Queen Larbs of Strumpet Valley

I was watching Law and Order: SVU yesterday, because a. I don’t care about the Super Bowl (but I *do* care about the Puppy Bowl and I *did* watch some of that) and b. that’s what I do every Sunday, ESPECIALLY when there’s a marathon. I noticed one of the actresses, the one that replaced Benson while she was mysteriously gone from the show due to a real-life pregancy, Connie Nielsen had a slight accent. I thought maybe German or Scandinavian but turned out to be Danish. Close enough. And via search I discovered that in addition to English and Danish, she also speaks French, German, Italian, Norwegian and Swedish. Cock.

I really need to step up my language game. I have the linguistic brain and learn languages way faster and with a better accent than most people. I’ve been sleeping on Portuguese and I need to start fallando melhor rapidamente. And I’ve been listening to hella French jazz and pop and trying to sing along so I believe I should learn that as well. If Connie Nielsen can do it…

At least I wasn’t raised Mormon.

Listen to some great French Canadian music now:

One of my favorite things about non-U.S. countries is their complete frankness with weight-related issues, their total lack of tact in telling you “you’ve gotten pudgy” and their judgment of your excessive wine drinking. Or my excessive wine drinking… Who’s counting?

One of the first weeks that I was in Argentina, my roommate Rose (of these and many other stories) and I went to a plaza in Belgrano, sat at a wine restaurant and proceeded to get debauch. We ordered a bottle of Malbec and drank the whole thing. It was only a couple of weeks after we met and, even though from the very first instant we knew we were sisters from another mister, we still had to get past the technicalities and “get to know each other.”

While exchanging many stories and much giggling, we decided to go into the cellar and scope out another bottle of wine. We chose one, thought hey, let’s buy another to take home and drink at some other point in the future, and returned to our table. Uncork went the second bottle, glug glug it went down our throats and before we knew it, we were out of wine. Naturally it was time to open the third bottle that we had purchased for some point in the future that was not to be that night. So we asked our waitress to bring us a corkscrew and ordered a profiterole because why would we drink wine and not simultaneously eat a pastry stuffed with ice cream and chocolate? Exactly.

The waitress looked us up and down, blinked and goes “you know, you’ll get fat eating like that.” We thought it was hilarious. “Did she really just say that? We’ll get fat?” Yes, she did. See, in Argentina people tip like 2 pesos no matter the occasion, so it’s not like that woman was hoping to wrangle some tips. And they’ve learned, over many generations I suspect, that just because Malbec is incredible it does not mean one should indulge in three bottles at a time.

And ultimately, the lady was right. We *did* get fat eating like that. Argentina makes this incredible little thing called an empanada, and it’s really delicious and deep fried and full of cheese, and if you eat a lot of those you *will* get fat. Also if you go to Bariloche and eat nothing but chocolate for a week, you’ll get fat then too. And if you drink copious amounts of vino along with those two other things. And many many tequila shots. Best six months of my life and totally worth eating and drinking like that and then getting fat, like the wise lady warned me.

So, really, after many miles on a treadmill to work off the circa-2005 post-LatAm gut, I’m totally grateful for our waitress’s attempt to warn us, not scold us, of the common sense, simple logic fact that that profiterole and three bottles of wine were the stepping stones to our journey through South America. Our journey of getting fat.

I know that Weird Fish is all about sustainably farmed marine life but, really, I am highly upset that they no longer serve catfish. According to the Monterrey Bay Aquarium seafood watch (question mark/shrug), catfish is one of the most sustainably farmed fish available.

So why did you do this, Weird Fish? WHY? No more buffalo boys. No more buffalo girls. And I’d take a gnarly whiskered catfish over seitan any day but I’m sure the vegan lovers of all things buffalo flavored are hella pissed also. I’d even stick with you for just the buffalo girls. But no deal!

And cod fish and chips? What is this, England? Are there parsnips on the menu now too? Is this a potato famine diet? Seriously… Fuck. Cod.

You are dead to me, Weird Fish. Dead.

My sister’s boyfriend sent me this album to listen to because he knows I’m prone to irrational tears. It’s super upbeat.

Thanks, Adam!

Monty always tells me “I don’t understand how you’re broke.” And really, “broke” to me is just a figure of speech. Broke has meant very different things at different points in my life, but I would confidently say that I’ve been broke since I left my mom’s house at the tender age of 17. And the broke I am right now is by no means as bad as some of the other brokes I’ve known.

