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rpmemesbyarat · 3 years

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RP Meme from Netflix's "A Series of Unfortunate Events: A Bad Beginning: Part One"

If you are interested in stories with happy endings, then you would be better off somewhere else.

In this story, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and very few happy things in the middle.

I'm sorry to tell you this, but that's how the story goes.

Aren't you going to the Festive Fun Fair, with all the jolly rides and games and snacks?

It's gray and cloudy.

Let's get to work!

Can you show me what the specific issues are?

That'd be disappointing, I made them myself.

Of course, we still need the right projectile.

Maybe it makes more sense in the original French.

Could you find a rock that's not sandstone?

I'm curious to see if I can skip the rock as far with my left as I can with my right.

I don't mean to criticize, but standard scientific method calls for stable systematics.

Who's that mysterious figure?

It only seems scary because of all the mist.

If you have ever lost somebody very important to you, then you already know how it feels.

Nobody asked you.

The front page! Some people wait a lifetime for that.

That's gonna make a wonderful headline.

I remember how I was when I was your age.

Although I don't know who I think I'm kidding, because I have no inventive or mechanical skill whatsoever.

How lucky am I to have such unusual children in my life?

Please, come in, and mind you wipe your feet on the mat so you don't track in any mud.

Actually, I'm about to be rather wealthy.

Well, welcome to my humble home.

It does seem to need a little work.

I hope you'll be happy here.

I'll still check in on you occasionally.

It looks like a list.

Did you help around the house?

This is the kitchen, where you may help yourselves to meals.

I expect you to keep everything gleamingly clean.

The stove is a bit like a servant. You have to whack it sometimes to get it to work.

This is where I do all my reading.

I don't use the ballroom at all.

You'll have to redo the floors.

It has all the usual amenities, though the management regrets to inform you that the shampoo is not tear-free. If anything, it encourages tears.

Rats bite.

Out of all the numerous bedrooms in this enormous mansion, I have chose this one for your safety and comfort.

There's only one bed.

As you can see, I have provided, at no cost to you, this complimentary pile of rocks. Thoughts?

First of all, first impressions are often wrong.

Your first impression of me may be that I am a terrible person.

A tattoo is just a decorative pigment on skin. It's not a sign of a wicked person.

It's a mistake. It'll get sorted out.

There's a village in the Pacific Islands suspended on ropes above an active volcano.

Stay here. And not a peep.

You've done something different to your hair?

May I come in?

Is this about the children?

I apologize for the noise.

I told them to cry using their inside voices.

I'm not supposed to talk about it, but I can tell you that it involved an illegal use of someone's credit card and a poisonous plant.

Let me tell you, those children are monsters.

I live alone.

Wait here, for your own safety.

You missed a spot.

I never wanna use a toothbrush again.

Why aren't you cleaning?

Plan the menu, purchase the ingredients, prepare the food, set the table, serve dinner, clean up afterward, and stay out of our way.

It's a little greasy.

Money. Hard-earned money. The most important substance on earth besides applause and lip balm.

That was dismaying.

I wasn't expecting to see you.

It's mostly law books, but there are sections on everything from Italian cuisine to the world's most threatening fungus.

Do you have a paper and pencil to take notes?

These books look promising.

All we have to do is sauté garlics and onions in a pot, and then add olives, capers, anchovies, diced parsley and tomatoes to simmer.

Looked broken, but I think I can fix it.

What do we have here?

Is there a supermarket nearby?

I had dreams of becoming an actress, you know.

Who else has such robust good looks in such a large amount?

I'm handsome and I'm talented and love your bank account!

Oh, my God, what a very handsome knave.

Unbelievable good looks and brains and heart!

I'm very very smart

And as anyone in the theater knows, after a grand entrance, the audience is supposed to applaud.

All of the artistic and financial aspects of my career are finally coming together like two pieces of a bread in the middle of a sandwich.

I don't have time to learn a second language besides whatever it is I'm speaking right now.

You know, every time she talks, it's like the tines of a fork are being jammed into my eye

You've seen them perform. Would you call them actors?

Better than nothing.

Wow, that was quick.

Where's the roast beef?

You didn't tell us you wanted roast beef.

You can't go easy on children. They need to be taught to obey their elders.

That's what happens with wealthy kids. Money is really a corrupting influence.

You're a pretty little one.

This table is a mess.

There's hardly a place to put down a baby.

There are many, many things that are better than nothing.

Trouble and strife can cover this world like the dark of night, or like smoke from a suspicious fire.

I'm worried about the children.

We need to get to them.

We need to get out of here first.

The rat is noisy.

#rp memes #rp meme #rp starters #roleplay memes #roleplay meme #roleplay starters #a series of unfortunate events

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

Text

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ Chapter 015 [Security Breach]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Word Count: 2,425 ☁

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

〈“Take me to the edge like hands around my neck. Hanging by a thread again, I think I’m paranoid.” I Prevail, “Paranoid”〉

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

I got behind Rin in line, my eyes scanning the lunchroom. Most of my classmates had settled down at a large table in the center of the room, mingling with other students from different classes. Lunch Rush smiled at me as I passed, giving me an extra piece of garlic bread. At least I think he was smiling, it was hard to tell with that mask…

“I was so happy to find out that U.A. offers different foods from a variety of different countries,” Rin smiled, picking up his tray. “Lunch Rush makes the most authentic Chow Mein! It’s even better than my mother’s, but don’t tell her I said that.”

