Manohla Dargis, we can’t be friends anymore

*Update: This post is ridiculous and annoying.*

Scene from Gran Torino 2: Short Round in Twubble

Not after your irredeemably insipid review of Gran Torino. Come on (1). What is with the hackneyed nostalgia, both in the review and in the film? Ahhh, the “old studio system” and good ol’ Detroit? Ahhh, wooden shoes and pooping outside.

(I know. This ridiculous food blog is getting preachy about films. Well, I had popcorn during the movie and I maintain that the jizz-your-own-butter-from-a-hand-pump concept is one of the more horrible things in this world. There, food stuff.)

What I’ve been “doing” (3/3)

Drove down to Laguna with Sheeho this past Saturday for family Christmas time. No car stereo (thievery) led us to try our luck twisting the slippery knobs of a shower stereo (early Christmas gift), which did not work out well at all (fat finger syndrome). That’s right, twisting the slippery knobs, ladies and gentlemen.

Anyway, this is relevant to this forum, because in the bed of my truck was a cooler. And in that cooler were the central makings of a Christmas dinner. As it turns out, I didn’t really need the cooler, as it was approaching absolute zero on the way down from SF. Still, I always feel like it’s special times when I use the back of my reproachable, impractical pickup truck to import gastrogoodies from the Bay down to primordial SoCal. 

 

Coming next: Cookies, including Mexican wedding cakes a.k.a. snowballs; photodocumenting XXX-mas dinner; exhaustion.

What I’ve been “doing” (2/3)

I mentioned the vodka and cachaça (hey, it’s one of those cedille things! I did it!) infusions, 8 or 10 times in recent weeks, so I figure I ought to mention how they turned out. Pretty damn good for the most part, if I may say so. Pineapple-mint, apple-quince-cinammon, and mango-jalapeño were standouts. Ginger and citrus -centered ones were less so. Picked up some bitterness when I decided to include the whole citrus. Still, they will make you drunk, and are a significant improvement on un-infused Smirnoff. 

So delighted was I, that I even worked up the initiative to make a second batch. In this batch, I threw in some more of the pineapple-mint ilk, and messed around with with coconuts, coffee beans, lemongrass, persimmons, vanilla beans, meyer lemons, and pomegranates. Picture comin’:

Infuzzions

Again, that’s not my handwriting. This time I employed the chicken scratch stylings of The Fabulous Sheeho (1), who flew out from Chicago last week to sleep on my couch and keep Mr. Pizza Man’s late-night delivery guy busy. Anyway, we’ll see if these turn out as well as the first batch. If you’re lucky, you might qualify as a second-tier friend and land yourself one of these bad boys. Just kidding. I arbitrarily doled out the first round to the people closest in physical proximity to me, who in many cases were shitheads I don’t care for. Just kidding again!

Lastly, based on my general ineptitude, the ease with which these were done, and the confidence I have in you as a reader of this blog, I recommend with few reservations that you go out and get some jars, some booze, and some fruit/spices and make some tasty tasty of your own. Then let’s get wasted together, Andrew WK -stylez.

We like to party,

Chris

 

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(1) His official stage name, not something I made up.

What I’ve been “doing” (1/3)

Our Man in Shanghai a.k.a. The Benefactor a.k.a. Micah Lewis-Claus sponsored a holiday meal of jambalaya and biscuits last Thursday, by donating an assortment of Louisianan sausage and ham that I had been lusting after. Dozer snapped some photos of the festivities. The only one relevant to this blog is the following:

Jambalaya Juice

In the background, our food stylist has placed the finished infused jars of gift booze, and what appears to be a bowl of transfat, but which is in actuality honey butter. Even TK, who holds a thoroughly un-American resentment of delicious, smoky, spicy pork, couldn’t resist biscuits with honey butter. 

I’d post a “recipe” for that jambalaya, but I’ve largely forgotten what I did. Plus, I’m just an Asian-American gangbanger from the forthcoming film Gran Torino, so where do I get off telling you how to make jambalaya?