Now that it’s far enough in the past that I can acknowledge it without cringing, I remember times I was so broke I didn’t know how I would pay for the train to get to work. I would scrounge for dimes and quarters, and sometimes trade in pennies at Randa’s Market (because BART does not accept pennies) hoping I could make the $8.25 it took to get to my job. I was so broke that my cousins gave me free squashes and I cooked and ate them for weeks on end. Month-long periods of living on a potato famine diet of root vegetables (onions are hella cheap). I would pay rent (late) and Walter’s walker and then wait out two weeks on like 80 dollars.

In those times, though, I still partied my face off. Rikki would come over with a pint of Bushmills and we’d lay on my kitchen table, with our heads hanging out the window, drinking whiskey, and chasing it with such things as peanut butter and/or orange slices, and making fun of our ridiculous lives. Or my cousins would take (they still take) pity on my poor soul and take me out. And let me pass out hung over on their couch and make me a frozen pizza because that is the best way to pick up my pieces. My broke in those days was not about choices - there were none. I had no money to buy food, no money to buy drinks, no money.

My current broke is defined by what I’m willing to sacrifice and where I’m willing to allocate my dollars. I can choose the way in which I am broke. I remember when I was in Chicago, living with my ex-boyfriend who was even more broke than I was, he would get a paycheck and spend it all on booze. And I would ask him, what the fuck is wrong with you, I can’t eat beer for dinner. And I would spend my money on things that seemed more reasonable, like burritos (which he would help me eat, obviously).

Now, I totally get it. When it comes down to the question am I eating dinner, or am I tying one on tonight, the answer is I’ll be having the vodka. Because if I’m working my ass off, and going all the time, and being a fiscally (semi) responsible non-burden on my parents, I will be pretty miserable if I never go out. I tried that in college. I was miserable. Experience taught me, now I know better.

I’ve hopped back on the highly ambitious, multi-job wielding, multi-interest pursuing hamster wheel and if I’m gonna do that shit, if I’m going to work hard, you better bet your fernet-loving ass I’m going to play hard.

Last night I was strolling down the street daydreaming, or, more appropriately, nightdreaming, wondering what I’d like to do for Valentine’s Day this year. And then I got a crystal clear image in my mind.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go to some little Italian restaurant, in a place that feels like Little Italy (North Beach, maybe?) and sit at a small table with a red checkered tablecloth and a candle, and share some great pasta dish, like spaghetti and a spicy meat-a-ball while some fat immigrant is playing the harmonica in the background?

Then I remembered that’s a scene from Lady and the Tramp and I got a little sad that the best I can come up with is a Disney dog date.

I love laughing at funny things and enjoying myself while doing the laughing that is being done.

The judges said “you stopped the show” after this one. And they did. They really did.

I often cook yummy things but I almost never post recipes on here. So I think I’ll start doing that. Today I made a lentil soup. Lentils are great because they’re delicious and filling and good for you. Here’s how I rocked it (most measurements are approximations):

• ~1.5 cups of lentils
• 1 red onion
• 2 large carrots
• 3 celery stalks
• 4-5 small potatoes
• 3-4 cups of spinach
• 4 small tomatoes (bonus if they’s dry farmed and ripe)
• 1 large can of crushed tomatoes
• tandoori seasoning (basically coriander, ginger, cardamom, saffron, cumin and paprika, in case you want to add individually)
• garam masala powder
• 7-8 dried bay leaves
• salt and pepper to taste
• cream (optional, just a touch, to stir in at the end)

Chop up the onion and sauteé in some vegetable oil. If you want to add some heat to the soup, you can also chop up a chili pepper and sauteé with the onion. Add the chopped carrots, celery, fresh tomatoes and lentils. Add the can of tomato sauce and bring to a boil. Throw in the chopped potatoes and ~3 cups of water. You’re going to have to eyeball the consistency on this one and figure out for yourself how much water you need. Add about a tablespoon of each tandoori and masala seasoning (you will need to confirm with your own taste buds), the bay leaves and salt and pepper to taste. You can also add some crushed red pepper for heat.

Simmer on medium-low heat for about an hour and a half. In the last half hour add the chopped spinach. Check to see if you need any more spices, or salt/pepper. If you want to add cream, do it in the last 5 minutes. There is your delicious soup. Eat it with some bread, like an Acme sourdough loaf. You’re welcome.

Here’s why:

More dance.
More hip hop. More Madcon, specifically.
Weekend trips.
Hotels.
Parties.
Dogs. Family. Friends.
Travels. To Didi, to sister, to lounge chairs and margaritas.
Zebra stripes and gold purses.
Tan feet.
Sex.
Champagne.

I think that’s all I want.