I chuckled. “His Italian food is amazing, too. I should speak to him about making tacos…” I headed to the table that Midoriya sat at, choosing the opposite end away from Iida, who was droning on about something while Midoriya and Ochako hung on to his every word. They are such fangirls, I swear. Rin sat down across from me.

I glanced at him before looking down at my spaghetti. Should I try to start a conversation with him? I’m okay with the silence, but… is that rude to not try and talk to him? I should go to the bookstore after school and see if there’s a guide for dumbasses about how to interact with people.

“Are your parents pro heroes?” He asked, taking a bite of his noodles.

“No,” I paused. “Ah, well… my mom was.”

“Did she retire?”

“She died,”

“Oh… I’m sorry.” He shifted in his seat, sending me an apologetic look.

“It’s fine. She died shortly after I was born so I never knew her.” I shrugged a shoulder, stuffing a meatball into my mouth.

“I see,”

Fuck, things feel awkward now. Have I always been this fucking bad with people?

“By the way, Winchester -”

His words were cut short when an alarm sounded throughout the cafeteria, followed by a recorded voice, “Warning: Level three security breach. All students please evacuate the building in an orderly fashion.”

The students started to panic, everyone scrambling to get out of the cafeteria. Within seconds, the hallway was packed like a can of fucking sardines. So much for orderly fashion.

“Come on, we need to go!” Rin grabbed my wrist, trying to pull me toward the main exit. I sped past him, tugging him toward the door on the back wall. “We need to exit the building, Winchester!” He was trying to remain calm, but I could see the panic lingering in his eyes.

I paused in front of the door, turning to look him in the eye. “Trust me, you don’t wanna be caught up in that mess. Besides, I got a feelin’ it ain’t a serious breach. You can go if you want, but I’m not gonna follow.”

His brow furrowed as he glanced back at the students pushing and shoving their way to the exit. His hand slipped from my wrist to my hand and he nodded. “You think it’s a false alarm?”

I tugged him through the door, leading him to a small hallway behind the cafeteria. “Mm, probably.” We followed the hall to the left and I approached the giant glass windows, my eyes scanning the grounds. From what I can see, the metal security gate had been completely destroyed and the media had swooped inside the school like vultures. There’s no way in hell members of the press could break through U.A.’s security like that. That sense of dread from earlier came back ten-fold and I started to feel sick to my stomach.

“It’s just the press? Jeez,” Rin heaved a sigh of relief, closing his eyes as he rested his forehead against the glass.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I was sure that it was something far more sinister than just the press.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

After lunch ended and the press was herded off by the police, the students returned to their classrooms as if nothing had happened. I tried to forget it about it, too, but my mind was focused solely on the sick feeling that refused to leave me. Was the food disagreeing with me? I took a shaky breath, resting my forehead against the cool surface of my desk.

“It’s time, class rep. Let’s begin.” Momo stood up, her footsteps fading as she walked to the front of the room.

“Um, okay!” Midoriya still sounded nervous. “So, we need to figure out who the other class officers will be!” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was more serious. “But first… there’s something that I want to say. I’ve thought a lot about this, and I think that Tenya Iida should be our class rep! He was able to capture everyone’s attention and get us in line, so I believe… that he should be the one leading our class from now on!”

“Yeah, you know what? If Midoriya votes for him, I’m good. Plus, he was a big help. He totally manned up and took charge, right?”

“Yep! And did you know he looked like the dude on the emergency exit sign when he was on the wall earlier?”

“This is a waste of time.” Aizawa chimed in, sounding more exhausted than normal, probably from having to deal with the press. “I don’t care who the rep is, just hurry up.”

Iida’s spoke up, “If Midoriya is nominating me for the job… then I humbly accept! I pledge to carry out the duties of class rep to the best of my abilities!”

“Sounds good, emergency exit!”

I scoffed, turning to look out the window. How could everyone be acting so fucking cheerful? Can they not feel the dread hanging in the air? It’s so fucking thick, it’s almost stifling. I tugged at the collar of my shirt, loosening my tie as I took slow, deep breaths. I need to speak to Toshi. Now. I forced myself to stand, the chair scraping across the floor. Everyone turned their attention to me, but I ignored them as I headed to the front of the room toward Aizawa.

He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him off, lowering my voice. “I need to go speak with Toshi,”

Aizawa frowned, his eyes boring into my own. He considered it for a moment before nodding his head. The class started to whisper as I left the room, my sneakers slapping the floor as I ran for the staff room, slamming the door open. Toshi spat out his tea and started coughing while Nezu just smiled at me pleasantly.

“Is there something we can do for you, Jen?”

I cleared my throat, glancing at the couching blonde. “Can I speak to Tosh – er, Yagi-san alone, please?”

“Of course you may,” he crawled off the sofa, patting my hand as he walked by.

I waited for the door to slide closed behind him before I fell into the chair across from Toshi, who had finally stopped coughing.

“What’s wrong, young Jen? Why are you not in class?”

I took a deep breath, my hands fisting around my slacks. “First… I want to apologize for attacking you the way I did. You don’t owe me anything. I’m not entitled to know what secrets you’re keeping… sorry.”

He smiled warmly, moving to sit on the end of the couch so he could rest his hand over mine. “You don’t need to apologize. Now, tell me what’s got you so bothered.”

