Yay Saturday

It's a lovely Saturday, I start working 6-day weeks Monday, and I decided to spend today exactly how I like it: in the kitchen. Before you get all bug-eyed and whatnot about "wasting" good weather, I will have you know that my kitchen has three windows and they're all open, so I am enjoying the day. Besides, Schmindsey and I are having people over for egg-dyeing tomorrow, and I want to get everything done before the Final Four.

I made pan-fried onion dip, pita chips, creme brulee, meringues, mayonnaise, and rice and beans, plus I tasted the tzatziki we made over the week and damn, it is good. But I was a little confused as to why I couldn't find my Pyrex mise en place bowls. They are so little! So useful! WHY WERE THE LITTLE FUCKERS HIDING?

Then I remembered looking at a bowl of cucumber water, from when we drained the cucumbers for the tzatziki. And I remembered thinking, "When is the next time I'll have cucumber water lying around? How could I live with myself if I threw out a bowl of perfectly good cucumber water?" So I made cucumber Jell-o. In my mise en place bowls. And I will be unable to use them until I:

a) eat the cucumber Jell-O.
b) discard the cucumber Jell-O.

But even going with option B, I can't just chuck it untasted. If I went through the trouble of making it (which involved heating it up, sprinkling it with gelatin, and stupidly pouring it into Pyrex mise en place bowls), I have to at least try it.

So, a dilemma. Would you eat cucumber Jell-O if not under pain of death?

I don't need the bowls that bad.

My Mac, My Crack

You know those Mac/PC ads with sweet, lovable PC and smug, turd-faced hipster Mac that make me want to throw my PowerBook out the window? Check out the British version. BritMac is much cuter, and BritPC is no John Hodgman.

I literally bounce in my seat every time John Hodgman's on The Daily Show.

I Am Gainful!

That is--gainfully employed. Yes. I got a job. I involves payment and benefits and advancement opportunities! Yes!

So Schmindsey and I drank a bottle of bubbly and are currently watching Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead.

The Sixty-Three-Year-Old Virgin

When I first saw The Forty-Year-Old Virgin, I had a nagging feeling. Around the fourth viewing, it hit me.

Scott.

Scott is my beloved, freakishly ageless stepdad, who, when he met my mother, was rather set in his ways. Much like Andy Stitzer, Scott enjoys biking and hobbies, and is very, very nice. He also kind of looks like Steve Carell.




He enjoys the comparison less than we do.

Orlando

In honor of the support reaffirmed by the White House for Alberto Gonzales, this post has been written entirely in the passive voice.

Pictures were taken.


Gas was guzzled.


Mutated oversized turkey legs were smoked, sold, and devoured.




Naps were snuck.

Children were leashed.


Repose was found.

It's Here

About two years ago, when I was still living in LA and working at Cut + Run, I opened Firefox for my daily dose of Gawker.

Under the heading "Colon-Busting Blogger Book Deals:"

And now it's time for your morning seizure:

Twenty-six-year-old investment banker cum Times Sunday Styles writer Dana Vachon [author of the blog D-Nasty just sold two books to Riverhead publisher and vice president Cindy Spiegel. With the assistance of his famously aggressive agent (and former Tina Brown right hand) David Kuhn, Mr. Vachon signed for an eye-popping $650,000 advance.

Both will be novels, and will be Mr. Vachon s first forays into book-writing. Ms. Spiegel described the first 70 pages of Mergers and Acquisitions: A Romance, which she read before bidding, as "really funny."

"What I based everything on was the writing and what I think is his incredible talent," said Ms. Spiegel. "The pages themselves were a little short on plot it was more of a novel of manners than of plot. I mentioned that to the agent, and 20 minutes later I had a plot in my hand. It was very, very impressive."

I was trying my hardest to write some sort of joke about Vachon As The Waspy-Striped-Button-Down Version Of Whomever joke, but it's rather difficult to be creative when one is simultaneously shitting and crying.

I knew Dana in college. He's very funny; I can't say I was entirely surprised. Yet I seized, I cried. Two years passed. I moved to New York. I found myself a boyfriend and got into Battlestar Galactica. Time passes.

