24 December, 2011

merry, merry, merry!

hey, all my wonderful poultries - i love knowing you are hovering around this here virtual gathering spot.

may your days be merry and bright and filled with all manner of love, delicious victuals, laughter and polyester reindeer sweaters and may the coming new year make all your dreams come true! may you be healthy, wealthy and wise and may it just keep getting better and better!

(thanks to crusty juggler for the festive pictorial contribution, courtesy of andrew bell)

20 December, 2011

why i possibly need to ease off the wine or never ever chat/skype with friends when drinking

moi: hi, i'm here with my friend and we're having wine. how you is/ crusty juggler: what the what? thought you were out!
moi: back here now. showed your pic to my roman friend/  want to say hi? crusty juggler: ok, errrr Hi! moi: get om sjkyle
crusty juggler: i'm not familair with S.J. Kyle, but I'll try moi: skjyle?  what the fuck? crusty juggler: that's the guy!
then we talked on skype (apprently) then 10 more minutes elapsed.
moi: sorry dude, i'm drunk. she's gone now and i have no recollection of phoning you.  god, bboze is bad  or good  it makes you think happy unicorn thoughtsand rainbows out the ass crusty juggler: when did you phone me? you mean skype? if you mean skype which we just spoke on, then I think you should get thee to a hospital for alcohol poisoning moi: shut up!!!  phone/skype  whatevs!
is all techonlololology crusty juggler: okay! you do remembe the past 10 minutes though, no? moi: what?  why?  what happened? crusty juggler: we conversed on skype  we said important things moi: oooh!  imporrant thangs  !
crusty juggler: dude! you are so wasted! moi: that sounds... impirrant  possibly  i haven't had much to drink lately crusty juggler: maybe that's why T was ignoring your calls... moi: so we only had 1.5 bottle of wine, IF that crusty juggler: sometimes it only takes a wee bit!
moi: especially if you haven't had any booze in like a week  which is moi  hard to believe, i know  i like my roma friend, she is nice crusty juggler: EXXactly. anyway, Rome friend sounds nice - although I hope you only showed her the good photos of me moi: also, she is not drinkig as much as usual. you only take GOOD photos  fuck! crusty juggler: Right!  anyway, i hope she's not a bad drink influcence moi: you is seriously nice looking what with your metabolism and blue eys and all crusty juggler: i am pretty great. moi: don't know which way that goes. you are!!!
crusty juggler: uh-huh. moi: uh0h crusty juggler: what'd you do? moi: uh - HUH crusty juggler: oh moi: whaddya mean? crusty juggler: this is a great conversation. transcripts please! moi: wanna talk like for realz?  oh yes. crusty juggler: ok, lemme get on it moi: fuck.  call?  skjpeuuueee? crusty juggler: yarp  yarp again moi: yarp

16 December, 2011

cookies for hitler

and so another yuletide season is upon us and that means only one thing. well, two things. well, okay, a whole bunch of things like sparkly balls in trees (or reasonable plastic facsimiles thereof (the trees, not the balls)), drinking hot spiced alcoholic beverages, getting warm hugs from drunk co-workers ("i love you, man!") and baking cookies! christmas is the only time of the year when i bake cookies but i bake them with a vengeance*.

imagine my disappointment, then, when i gather my ingredients, mix, whip, froth, swish, shake and gently fold things into other things, only to discover that the recipe generates a teeny tiny little cake or a mere half dozen cookies (i'm looking at you, smitten kitchen! i realise you cook your wondrous comestibles in a teeny tiny little new york kitchen, but give me a bloody break! i'm browning multiple cups of butter, vast bubbling vats of golden buttery goodness expecting mounds of cookies. mounds!!! you hear me? and what do i get (time and time again)? six fucking cookies. what am i supposed to do with six cookies? six cookies is an appetizer before one gets into the serious business of eating cookies. six cookies is nothing to a woman like me: NOTHING! mere crumbs in my dentition! a not particularly amusing amuse bouche. especially if they are delicious. and with that amount of brown butter, how can they not be? but you're messing with me, aren't ya? because just last week i made delicious mac'n cheese from one of your 2 recipes, and the other one, the one i didn't use, was for 12 people. really? you feed mac'n cheese to 12 people and then what? you give them six fucking cookies. that just doesn't make any sense.)