“I’ve got a really bad feeling, Tosh.” I met his piercing eyes, flipping my hand over so I could tightly grip his hand. It was comforting. “Those fucking media vultures… there’s no way in hell they bypassed security… right?”

He sighed deeply. “We’re not sure yet, but it’s highly unlikely that they did. You need to keep this information to yourself, the staff will handle this situation. Try not to worry because as long as I am here, you’re safe.”

“I’m not worried about my safety,” I muttered, sliding down in the chair.

“No hero has spoken truer words!” he laughed.

“I’m not a hero,” I slapped his hand away when he tried to ruffle my hair.

“Not yet, but you will be one day.”

“That sounds ominous as fuck, you know that, right?” I stood up, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I’m going back to class.” My worries hadn’t been completely erased, but… talking to Toshi made me feel a lot better about everything. I felt calmer, safer. Of course, my dumbass shoulda known that the staff was on top of it.

As I reached for the door to class 1-A, it slammed open. My eyes met vermillion.

“Get out of my way, you extra!” Bakugo snarled, bumping his shoulder roughly against mine as he passed.

Extra? He sounds just like… wait a damn minute, there’s no fucking way. No no, that would be way too meta. Couldn’t hurt to try though, right? “KingXplosionMurder,” I muttered under my breath.

His body tensed as he came to a stop, slowly turning his body. He quickly closed the distance, grabbing the collar of my shirt and tugging me closer, his angry voice lowered. “The fuck did you just say, bitch?”

“Bakugo! Release Winchester this instant!” Iida ordered, but the blonde ignored him.

“Yeah, Bakugo, you’re not acting very manly!” Red frowned, looking between us with worry.

“It’s you, ain’t it?” I smirked. “I’ve never met anyone in my life that goes around calling people extras. And to meet two people that do it? Too much of a fucking coincidence.”

His eyes narrowed as he processed the information. “Fucking TacoQueen,”

“In the flesh, Murder-san~”

“Don’t fucking call me that! You wanna die, bitch?!” He tightened his grip as he held out his other palm, setting off small explosions. “And why the fuck are you wearing the boy’s uniform?!”

I scoffed, grabbing his wrist as I raised the temperature in my hand. “You’re only just now realizing that?”

“Like I’d pay attention to a loser lik – fuck, that hurts, you bitch!” He yanked his hand away in anger. “You wanna fuckin’ go?!”

My hand engulfed in flames, I smirked. “We never did have our rematch, but if you’d prefer real-life combat instead, I’m game.”

“R-Rematch?” Midoriya squeaked, his green eyes darting between the two of us. “Y-You two have fought before?”

Oh, he doesn’t realize I’m talking about a video game. “No, it’s a -”

A hand slapped over my mouth. “Yeah and I won!” Bakugo grabbed my upper arm with his free hand and roughly pulled me down the hall away from the prying eyes of our classmates. “This stays between us, you got that?!”

“It’d be easier if you’d stop yelling,” I scoffed, pulling my arm free. “S’not like I talk to anyone anyway.”

He suddenly stopped, keeping his back to me so I couldn’t see his expression. “Is it true? That story you told me?”

I shoved my hands in my pockets and shrugged. “According to you, no. If I remember correctly, you said, ‘You expect me to believe that shitty story?! Fucking die, extra!’”

“That’s not what I fucking asked!” He whipped around, trying to grab me again but I slapped his hand away and took a step back.

“Yeah. It’s fucked up but true. I don’t really expect you to believe it, I’m still on the fence about it myself.” I stepped around him, continuing down the hall.

His shoulder brushed mine as he walked in step beside me. “I want my rematch,”

“I know that already,”

“I’m going to thoroughly fucking crush you!”

“Mhm,” I paused before smacking my face. “Fuck, I forgot my bag.”

“Dumbass!”

“It’s your fucking fault!”

“Hah?! How the fuck is it my fault?! It’s your fucking bag!”

“Because you dragged me away before I could grab it, dumbass!”

“I’ll fucking kill you, bitch!”

“You can try, Murder!”

“You little fu -”

Someone cleared their throat and we turned around to see Red, Iida, Ochako and Midoriya, all with stunned expressions on their faces. Red stepped forward, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while he held out my shoulder bag. “You, uhh… you forgot this, Winchester.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, taking the bag and slipping it around my neck. I sent Bakugo a look before walking away from the group.

That damn Bakugo, his energy is like a fucking infection. Without even realizing, I get swept away by his pace. In a way, it feels nice to just let go and argue with someone just for the sake of arguing. I had messaged him about seeing a therapist for his anger issues when we first met online, but maybe his outbursts are his therapy. ‘Better out than in,’ Gramps had always told me.

Maybe that idiot is on to something.

As soon as I stepped into the apartment, my phone started to buzz in my back pocket. I ignored it, getting changed into comfortable clothes, grabbing a Dr. Pepper and some snacks before settling down onto the couch. As expected, I had a bunch of unread messages from the blonde idiot.

‘Oi i want my fuckin rematch’

‘Dont fuckin ignore me!’

‘U better not chicken out!’

‘Dumbass extra’

‘Gimme ur fuckin #’

I raised a brow at that, sipping on my ice-cold drink before typing a reply, ‘Jeez take a chill pill bro i just walked in the damn door. Y u want my #? I dont want ur ugly ass nudes’

‘FUCK U’

I laughed, sending him my number. A minute passed before an unknown call came through on my phone. I let it ring for a moment before pressing it to my ear, “All Might’s house of tacos and edge lords, how may I direct your call?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bakugo growled. “Get your dumbass online so I can destroy you!”