I will not, however, withhold my pride in those infused liquors. JB declared the mango-jalapeño vodka soda “amazing” and “like a Range drink.” Personally, I think the Range tenders ought to sleep with one eye open, because I’m coming for them. You hear that? I’m coming for you, Range. And I drive a Toyota.

Pom grenade

M(a)S(h-Ups), F(ucker)

Come to Mission Street Food tonight, the last night there will be an MSF this year. In addition to the menu posted at the Mission Street Food blog, there will be, tonight:

1. Proof that mash-ups are still a thing
2. Pete and JB holding down the front of the house
3. White people in a Chinese restaurant kitchen
4. Signed copies of the new Plebiscite book, Plebiscite’s Home for the Holidays Cookbook and Guide to Hosting Your Own Nondenominational Flavor Tripping Party
5. Sexual mores
6. Suspension of disbelief
7. Me, healthy and friendly

The Brokenest Record

Last night, JB brought us to a bar on the southern end of the middle of nowhere, called the Broken Record. A hip and comely couple runs the food operation in the back. They serve duck, pheasant, venison, boar, andouille, and a bevvy of other sausages, smoked meat, frito pies, and other similarly light fare. They also have a free air hockey table. Free. Gratis. When I was a kid, my brother and I had one of those Fisher-Price three-in-one air hockey/ping pong/pool tables.(1) The air hockey table configuration was about an arm’s reach in length, and had no air. It was just a piece of plywood, two plastic air hockey tits, and a puck. Really, any kid with a flat surface (a piece of wood, the ground, etc.) had the equivalent of what we had. I’m just saying, I don’t want people to think I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth. I basically had a piece of floor that was painted blue, with some arbitrary white lines and circles. Literally every child has a floor. Even kids who are chained up in basements are more than likely sitting on the floor. They’re not, like, kept elevated, right? And even if they are, they’re still on a flat surface that is equal to or better than my childhood “air” hockey table. I mean, now I sound like an ingrate. I’m not blaming my parents. I blame myself for probably asking for the thing.

Anyway, the Broken Record is in the Excelsior, and it’s worth visiting, if for no other reason than the little song that the air hockey table plays when you turn it on. 

 

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(1) I shouldn’t say “had,” as we still “have” it.

Keeping up with the Infusions

Looked in on the infused liquors this morning. They continue to, you know, look nice? I was afraid that tasting them would lead to an unproductive day at work. Had I known how unproductive my day was going to be anyway, I would have gone ahead with the testing.

In any case, I’m thinking of throwing together a few more jars for funsies. I bought a pomegranate, meyer lemons, a persimmon, and a vanilla bean, with that in mind. If nothing else, I’ll have a quaint fruit salad to look forward to. Shit, that reminds me I have lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, and a coconut in the fridge for this purpose, too. When I think of all the food that gets wasted in my fridge, I just want to soak myself with a jar of pineapple mint cachaca and set myself on fire. That’s how strongly I feel about wasted food in my fridge. It makes me want to set myself on fire.

*Update* That’s not my handwriting on the jars, by the way. I know a lot of people in the graphology community have been waiting to get a look at my chicken scratch, but you’ll just have to keep waiting. That’s Samantha’s dainty penmanship. I am a hulking man, with the virile, jagged handwriting that befits a man of my hulkiness.

Garth Porks

A week or so ago, I posted about my hypothetical skinny, vegetarian Chris Gaines -style alter blog ego that I would assume when I wanted to blog, but not about food.

Now, via Wholefooooooooooooodz Wilson III, here is what my album cover looks like, evidently. 

 

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Note: This does not violate my self-imposed ban on posting pictures of myself on my blog, as this isn’t me. It’s Garth Porks. Or Adam Duritz dressed as Professor Philip Brainard.

Top Twenty Holiday Food Pranks

1. Wear mistletoe as a belt buckle and spackle your winky with gingerbread dough.
2. Eat until you’re as fat as “Santa.” (via Peg)
3. Use store-bought eggnog and say it’s homemade. Shhhh!
4. …

That’s all I have. This is the worst post ever.