture.



Totally wrong order, but you get the picture.



I’ve always wanted to visit China. I mean, after seeing Japan and Korea first…but, an opportunity came and I jumped. Man, what a cool country.
Outside of censorship, pollution, and having to relieve myself in the squatting position; China is one of the best places I’ve ever been. It is modern, efficient, yet still delightfully chaotic, and manages to retain a delicate and ancient beauty at its core. The people were so kind too. In the beginning it felt like I was doing everything wrong. I made several cringeworthy mistakes with chopsticks, and peed on the floor of public restrooms…every single time… but nobody gave me a hard look. Nobody even laughed. All that was aimed my way were indulgent smiles and encouragement. For three weeks I was treated like a giant and beloved toddler. I’m confident I could have fallen asleep anywhere, and woken covered in a soft blanket with bottle of apple juice by my side.
And the food! It was great across the board. The best meals were, of course, ordered by local friends who knew what the hell was going on. Being unsure about the menu is an easy way to end up with a roasted sparrow, gelatinous goo, and a pile of fish fins. I thought I’d be able to get past my Western squeamishness and eat insects on sticks and chopped bullfrogs, but I could not. I’m now well aware of my culinary comfort zones, and have come to the realisation that I’m kind of a pussy. I did, however, learn that fried shrimp heads are delicious, and that I can nibble on a chicken foot in a setting where I feel safe, secure, and there are no other food options.
Cantonese Pork Custard

This is really delicious. And there are no small bones or fins in it…unless you’ve done something awfully wrong.
Pork Mix
Custard
Steaming Directions
This makes a great breakfast.
*I know a woman who carved “WHAM” into her arm and tried to ink it. She couldn’t decide if she liked George or Andrew better. She chose not be be identified, but I felt you needed to know about this hero.

I’m not a music expert. I don’t follow obscure up-and-coming bands. By the time I realise I like something, the lead singer has usually died from auto-erotic asphyxiation, or has had to move back in with her parents. I like good stuff, and I also love some absolute crap. But even I have always known that Prince is the cat’s pajamas. There’s no two ways about it.
I was introduced to Prince in the summer of 1984. Dig if you will the picture of an eight year old obsessed with the unnerving possibility of nuclear war and making her Barbies perform lewd sex acts on one another. Prince could not have come into my life at a riper, more crucial time.
He emerged in the form of “Purple Rain.” My mother, in a fit of uncharacteristic permissiveness, told my brother he could listen to the album, so long as he kept the volume down on the song about the girl masturbating. This was a surprising move coming from a woman who’s entire sex-ed repertoire comprised of telling her children it was possible to get pregnant through jeans. Alas, Prince simply had that power over people.
It’s difficult to put into words how that album made me feel. To this day, I cannot listen to “When Doves Cry,” “The Beautiful Ones,” or “Purple Rain” without breaking down inside. These songs awakened me to the concept of romantic love. Prince’s music was a complete picture of what’s learned down the bumpy road of first loves, true loves, really true loves…and what happens when they go away. Thirty years later, I can tell you he was spot on.
Goodbye Prince. You were too freaky and cool for this world.
Raspberry Parfait

*this video is so bad, it becomes perfect. I want to have a party and hire this band to play Prince covers all night long.

* I don’t. I take rejection as an opportunity to eat seven Almond Joys and cry in the shower.
Just like love, rejection comes in all shapes and sizes. Once, a man came over, chatted to me for a few minutes, then politely excused himself saying, “I was going to ask you out, but your arms are very hairy.” Or the man I was madly in love with who broke up with me every three weeks for over a year. Then there was the blind date who, moments after meeting me, pulled our mutual friend into the kitchen and loudly complained, “You said she was hot…come on man, I used to date an Eden Corn Festival Queen!”
I’m fickle too. I only managed two dates with the guy who jumped into my car at a red light as I was on my way to my sister’s house to return her “Playboy’s Women over 40” VHS tape. He seemed nice enough, but everyone was creeped out whenever I explained how we met. And then there was the cousin of a friend who kept taking me to Sabres games and the Olive Garden, even though I told him I wasn’t interested in romance. It was awkward and uncomfortable. I was naive enough to think he enjoyed spending time with a girl he had no chance of penetrating, and he never gave up hope there’d be penetration. The relationship didn’t give either of us any satisfaction or joy, and it remains, to this day, the healthiest one I’ve ever had.
Any
way, rejection sucks. And it is a far better feeling to reject someone than it is to be at the receiving end of rejection. So, I reject you Patrick Wilson. Sure, you may argue that you have no clue who I am, but none of that even matters because you don’t have a shot with me. It is better this way. You have a beautiful wife and some kids…I think. This whole ordeal might sting for a bit, but it is nothing compared to the annoyance of you having to one day file a restraining order against me.
Plantain Tacos

Imagine you are stuffing your rejection inside a nice plantain taco. Wrap it up, eat the sorrow, and never think of it again. Bon apetit.

Happy belated Valentine’s Day. Hope you all got more lasagna dinners, spray painted t-shirts and bouquets of carnations than you could shake a stick at.
I have gone on approximately eight dates in my entire life. Not to brag, but I don’t waste time. I am an ace at quickly convincing a man who is down on his luck to begin an intense, years-long, mutually-unbenefitial romance. And despite never actually experiencing a Valentine’s date at a restaurant with cloth napkins or seafood on the menu, I still set my expectations sky-high. The closest I’ve come to the dream was takeaway from a rib shack, and a viewing of “Detroit Rock City” where, halfway through, my date suggested I perform fellatio.
Yet, it remains my fifth favourite holiday. Perhaps it is that I’ve been conditioned to the possibility that something wonderful and out of the ordinary could happen. Romantic comedies are full of surprises. A homely girl only has to take off her glasses and get a perm to become beautiful. Molly Ringwald has the worst resting bitchface in the universe, but somehow Jake Ryan shows up at her house in a red sportscar and they french-kiss over a flaming birthday cake. Time and time again it is shown (a la “The Breakfast Club,” “Harold and Maude,” and “Let the Right One In”) that unmitigated rewards will be given to those who engage in voluntary sexual intercourse with troubled loners.
Believe me, I’ve paid my dues. Fingers crossed for next year.
Wobbly Jelly Blood Hearts

You may be thinking, “what in the H-E double hockey sticks is this?”
Well, I don’t know.
What I do know is that I love to cook, and that I’m going through the kind of life crisis where it feels as if Bob Seger is communicating to me directly through song.
I’m on a quest to feel great and look even better in my knee-length rainbow swimsuit. I plan on accomplishing this through a sustainable diet and exercise plan and the guidance of a talented mental health professional. My diet is predominately paleo, so I’ll be focusing in that direction. However, I’m weak willed and susceptible to information obtained through paranoid late night internet searches, so anything probably goes.
Also, to me, Mexican wrestling is pure joy, and as the youngest of seven children, I suffer from crippling self esteem issues.
That’s about all one really needs to know to decide whether or not they’d enjoy this blog. So if you’re lonely, looking for new recipes, and would like tips on getting the most out your internet pornograpy searches, I welcome you.
Bon apetit and lo siento.