Thursday, July 14, 2011
So, chicken sausage. That stuff? It's well... shit. Don't buy it. I don't even give a shit that it was made of the purest, organic chicken. Damn. They ruined it. Unfit for dog consumption. Maybe cats would like it. But cats? Not really known for being that smart. In fact, don't they have something akin to a 7 day memory?
Anyway, this tube-shaped meat, (which I am generally a fan of,) was just wrong. And if you are one of those "vegetarians" who sometimes eats chicken? I can tell you... in this case? Get the pork. Seriously. One pork sausage in your lifetime? Probably not going to kill you. Or stick to tofurkey. If you like your soy, it is a lovely product.
I was tempted by this stuff the other day at New Seasons. Normally, I'm pretty smart, and I DO stick to the pork. It was lemon chicken. Yum? Well, you'd think. I mean, when I cook a whole chicken at home, I usually do place a few lemon slices under the skin of the breast, along with some garlic and rosemary. That is quite yummeh.
This? Well... I am under the impression that ground chicken should be placed under the category: "what is, and what should never be." Especially when you place it in an impenetrable pork casing.
Heh heh... impenetrable pork.
But back to the situation at hand. See? Chicken? Kinda watery. It needs a release. Especially when you add lemon juice. Yeah, that shit needs somewhere to go. Also? It sort of got fucked up by the grinding process. When there is no grain, and no identifiable... well, anything, until you run across a piece of sinew or something? Yeah, that doesn't work out so well texturally.
Mr. Hed is sitting here reading this as I type, and alternately looking at my face. He actually just told me not to barf. See? This recount of experience is... not sitting well with me.
I'll go faster.
Mr. Hed took the sausages in question down to the backyard to grill. He brought them back up, and when I went to cut into one of them, it was like a flood of vile, horrible liquid was released. I don't even know what to think of this. It was just... nasty. I really could not tell if they were cooked, or uncooked. Flesh adjacent to burnt flesh looked raw, but was it? WTF?
I pinched a small amount from the inside of said tubed meat, and rubbed it between my fingers. I... thought it was done. Thought. It. Was.
So, we take them over to the table, and the entire time we are eating, the only person who is not grimacing in partial horror was our daughter who I am pretty sure has no taste buds, and will therefore eat anything. Seriously. I guess it could be worse, because she could be horribly picky like some children. I'll take it, but still. She gets the leftovers tomorrow, since she actually claimed them.
Anyway, at one point, I really was worried that mine was not cooked, so I stuck it back in the oven. It cooked for a good, long time, and when I took it out, same thing. Exactly the same. So, yes. They were cooked, but just... simply disgusting.
So, word to the wise: keep that shitty chicken sausage far, far away from me.
That said, Mr. Hed and I have decided to open a DECENT chicken restaurant. The kind that does not do bad, bad, things to chicken. Because damn. They died. They should die for a good cause... like being part of something delicious, not something that is, but should never, ever be.
We debating on a name right now, but it has been narrowed down to two: "Taste of fowl", or "Fowl Taste". Oh yes. You'll see. It will be a success.
Monday, July 4, 2011
I am from vibrating pedicure machines, from Mary Kay, Canfield's Diet Chocolate Soda, No-Salt, Sweet 'N Low, and Penney's. *I am from the very neighbourhood that Malvina Reynolds wrote about in her song: "Little Boxes". Yes. The yellow one.
I am from the place with almost no trees; where the swimming pool in the backyard was the only refuge from the ground that was so hot you could not walk barefoot outside. From sunburns that would peel like Elmer's school glue off of most of my body after too much time spent in said swimming pool. From made-up Crystal-Light ads in which I would stand on the diving board, flexing my little girl biceps, and singing: "I believe in Crystal Light, 'cause I believe in me!"
I am from the cactus pears, stolen meyer lemons, navel oranges, pomegranate bushes, and palm trees. From enormous water beetles, and June bugs that would dive bomb my perfectly shellacked hairdos, buzzing like crazy trying to escape, because they were too stupid to figure out how to on their own.
That girl who would run around screaming with buzzing hair until a kind soul helped us both out of that jam? Yeah, that was me; also known as the girl from the gawd awful wake-up time of 5:30 AM... the sole purpose? Making sure that hair was absolutely perfect!
I am from my perch atop the old Chevy Van at the Drive-in movie.
From swim parties and grilled steaks; from little restaurants I would make for the ants from the bones of whatever we'd had for dinner that night, hidden far off from where people would see them right away, so the "business" had a chance.
I am from Pomerantz, McIver; The Thomas fat ass, and the Davis flat ass. Yes. I got both. Behold: My ass! For it is both fat, and flat.
I am from the family dinners at my maternal Grandmother's modern, urban apartment that came entirely from Price Club, unwrapped and either microwaved, or baked; the scent of her Wind Song perfume, as well as the spearmint gum she always had giant boxes of in her closet.
From watching the end of certain TV programs just to see my uncle's name in the credits; from standing in line at Dodger games for giveaway items, and listening for hours to the same grandmother's stories of her worldly travels.