Then I get back from a nonstop funfilled weekend in Orlando and check out my Sunday Styles section. Do you ever read the "Night Out With..." featurette? They're always cute.

This week: "A Night Out With... Dana Vachon."


Then this morning, I log onto Facebook! Surely signs of dudes I knew in college who have succeeded exactly according to my wildest dreams while I have not aren't on FACEBOOK, right?

Facebook Flyer:

MEET DANA VACHON

Duke graduate and former I-Banker will read from his upcoming novel MERGERS AND ACQUISITIONS

WEDNESDAY 3/28
6:00 pm
Rare Book Room
Books on pre-sale!



He deserves his success; his writing is more or less brilliant and unusual and you know, good for him that he made a fortune (he's also sold the movie rights) in fiction writing before turning 30.

He's not a Kaavya Viswanathan.

And I knew that this would be coming.

I'm just not ready.


Also, roommate Schmindsey is following a 12-week artistic process program, and is forbidden to read. All week.

That sounds terrible.

Brother Mickey

I never wrote about watching the last Duke game at Brother Jimmy's, which was an oversight. I suppose I'd been blocking the pain, but it was muy fun! My grandmentee gave me LA gossip even though she doesn't live there, and ck, in rare...or typical, actually-- form, talked without breath for four solid hours. Plus they have good mac-n-cheese.

But that was ages ago! I've dropped to #7 in my bracket and'll have to check back next week; I'll be tromping the grounds in Orlando at Disney World.

With an eight-year-old. Dear me, it will be great.



And congrats to Matty!

The L Word

Have you ever seen The L Word? I mean, maybe you have, since it's been on for a couple seasons and seems to be going strong, and lots of people are into super-well-dressed-Angeleno lesbians, Pam Grier, and titties.

But anyway, I just watched my first episode.

It's terrible.

The Fever!

I have never before filled out a March Madness bracket; considering I went to Duke, it's either an accomplishment or act of heresy warranting death. Anyway, the tournament is way more exciting now that I have teams to root for in every match. And even though I chose my teams in three minutes a half hour before the deadline with Dan on the phone, who provided me the shoo-ins, I'm fifth in my pool! Even though I did have Wisconsin going to the Sweet Sixteen and Stanford in the round of 32; I don't know what's wrong with me.

Maaaaaaaaaaaarty

My mom has a special love for our youngest cat. Marty/Kittykitty is one of those living stuffed animals, the kind of cat you wrap around your neck like a stole and then wander around the house, purring, "It's huMANE, daaaaaaaaahling, the fur LIVES." You--yes, you-- can also hold him upside down by his feet and he'll just dangle. My beloved deceased feline Crystal barely let you pet her, and Terrymittens, our other cat, is borderline obese, so we all love MKK, but perhaps Mother a bit more so. I mean, look at her birthday breakfast decorations:




Champagne! Gucci! Prada! Picture of Marty/Kittykitty! Guess which gift was the hit?

Anyway Mother called around 8 this morning to tell me Marty/Kittykitty was stuck in a tree.

"And he's meowing!" she said. "My little kittykitty!"

Said the Police Department: "We have never found a feline skeleton in a tree."

This was not going to cut it. Mom had a meeting. Mom's ladder didn't reach high enough. Mom found three "very good-looking" Hispanic house painters with a much higher ladder, enlisted their help, and had Marty/Kittykitty back in minutes. Mom is resourceful. Like how in 1999 she flagged down a AAA truck after my prom date locked his keys in the car, blocking the driveway with the motor running. We have some lovely pictures of us corsaging one another as Mr. AAA works with his fancy wire hanger.

"And you know, he just kind looked at them as the one brought him down, you know, no scratching or hissing. He's so good! So I gave them fifty bucks. They saved my kitty!"

I'm sure, somewhere, he is grateful.

Jenna Bush Has A Book Deal

She insists that not only can she read, but write as well. I hope they remember to pay the ghostwriter in cash.