and lest all you daily bakers look scornfully down at me and wonder why i cannot tell how many cookies this amount of ingredients will generate, i'll tell you why: because i bake once a year and also, i have no imagination when it comes to measurements. of any kind. if mr. monkey doesn't explain it to me in football fields and tea-cups, then i don't get it. is it a little? is it a lot? i don't fucking know. but i do know that it is pure hitlerian evil to publish recipes for 6 cookies. especially around christmas.

as an aside: salted butter is a motherfucking bitch to brown, don't do it! i used only the tiny amount i needed to make up the difference (i used up all my sweet butter reserves! for 6 goddamn cookies!!!) and it still messed me up. but i set out to brown it and brown it i did. and why the hell is salted butter cheaper than unsalted? same with pistachios. why do i have to pay a dollar extra to have the salt removed? do they hire small expensive children from elite private schools to lick off the salt? these are the things that keep me up at night.

*great tagline for a movie, eh? "vengeance is back in town, and this time, she's packing a silpat®!"

the girl, she is a genyooos!

in preparation for tomorrow's pierogi making marathon, i spent the day making pierogi filling. this involved boiling things, cooling things, chopping things, sauteeing things, squeezing excess liquid out of cooled things and a vast amount of processing the hell out of things so that they became smaller, more manageable things. this last bit was hard. it was hard, frustrating, annoying and very very angryfying*. the mushrooms were not yielding as well as i wanted them to, the filling was looking far more fibrous and chunky that it needed to be and i started to give the evil eye to my cuisinart. you bastard (i thought bitterly to myself). you cost me a whole bunch of money airmiles** and now you're acting like the spoiled little french bitch that you are.

it was when i put a batch of sauerkraut into the cuisinart and it failed to do a thing other than faff about ineffectually that i realised that perhaps something mechanically serious was amiss. perhaps its motor was getting on in years (it's not that old, but then again neither am i and i can quite often be found faffing about ineffectually). perhaps its blade needed sharpening. oh yes, its blade. i dumped the contents, took out the blade and realised that the reason i've been making a bloody mess of all the things i have been using my cuisinart for for the past several months is because (wait for it) i've been using the dough blade. not the sharp cutting blade that cuts things with its sharpness but the dull dough blade that, to put it bluntly, does not. i have been handing my kitchen surgeon a plastic fork and asking her to do an open heart surgery. so dumb. so very very dumb.

correct blade in place, everything was reduced to the correct consistency in mere seconds (oh, the wasted minutes! oh, the chunks of beet in the lesbian dip! oh, the frustration! oh, the fucking stupidity!)

when mr. monkey came into the kitchen i promptly told him about my idiocy. oh, i knew that, quoth he, i was wondering why you were using the dough blade, but i figured you knew what you were doing.

christ. i always tell him when he does something stupid, i cannot, for the life of me, understand why he doesn't return the favour.

*why the hell isn't that a word? huh? it should be! let's petition the government! let's paint large banners! let's... let's get back to the story at hand, shall we?

** the only thing those things are good for, as far as i'm concerned. the one time i used airmiles to fly us to vegas was such a bloody hassle, it would have been better to just pay with cash. but i digress. again.