“Hmm, with that attitude, I might just have to play seriously this time.” I booted up the game system and stuck the racing disk into it.

“… did you fucking let me win last time?”

“I didn’t let you, I just wasn’t paying attention.”

“YOU BETTER FUCKING GIVE IT YOUR FULL ATTENTION THIS TIME!” He screamed, releasing a string of explosions in the background. I winced, pulling the phone away from my ear as a muffled feminine voice started yelling in the background, followed by Bakugo’s own loud voice. “Shut up, hag! I have a bitch to kill!”

I heaved a sigh as the game screen appeared, followed by an invite to his lobby.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

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highqualityorganicsexpress-blog · 6 years

Text

Southern Fried Chicken

I grew up in New Jersey so the term “southern fried chicken” was only partially known to my ears… the fried chicken part of it. I am a second generation American. That meant, as a boy, my family mostly ate what was cooked at home. So “going out to eat” was a big deal. Second best just might have been a big “take out” bucket of chicken that was devoured while gathered in front of the black and white television!

That bucket came from the restaurant chain whose motto was “Don’t cook tonight… call Chicken Delight!” Mmmm, Chicken Delight, with its delectable, wrinkly crispness and flavor overload that was probably due to the amount of fat that it was cooked in! But back then, us youngsters could probably eat almost anything and our bodies would deal with it. However, a few years ago when I was asked to create an Organic Southern Fried Chicken seasoning, I did not turn to my fanciful memories of youth and Chicken Delight. I binge researched the historical cooking and frying of chicken to get into the “how do I make the best” zone. That’s what I wanted the High Quality Organics Southern Fried Chicken seasoning to be.

Simply put, fried chicken is so darn good, it exists in cuisines all over the word. Italy has pollo fritto, crispy fried chicken is a standard in Cantonese cuisine of China. Korean fried chicken is fried twice, they like it so crisp! India has chicken pakora; a pakora being a type of fritter. Speaking of fritters, that is a perfect segue to fried chicken here in the US. Scottish immigrants, came to North America in the 1700s, after being evicted from their land that was confiscated for sheep grazing! The Scots called fried foods, fritters. Chicken was mostly prepared in this manner; fried but without any seasoning. Many early Scottish immigrants had humble beginnings as indentured servants, and life was very simple. Chickens were small and relatively easy to keep. Therefore, chicken was a regular entrée on the menu. Chicken fritters became popular in the south as these early Scottish settlers spread out their residency in the southern states.

Southern Fried Chicken as we know it, developed due to the early African immigrants. Unfortunately forced to come, the diversified African cultures had an extensive knowledge and capability with foods and spices. Spices were known from the trade routes in and around Africa, and foods…. well here is a list we can attribute to the African immigration – Cala or rice cake, Calalu, a soup similar to gumbo, Coffee, Cowpeas, Cayenne and Paprika type pepper, Goober or peanut, sorghum and millet, Gunger or Gingerbread, Tshimbolebole or Jambalaya, red rice, Guimyombo (get it, Gumbo) or Okra, Cola nitida or Kola Nut (wouldn’t have Coke without it!) and Sesame seeds. Some researchers believe Africans first cultivated rice in America. Early African Americans took dried corn kernels and made grits.

Traditional Southern Fried Chicken was influenced by the Scottish fritters, but were chicken pieces, bones intact, dipped in batter and spiced with paprika, pepper, onion, garlic and other spices brought over from West Africa. The battered pieces were then dropped in hot oil or lard. There are great stories of entrepreneurial African American women selling fried chicken in the 1730s. Hannah Glasse published “The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy” in 1747. “To Marinate Chickens,” was a recipe in the book for flour-covered pieces of chicken to be fried in pig lard. Brown fricassee, was a recipe where chicken cubes are dipped in egg, seasoned breadcrumbs, and then fried. Historians attribute these recipes to the African Americans in the south.

Healthy Southern “Baked” Chicken Serves 2-3 Ingredients 3 chicken thighs 1 egg 1/3 cup all-purpose flour 1/3 cup bread crumbs 1 Tbsp. HQOX Southern Fried Chicken Seasoning 1/2 teaspoon HQOX Southern Fried Chicken Seasoning 1/4 cup olive or vegetable oil

Directions Heat oven to 350 degrees F Mix flour and 1 Tbsp. seasoning in a plate or bowl Place bread crumbs in a separate plate or bowl Place eggs and beat in a separate bowl Cover the chicken piece by piece in the flour, then dip in the egg, last in the bread crumbs, until pieces are coated evenly. Pour the oil into a 9x13 inch baking dish. Place chicken in the dish Sprinkle 1/2 teaspoon seasoning evenly over chicken Bake in preheated oven 30 minutes, turn and bake for another 30 minutes Remove from oven and drain.

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theliterateape · 3 years

Text

People Gotta Eat

by Paul Teodo and Tom Myers

Steam drifted lazily, circling the enormous white serving bowl; the story behind each chip and crack handed down with the platter from nonna to nonna. A box and a half of spaghetti, nestled in the family relic, was now covered in red sauce under neck bones. A rusty grater, balanced on its side, waited with sharp claws, to shred a pungent wedge of Asiago.

His mother, the straps of her blue flowered apron tied over her shoulders, looked antsy, as if a word in her mouth was trapped like a caged sparrow waiting to escape.