One day I will travel just as she did.
I am from both: "Go hang your belly on the fence!" and "Oy Vey!"
I am from a few different faiths, leading to no faith, leading to piqued interest and curiosity about many faiths, once more.
I'm from The City Of Angels; drives through Topanga and Malibu canyons that seemed to take an eternity, the roller rink, the club that beat the streets, the bike path at Venice, and never-ending music. Really. Never. The music never ended. Ever. No. Never. It did not.
I am from that ottoman I brought into the kitchen to stand on so that I could watch my Uncle Alan make spaghetti using noodles, olive oil, and allspice.
I am from the chair I would stand on in the kitchen, watching my dad make shit on a shingle, and later sit on to gag the vile stuff down, because it was... what was for dinner. From that empty cafeteria table I shared with my best friend in grade school, eating those head cheese and beef tongue sandwiches I was sent there with. I am from day old spaghetti fried in butter, topped with cheese. I am from my own creation of fat-free cheese sandwiches, microwaved with a dollop of "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" on top.
I am from that cushiony stool my dad set up for me to hang out in the studio listening to bands practice and record, and having to stay as quiet and patient as possible. From a place to stand on that stool learning to use a studio mixing board by age 3.
From the summers spent on the Northern California coast with my paternal Grandmother, drinking soda pop from old bottles that had been reused so many times they look like they had been sandblasted along the edges; singing Otis Redding songs to the cats on the balcony. From grandma's rainbow coloured circa 1974 shag carpet I would move between my toes as we watched television programs, all the while listening to her as she would yell at the screen because the Shaklee products she sold were superiour to those advertised.
I am from family reunions in Luxor, near-death experiences in Glacier National Park, and hiding my face from video cameras criminal-style, after not being able to do my hair for 3 days on a cross-country railroad trip.
I am from looking in awe at my great grandmother's 100 year old photograph that hangs on my wall, her lovely bone china teacup collection, and urn containing one pedal from every single rose my great grandfather ever gave her. He died in 1954, and the petals still smell amazing.
I am from the knowledge that comes from pain, and the best advice I have ever received: "If you ever meet a man who reminds you of your father, RUN THE OTHER WAY!"
I am from my own self-worth, and my willingness to heed that advice.
I am from lots of hard work, self-love, and personal growth.
I am a survivor.
I am Hedy.
*OK, not really, but yes, they were totally all made out of ticky-tacky, and yes, the all looked just the same.
Friday, July 1, 2011
"Hey Todd, I think I may throw a hip mama party. I seem to know a lot of hip... mamas."
"What? You want to throw a Rohypnol party, with hip nobs? Todd is confused."
"No, no no! HIP MAMA. Like with margaritas, and the usual cheezy shit that people do at parties, only with my mama friends, and not a bunch of random stragglers from the street.
"Ha hahahahaha! A rohypnol party! I love it! Can you imagine THAT invitation? It would read something like: come for the rohypnol... stay for the sleep."
"You could do something like... give a certain number of people the actual rohypnol, and the rest, a sugar pill. No one knows who gets what, and the ones who stay up get to have fun with the ones who pass out... with SHARPIES!"
"It's like... Russian roulette. OH MY GOD! It's a Russian Rohypnol party!!! I suppose it's all well and good between consenting adults, right?"
"Oh, let's do this!"
Last night, we were laying in bed. I was dozing to the sounds of the streets and bars outside. This has become my lullaby. I can't sleep if it's too quiet anymore. I should probably buy myself one of those damn Sharper Image sound machines for when we leave town, because there are some places we go that have scary sounds... like coyotes and peacocks off in the distance, and I admit it; I know that in this case; neither bird, nor beast would hurt me physically. But hearing them while I'm dozing off only occasionally, especially if they are right next to the house, freaks my shit way out.
So, I am hearing the pleasant sounds of Southeast Portland; the bus, the Reed students walking to and from the bar across the street, cars stopped at the light with the windows rolled down, blasting "Sexual Healing", the guy who sings Soundgarden songs very loudly as he passes my house, etc. All was well.
Yes. That is my scene. And I have grown to love it.
Suddenly, and apropos of nothing, I hear Todd blurt out: "Butt-sexual!"
"Wha? Why? NO!"
"I don't know. I just wanted to see how you would react."
"Oh. OK. How about... shut up and go to sleep?"
"See, *Bad, this is comedy. You just can't understand."
"Oh, I understand comedy. I understand it better than you. I recognize comedy when I see it, and I'm afraid m'dear, that was not comedy. That was just one of your weird non-sequiturs."
"No, it's revolutionary comedy. Revolutionary comedy. It's too new. You just don't have the capacity to understand it yet."
"Oh I see. You gonna start a revolution? A butt-sexual revolution? Well, there's a band name if I've ever heard one."
"So... you wanna?"
"No! Go to sleep, dammit!"
*(For those of you just joining, "Bad" is Mr. Hed's nickname for me. Because well? I'm kind of a badass... or at least I let him think that. Shh! Let the man think what he wants!)