14 December, 2011

let's clarify things a bit

ok, some of you know me, some of you only know me through this here thing. in the interest of full disclosure, i must admit that i took some artistic license with that there last angry post. because while yes, i was indeed sitting and sweating and burbling over with the kind of anger that only comes from paying someone to make you hurt, i also want you to know that i am an avid walker (i know few people who walk as much or as enthusiastically as i do on as regular a basis), i do not subsist on cheezee puffs™, coca cola and a jar of mr. mallard's marshmallow fluff™. i do not live the kind of sedentary lifestyle that characterises a scary portion of north america where the day's exertion comes from a scooter ride between couch and refrigerator. i eat chips roughly once a year, mcdonald's once every two and the worst thing you can find in my pantry is polish chocolate covered prunes. i do indeed hoover seasonal fruits with a dedication that is akin to obsession, and i love salad, for which i make my own vinaigrette. so please don't picture me as one of the latest denizens of wal-mart because although i do wear sweat pants around the house, they are of the kind that make my ass look FAH!bulous (g will back me up on this, won't you, g?). and also, red wine has anti-oxidants in it.

just so we all know where we all stand. ok?

also, jesus christ, my ass sure does hurt today. i love you, zumbitch!

13 December, 2011


in the parking lot of a big box reno store, i am telling mr. monkey all about a co-worker who was stressed out because her daughter's letter to santa was filled with strange and difficult-to-find items:

moi: so she's freaking out about not being able to buy everything on her daughter's letter! can you imagine? who knew that a letter to santa was something that you had to follow to religiously? i always figured it was just a guideline. you know: they ask for a macbook, you get them a calculator; they ask for a pony, you get them a hamster sort of thing.

mr. monkey (slightly confused look on his face): ...

moi: isn't that odd? that she's getting everything on this letter to santa?

mr. monkey: what?

moi: letter to santa.

mr. monkey (increasing look of incomprehension): what?!

moi: her daughter's letter to santa!

mr. monkey (frankly horrified): WHAT? a letter of placenta?!?

moi: yes. a letter to placenta: "dear placenta, this year under the uterus i'd like a vulva." christ.

i (really don't) like to move it, move it

i am sitting here sweating sweaty ass sweat into my couch sheep following an intense hour of zumba. as i hopped, jumped, skipped and shimmied up and down the dance studio, i realised again just how much i fucking hate exercise. yes, dear poultries, i hate exercise. intense physical exertion makes me very very angry and being forced to look at myself in floor-to-ceiling mirrors is detrimental to my closely guarded life of self-delusion: is that really my waist? really? that's what i look like when i think i'm being sexy? sweet lord, it hurts. it hurts here and it hurts there and, i'm ashamed to admit, it also very much hurts over here. and the thing that hurts the most is my pride - there are several very large women in my class and they keep on coming back week after week while i spectacularly fail to do so. i show up here and there and spend the rest of the time hating myself and watching "castle." *

i recently started going to yoga with a bunch of kick-ass elderly polish women, who also make me feel like a pathetic loser as per my inability to hold the downward dog without my arms turning to jello and my ass wobbling all over the place, not to mention the instructor drawing attention (gently, lovingly, but still...) to my crooked painful crotchety hip. and while i search for the inner peace that yoga is supposed to bring, i must admit to myself that i fucking hate yoga.

so, what to do?

i am currently following my annual christmas orange diet (not so much a diet as a seasonal obsession - i'm on my fourth box in a month and i tend to eat up to 10 per day - is this normal? wait, don't answer that) but god knows the days of seasonal gorging are coming and i really really would rather not enter my fortieth year the way i entered the preceding bunch (with the notable exception of those 5 or so years in which i dramatically cut back my carbs, lost weight, kept it off and singlehandedly stopped all of my gastrointestinal issues**). i want to get in shape. i need to get in shape. and how does one do that when one fucking hates exercise?

ideas? pointers? speed? i'm willing to try anything (short of a regular exercise regimen coupled with responsible eating and reduced wine consumption, of course; that'd be crazy!!!)

* who is so delicious i'm sure the calories are simply piling up!

** i know, i know, you're wondering if this worked so spectacularly for me in the past why not repeat the experiment. and well may you wonder. i often wonder that very thing myself...