His father, a powerful eater, face down in his plate, attacked the meal like a man just returned from battle: a piece of crusty bread in one hand, his favorite fork in the other.

His sister, 11 and more worldly than him, hummed something from the radio to herself.

The boy was just 8, but could tell this was different.

His mother cleared her throat.

He knew it. What was up? What was she going to say?

His father, focused on his plate, tore a piece of bread from the loaf and slopped up some gravy. Ten hours in the factory made him like that. His gastric eruptions could be heard from the bathroom while he changed from his baggy, sweat-stained pants and scrubbed his face and hands with Lava soap, futilely trying to remove the dirt and grime. She cleared her throat again. His sister stopped humming. They were silent, except for his father’s fork extracting strands of meat from a neck bone while crunching bread between his powerful jaws.

“I bought a store.”

His father stopped mid-scoop, spaghetti and neck bone dripping with sauce dangling only a few inches from his bristly chin. “A what?” Sounding as if the neck bone of the pig slaughtered for the family was now lodged deep in his throat.

“Rose loaned me the money.”

“Rose?” His father’s voice burst through the food to bounce off the walls. He grabbed his wine glass and swallowed hard. “She cuts ladies’ hair. What’s she know about stores.”

“She’s successful. And she knows how much I want this.”

“You bought a store, and you didn’t tell me?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice low but confident.

“We talk about things.”

“If I had told you, you would have yelled and said no. And I didn’t want to waste time arguing. So she loaned me the money.”

“What money?” His father’s voice commanding, slamming his fork down, the cheese grater and the Asiago falling to the floor. Bruno, their ninety-pound alley dog, who’d been lurking in the corner, went for it. The cheese, like a magic trick, vanished; the dog’s snake-like tongue slithering over its jowls.

“Three hundred dollars,” she said, clear as a bell. “I’ll pay her back.”

“Rose loaned you the money?”

“I’ve always wanted to own a store.”

“Whatta you gonna do with a store?” His father was direct, practical. “We’re not those kinda people. We work for those kinda people.”

“I’m gonna sell things,” she said, not giving ground.

“Sell what?” His father shot back in the chair, his meal now forgotten. “Whattaya gonna sell?” He stood, not able to contain himself, face crimson, biting his lip, red sauce spotting his white t-shirt.

“Nice things. Holy cards, statues, rosaries, maybe some candles.”

“For Chrissake! We got nothing. And you go out and…” His mother’s face turned ashen.

His father stopped. He was a yeller. He spoke loud, he yelled louder. It was a yell he’d gotten down good, a staff sergeant in the army. The war was a bitch. When she’d ask him to lower his voice he’d say - when I was scared that voice saved lives. I yelled over the bullets, the bombs, and the crying.

The war is over - she would reply.

He stood silent, his face softening. Lost.

His mother’s sigh was weighted with sadness, filling the room with disappointment.

His father remained standing, fork still in hand. Once more he began, but it was a yell. He stopped. His breath heavy and wet. Sweat bloomed the gravy stains on his shirt.

Silence.

His mother looked fragile, alone, wounded.

Please God, make it okay, he said to himself.

The little boy’s eyes darted between the two of them.

His father’s love for her burrowed deep into his existence. When she looked like this he knew he’d hurt her. He couldn’t stand to see her in pain. Especially if caused by him.

Hands trembling, she found a white lace handkerchief under her apron and dabbed her eyes. She began slowly, “I have a name for….” Trying to catch her breath, she stumbled over her words. After a labored pause, she whispered, “…the store.”

“What name?” The little boy could tell Daddy was trying not to yell.

“Enzio’s,” she said, her voice now soothing, supportive.

“After Daddy!” his sister blurted.

The little boy’s head spun towards her, wanting to shove a napkin in her mouth.

“Yes, after Daddy,” his mother said, blotting her tears, a sly smile lighting her face. “Enzio’s.”

His father shook his head like a dog with something stuck in its ear. “Enzio’s,” he said, barely audible. “Enzio’s,” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard it the first time.

“Look,” his mother said. She slid a piece of paper from her apron pocket. Unfolding it with great care, as if it held a precious stone, she presented it to him. His father scowled.

The little boy could see an “E”, then an “N”, then a “Z”… and in bold letters it was all there. Enzio’s.

“Daddy,” his sister squealed, “Momma named her store for you!”

“Her store?” His father’s voice sly with sarcasm.

“Yes. Rose gave her the money. It’s hers.” His sister never shy about adding to any conversation.

“Rose made the sketch for the sign,” she spread the paper on the table. “We’ll hang it over the door.”

The sketch stared up from the table. His father stared back. “Enzio’s” his mother said softly. “I’ve always wanted a store.”

“When are you gonna open?” his father asked, returning to his chair. He pushed Bruno’s inquisitive nose from the table.

“Next week.”

“Next week?” His father shook his head. “Next week?”

***

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“Wonderful,” she said. “Dozens of people came.”

“How much did you take in?” His voice like a curious inspector.

“Do you like the roast?”

“It’s great. How much did you take in?” Bruno lingered at his side, large snout surveying the scene.

“It’s a new recipe. Rose gave it to me.”

His father cringed like he’d been jabbed with Grandma’s knitting needle.

“Did you sell a lot of statues or holy cards or rosaries?”

“Rose says it takes time.”

His father mopped the napkin over his chin and tossed it on the table.