Oh God. I just realized... Dubya's going to have a book deal of his own someday. My Story, Nuculear And All will sell millions of copies and remain in hardcover longer than a Jodi Picoult novel. He's going to ink the deal right before issuing a signing statement that bans growing trees outside Texas, excessive "seeming gay"-ness, and books. Oh God oh God oh God...

Hoboken: Where Eddie Murphy Would Have Landed in Coming to America, Had He Been Searching For A Whore Rather Than A Queen

What happens when your Hoboken friends host an 8 AM Power Hour on Hoboken Fake St. Patrick's Day?

Well, you drink a lot really early in the day.





Then you wait for an hour or so to get into the bar (it is still before noon).

It's weird how many yuppie people live in Hoboken now. I remember visiting my older artist-sister in the 'boken in middle school and feeling very hip and cutting edge and artsy and that feeling is... no more.




But then you learn that there's a THIRTY DOLLAR cover, so you and all the other cheapies gather outside a parking garage.







And then you spill.





And everyone passes out at 3:30, and your boyfriend gets strep! The End!

Scoot To The Left

Oh, Scooter. I have to wonder what you're getting out of all this. Remember when Paulie Walnuts gave up all that stuff to Johnny Sack and then found out Carmine Lupertazzi had never even heard of him? I bet you feel a little like Paulie Walnuts. You probably have a portrait of Dick Cheney in your living room that you had to get painted over because you really like the background but his beady little eyes are just driving you nuts. And I have to be honest here, Scoot: I'm not so sure the repainting expense was worth it, because, again--Scoot, are you listening? Stop shooting daggers at Condi, this one really isn't her fault. About the painting: it's probably too big for a jail cell. Even a cushy one.

And I know, people are talking about pardons. I mean, lots of people get suspiciously pardoned because the President feels bad! Even Clinton did it! Liberals can't yell if Clinton did it! Even Bartlet did it, although I really wish he'd done it earlier so Toby wasn't absent from 85% of the seventh season.

But I have to say, Scooter, that "I feel sad for him" isn't a particularly rousing statement of support from either one of your bosses. I think you're on your own, here. Let's make a game plan. I think you need to develop a public sense of fun. Go in a dunk tank on The Colbert Report and let Valerie shoot a couple slingshots at the target (I hear she's a crack shot; she used to be in the... well, I guess you knew that). Maybe even do it on Meet the Press-- show Russert you have no hard feelings.

I mean, you probably do have hard feelings, I. Lewis, but you're going to have to swallow them and do as you're told. It's gotten you this far, right?

Baldney!

I have to admit, I really haven't been paying attention to the whole "Britney? Bitch crazy" thing. I was in Mexico when she shaved her head, and, I don't know, it's hard to remain invested when you were isolated from the main event. And people, I watched Chaotic. I've been in the physical presence of Kevin Federline. Britney posts on Go Fug Yourself are among the Internet's best... how could I have remained so cold? I mean, I've always kind of wanted to shave my head and all, but I'm fairly certain the Brit and I do not share the post-feminist independent reasoning behind the voluntary female cueball.

Anyway, I decided to hear it from the source, from someone with the facts: Britney's publicity team. And what better place to start than her official website?




Publicity shot from 1998, airbrushed to the point where the abdomen is a different color, promising a new site soon. They took away her website? How strict is Promises, anyway?

...

Wild Hogs opened at $38 mil. It is the #1 movie in America.

In striking distance of $100mil gross?

Ghost Rider.

I Don't Mean To, But They Make Me So Mad

Ever see The Squid and The Whale? I really liked the one part where the older son wins his school's talent show by pretending he wrote Pink Floyd's "Hey You." When confronted, he argues that the song's authorship is irrelevant; he could have written it, and may well have, did it not already exist.

Anyway, I feel that way about this article here.



In other news, diabetes sucks. I didn't know Seidman well, but Donald did, so read there.

Homeless Egoist

I was really bored at work yesterday, so I learned the "Photomerge" feature in PhotoShop and started printing pictures on the high-res color copier in a variety of sizes.

One was my clone picture--I finally got my mitts on the original file and printed an 11x17. It looks pretty badass. So badass, that I decided to embrace my inner narcissist and swung by B&B and pick up a frame, so I can hang a this badass giant picture of myself.