“Rose says…”

“Rose this! Rose that!” He yelled.”Rose dyes womens. What does she know?”

Bruno roared a bark that rustled the curtains.

“How much time?”

“Time, just time, you know. Have some more roast.”

His sister chimed in. “You should see it, Daddy. The statues are in one spot. Big ones, little ones. The holy cards are so nice. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, all lined up. Even some saints. And Momma has some rosaries too. And the candles, they smell so good.”

His father shook his head slowly, his face contorted, like a man determined not to cry out while being disemboweled. “Honey,” he lowered his voice, struggling to infuse sweetness into his tone, “how much did you sell?”

The little boy wanted to help his mother, who looked as if she was in the pool at the park, in the deep end, just realizing her toes couldn’t touch the bottom. “Rose…” she began.

“Rose!” He slammed his hand on the table, a piece of roast dropping to the floor; Bruno, reverting back to the alley, ripped at the meat, gleefully wolfing down the damage Rose, the hairdresser, had caused.

“Why are you like this?” His mother stood.

“What? Like what?” His father ripped the meat from Bruno’s mouth.

“Yelling, angry.”

Why was he like this, his father thought. Yelling? Angry? Because he was scared and ashamed. Like a man who had just pleaded guilty to stealing a loaf of bread, loathing himself for not being able to feed his family without breaking the law.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his pain, fear, and sadness no longer hidden by his rage. “I am, so sorry,” his voice diminished, humble.

His mother took his father’s hand, put it to her lips, kissing the rough gnarled knuckles. She took a deep breath. “Nothing,” she said softly. “I sold nothing.”

***

The little boy stood on his toes peering over the weather worn banister framing the second-floor porch of the two-flat. He liked it high up here. It was scary, but he got a good view of the neighborhood. Mr. LaManto’s fig tree grew like a stately statue in the middle of his backyard and when it was cold, he’d cover it with a big blanket. Mrs. DiNardo soaked stinky fish in a bucket on her porch, and Freddy Farraro’s bathtub, filled with dirt, growing tomatoes, rested on the roof of his rickety old garage. Smells lingered, thick and heavy throughout the air: olive oil, garlic, basil, and onions.

He studied his father sitting on a bucket turned upside down below. Stones and pieces of broken glass littered the brown grass scattered in the dry gray dirt. His father looked old, tired. His head down as if a weight pulled his thick neck towards the earth.

Momma’s store wasn’t doing so good. His sister loved being there. Momma made him come. His sister and momma were a team. The women who came in talked and laughed, holding up the cards and examining the statues. But they’d put them back on the shelf and leave with nothing in their hands. He hated it. He lingered behind the counter listening to the endless chatter, ready to make a sale. Momma had trained him with real money, a cigar box under the counter where he was supposed to put the cash. But the box lay empty, day after day.

No boys ever came in, just mothers, sometimes with their little girls, cooing and clucking, admiring a statue, telling a story about a saint, or bowing their heads piously as they fingered a rosary.

He thought of his mitt hung on his bedroom wall stiff from lack of use. As he walked through the park each morning he longed for the dusty diamond.

The slam of the wooden gate startled him. He stood taller to see who it was. Momma, looking tired, trudged into the barren backyard.

His father looked up. “How was your day?” His voice low, heavy with concern.

“It was good. And yours?” she said, matching his tone.

“Fine. Hot, but fine. I make tape. It pays the bills.” He shrugged. “It’s just tape.”

“It does,” his mother said.

“We’re running three lines and there’s at least two hours overtime whenever I want it. Time and a half. Who can complain?”

“What’s this?” She pointed at the bucket.

“Just thinking.” His father rose gingerly, stretching.

“About?”

His father did not reply. He watched a bird picking stop-start at strands of straw, chirping wildly, fluffing its nest in the gutter of Mr. LaManto’s house. He nodded to the bird, speaking slowly, barely audible. “He’s working hard.”

“I thought it would be different.” Her eyes still fixed on the bird.

The little boy strained to keep his balance, his calves aching.

His father looked at his mother, nodding. “It’s not easy,” taking her hand in his.

“I don’t know what to do,” a catch in her throat. “I feel so bad.”

He pulled her close. She rested her head on his chest.

She looked up at him. “Will we have to close? Bankrupt?”

He lightly held her shoulders studying her as if trying to figure how to say what he was going to say. “People gotta eat.”

“They need to eat?”

“They need to eat. Statues, candles, holy cards. They are…” he paused, “you can’t eat them.”

“What are you talk--?”

His father placed his crooked finger on her lips. “Aspetta, mi amore, wait,” his voice straining. “You cook the best. Your gravy, peppers, the sausage, meatballs, eggplant, nobody can compare. People need food. You make the best.”

“You’re trying to cheer me up.”

“No. It’s the truth. People want food. Good food. Yours is the best. I will help.”

“With what?”

“Cooking, the store. I can help. You can teach me.”

“I wanted the store for….”

“We can keep a place for the statues, rosaries, the cards, candles, all of that, a special shelf. But we must sell food.”

“Do you really think…?”

“It’s been four weeks. We’ve sold nothing. The people that come in and look, they talk,” he made a little flapping gesture with his hand. “They feel good, but they don’t buy. They like the store. They like you, but they leave with nothing. With your store they’ll come in and buy your food” He held her face in his hands. “If we don’t do this, we’ll lose the store.”

“How can I do it? We have kids.”

“The kids will be in school. You do the days. I’ll do the nights.”

“You work.”

“I’ll work more.”

“You can’t do that.”

His father stepped back slightly. He held her shoulders in his hands. “I want you to be happy. You want this. You deserve it. We can do it. Together. A team. The kids will help. It’ll be good for us. A family store.”

***

“Here.” His father handed him a big black marker. “This too.” He removed a large piece of red construction paper from a bag that lay on the dining room table. “Write this, salami.”

“I don’t know how to spell it,” the little boy said.

His father looked around like he’d lost something. “Where’s your sister?”

“I don’t know.”

“Serafina!” His father’s voice boomed through the tiny flat.”Serafina!” Again, louder. His sister, still in pink PJ’s, stumbled out of her bedroom. “Here.” His father pointed to the table covered with red paper. “Sit. You’re a good speller. Help your brother.”

“I’m tired.”

“Spell salami,” his father ordered.

“Why?”

“We’re making signs to hang, in the building, for the store. All over.”

She sat, scanned the table, then rubbed her sleepy eyes. “We need more colors.”

“What?” her father yelled, gulping coffee like it was his first cup after Lent.

“You can’t make signs with just one color. It’s prettier if you have more.”

“Prettier!” His father’s voice rose. “We don’t need…,” he paused, inhaling. “Fine, get more,” pointing in the air, befuddled, like a man who hoped multicolored paper would magically appear.

She smiled, and with new found enthusiasm, hopped from the table, swung open the lower door of the china cabinet, and yanked out a box overflowing with paper. “There, look, now that’ll be better,” she said, holding up a handful of green, yellow, blue, and orange construction paper.

“Salami,” his father said. He sat his daughter down and pointed to the paper, his son poised ready to go to work. “Spell it.”

After an hour, a staggering array of colored construction paper, printed with a variety of lopsided advertisements for Italian staples, covered the table. Salami, Gabagool, Mortadella, Soppressata, Gravy, Sausage, Meatballs, Subs, Melanzane.

“It’s not right.” She said, chastising her father.

“Whataya mean?” He snorted.

“That word.”

“Which one?”

“Gabagool. That’s not what Momma calls it.”

“That’s how my people say it.”

And printed on three pieces of paper taped together, green, white, and red was: “Grand Opening. Come Buy at Enzio’s and Wife Italian Foods. It’s THE BEST!”

“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing a roll of tape he’d pilfered from work. “Now we hang, in the whole neighborhood.”

***

“Big day.” His father hugged his mother. They stood arm in arm in the tiny store. His mother wore her blue flowered apron, his father’s, blood-spattered and white, draped across his belly.

“Will anyone come?” she asked, head down, smoothing her apron.

“They’ll come,” his father said as if it were a threat. “You cook good. You’ll see.”

The tiny bell over the door jingled. A woman with two small children trailing pushed through. She stopped. Closing her eyes, she inhaled. “My god,” she said clutching her chest, “what’s that smell?”

“What do you want to buy?” his father snarled like she was a buck private.

The woman backed away, protecting her children, as if they were about to be assaulted by a man in a bloody white apron.

“Let me,” his mother said. She turned to the woman. “Your children are beautiful. I love that little dress. You must be talking about the sausage and peppers. My mother’s recipe.”

The woman’s face softened. “I’ll take some, and do you have any frittatas?”

“Yes, we do.” His mother’s happy voice lifted into the air.

The bell above the door jingled again, and again, and again. It jingled all day. The odd sight of a steady stream of awkward, not-knowing-what-to-expect customers, carrying red, green, and orange, hand printed signs continued throughout the day.

“What’s a Gabagool?” a short bald man said, holding a sign.

“It’s good, you’ll like it,” his father barked.

“Gimme two pounds of Mor tee dalia,” another said, raising the sign he held in his hand, his lips contorted as if the dentist had just finished digging around in his mouth.

“I teach you right word,” his father responded like a professorial maestro standing before his obedient symphony, “Mortadella” the word rolled off his tongue like lava down Vesuvius.

And “I’ll take a dozen meatballs to go,” one guy with a huge mustache yelled over the throng.

“A dozen balls, for the mustachio!” His father’s voice rose above the crowd.

One after the next, shoulder to shoulder, the store was packed from open till close. Yelling, laughing, and buying. Some even trying to outbid the other on a container of gravy or a tray of lasagna. The place was a madhouse.

The day ended with all the salami, gabagool, sausage, peppers, gravy and meatballs gone. Everything they made was gone. Serafina stood in the center of the store, hands on her hips, announcing, ”Like a pack of wild dogs, like Uncle Frank and the cousins were here.”

***

And it was like that for five years. Everything she made flew off the shelves or out of the cooler. Enzio’s and Wife Italian Foods was the talk of the neighborhood.

Rose was paid off a week after the Grand Opening and Momma never looked so happy.

“People need to eat.” His father would say as he struggled to make small talk with each customer that entered the store.

And it was good for the family.

The little boy, however, rarely saw his father, who still worked at the tape factory 7 in the morning ‘til 4, Monday through Friday. At 4, he’d walk from the factory to the store. On Saturdays and Sundays the whole family worked there. The little boy’s mitt, still hanging on the wall, grew stiffer with disuse.

He, his sister, and his mother would walk through the park to the store at 6 every morning to open. At 5 they all ate supper in the back; during the meal, his mother and father took turns waiting on customers. At 6:30, the little boy, his sister, and his mother would walk home through the park to their second-floor flat.