En route to B&B, on 16th between 8th and 7th, I saw it. A shelf. A shelf that perfectly matched the other shelf I picked off the curb last month. A shelf that was 3 feet across and 5 feet high that looked like it could hold my cookbooks in the kitchen. It wasn't that dirty, even. It was in front of a nice building. It would have been very sad to allow it to go to the trash. Right?

So I brought it home, shelf in one hand, unwieldy B&B bag in the other.

On the subway.

Del Posto: The Enoteca

Okay, let's talk Italian food.

More specifically, Mario.

To be painfully, orgasmically direct: Del Posto.

Did you read Heat? Bill Buford quits his job as fiction editor of The New Yorker (Meghan's top five high school dream jobs: Tony-award winning actress/playwright, United States Senator, Madonna's personal assistant, deity, fiction editor at TNY) to work as a Babbo kitchen slave for a year. He then moves to Italy and chops meat with a massive Dante-quoting butcher, dragging around pig carcii. It's a well-told story of the ignored bits of the restaurant world, and we learn that, aside from being the best Italian chef in the country, Mario Batali, of Po/Babbo/Lupa/Molto Mario/Otto/The Spotted Pig/Iron Chef America fame, is fucking insane.

Anyway, Del Posto is Batali with the Bastianichs, including darling dear diminuitive Lidia Bastianich, owner of Felidia/host of Lidia's Family Table on PBS where she cooks actual Italian in a much less cutesy but probably more informative way than, say, Giada DeLaurentiwhatsiiiiiiis. I love her. I love her so much that I almost don't want to write about how she has almost no hair, but... there it is. Anyway, judging from Spotted Pig Christmas party at Del Posto last month,

(this was their cake:




Okay?)

--I thought that Del Posto was another rocking you-should-really-have-tattoos-to-fit-in joint but no, it is inventive Italian food in a more refined setting. Like, a super-fancy hotel lobby with decorative pianist. It takes a month to get a reservation, and the veal shank is $95.

Unless you are smart like me and Dan, oh yes. Or if you read food blogs at work.

The bar section at Del Posto is off to the left of the restaurant, private and pretty. Upon entry, it seems to be just a part of the regular restaurant--except you reserve your table the day of. The menu is smaller, with one other big difference: a 4-course tasting menu is $41. It really makes no sense.

Consider what we had: coppa (paper-thin slices of house-cured pork shoulder)with avocado and onion, beef carpaccio with liquid mozzarella and capers the size of chickpeas, penne marinara (ok that sounds boring, but trust me, it was bites of fresh-made al dente heaven), ravioli with cauliflower and black truffles, swordfish with sweet pepper relish-salsa, bass with pork lentils that Dan claimed taste of his mother's mushroom soup, bread service with warm mini-baguettes, focaccia, and rolls served with sweet butter and a dollop of straight up lardo, and then dense, moist chocolate cake with almond aftertaste and my chocolate tart with hazelnut cream and gold leaf. Yes, they serve you gold. Your $41 meal includes GOLD. You don't need to wait until you are BFF with Oprah to eat gold, Dennis, you can do it now! For $41!

Go. Go now. I know $41 ($60 with wine pairings, which is even better. This was the first time I tasted wines and reacted with glee. They were chocolately and fruity and sweet and smooth and ohmyGodIhavetostopthi nkingaboutthisaslejr hy987329283v) isn't the cheapest meal around, but value wise this is even better than Kwik Meal.* You, too, for $41, can see Lidia Bastianich greeting diners as you smear high-end pig fat on breadsticks, and enjoy the best plate of pasta of your life. You may or may not have the joy of sitting next to a couple on their first awkward date and listen to the girl talk about anorexia for an hour + (they were still going when we left), but I am confident you will love it, just the same. I told Mother about it this morning, and she wants to go for the upcoming parental anniversary. "And you should come!" she said.

Aw. I'm a sucker for romance. I'm in.


*Kwik Meal is the best street vendor in the city, for sure. $7 lamb over rice from The Russian Tea Room's former sous-chef. Delish.