His father closed the store at 10, walked home, and collapsed in bed.

Five years, every day.

***

The school bell rang at 3. The little boy was glad to get away from Sister Lilliana, the worst nun ever. He began his daily trek to the store. Momma was there and Serafina would be there soon. His job every day was to throw the garbage. It was heavy but he could lift it. He’d get the big key and unlock the metal gate that made him feel like he was in jail, then drag the big bags into the alley. It smelled bad, but it was his job.

This time, as he approached the store, it was different, he could tell. He walked in. The bell did not jingle. No greeting, no smile. No Momma. He couldn’t breathe. He looked around . He tiptoed towards the back. One foot, then the other. Hands trembling. His stomach felt like he’d been punched.

He saw her feet first. Then her legs. Then her blue flowered apron. She was on the floor, arms crossed as if she was praying. Her lip bleeding, her eye swollen. He kneeled next to her. He tried not to scream. His insides exploding, he crossed himself. He prayed.

They’d been robbed. Momma was taken to the hospital. The doctors asked her questions. She said she was fine. She came home, moving slowly. Daddy and Momma talked in the bedroom. Their voices muffled, then rising, then lower.

Two days later, Daddy announced the store would close. His eyes were wild, but filled with tears. He was short and stern. “We will close. No arguments. Close.”

***

The little boy stood in the tiny store, surrounded by the customers who had come and bought the food Momma had made the last five years. He was barely able to see in the jam-packed space. His father, in his blood-stained apron holding a bottle of wine, his mother in her blue flowered apron, her eye still bruised and swollen.

His father’s voice boomed, as if yelling at his friends would help keep him from crying, “Thank you for making this store a good store.” His father wiped his eyes. “Thank you so very much. And to my wife, she made this happen. I was afraid.” Now his voice cracked. “She made this happen. She is a good woman. A great woman. And I am a lucky man.” He shook his head slowly, prompting the little boy to remember standing on the porch way up high watching Momma and Daddy and the little bird, in the gutter, working so hard on its nest. His father’s voice trailed off. “So much work,” he said, “she did everything.”

The customers cheered. “Bravo! Bravo!”

A man with a red beard raised the little boy up so he could see. The little boy’s father turned to his mother. He took her in his arms. He smiled and kissed her as gently as the little boy had ever seen.

His father raised a glass. “People gotta eat.” He boomed in the tiny store. “They gotta eat.”

A joyful but somber mood filled the air. The store began to empty.

“Wait!” He heard his mother say. “Wait.”

She rushed to the front of the store, “Now you can leave.”

And as the crowd began to disperse, they passed his mother standing in the doorway of Enzio’s and Wife Italian Foods, in her blue flowered apron, handing everyone, as they filed out, a holy card, a statue, and a rosary.

#fiction

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aussiemumsadventures · 5 years

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As with so many of my blogs, they really are random and varied in their subject topics and this one is no exception.

Several years ago, a wonderful friend of mine who was born in Paris but raised in the French countryside by her Parisian mother and Tunisian father, showed me how to make beef bourguignon. It was one of the most wonderful meals I’ve tasted. Over the years, I have made a few adjustments and even modified it for the crockpot and it has become a favourite meal in our house. According to my French friend, the difference between French country beef bourguignon and Paris beef bourguignon, is the potatoes, but I love them and wouldn’t make it without them as they give this dish the added heartiness it needs.

I’m going to do my best to share with you the recipe/process of making it but you must first understand that I don’t really measure anything when I cook, so you’ll have to go with my explanation of amounts and if your anal about your quantities, you’ll just have to make it your own by perfecting the measurements 😉. The great thing for me is that each time I make beef bourguignon, it has an ever so slightly different taste and each time is just as lovely as the prior one.

If you’re still here then I’m assuming you want to know more. This is a great family meal and can also be a great dinner party meal, which is how I came to writing this blog. We had guests over one Friday night and the menu was quite last minute, but it was a hit and I was asked to share my recipe, so here goes:

Obviously the first thing you need is the beef. I am not completely au fait with different types of beef, so I normally buy either a nice looking lean beef for stewing package (and still remove all of the fat as none of my family likes fat on any meats) or I buy a top sirloin family package and cut it into chunks (somewhere about the 5cm/2” chunk size especially if I’m doing it in the crockpot as the meat will shrink, basically, you want it to be bite size after it has been cooking. As far as the amount of meat, it really depends on how many you’re cooking for. The night of the dinner party, I was cooking for 8, so I used about 1kg/just over 2lbs, of meat.

I cook the meat in a large pan with olive oil on a medium high heat until just brown, then add the bacon. Again, I like the bacon to be nice and lean. I cut most of the fat off and have even used lean turkey bacon in the past. Either one works. In this case I used 7-8 slices of center cut pork bacon that I cut into very small pieces after I had trimmed the fat off. Then I threw in a variety of salts (pictured) because I didn’t have any ‘seasoned salt’ on hand, so just made my own. It’s important to add a little extra salt as you will be cooking potatoes.

I added 3 cloves of fresh garlic (refrigerated minced garlic is just as good – about 3 teaspoons) and lots of onion powder as well as some dried minced onion (note – I love cooked onion but my husband and 2 of my kids, do not. I find things need that onion-y taste, so have resolved to using a mix of onion powder/dried minced onion to give the taste without adding the texture they dislike so much).

This is a 1/4 cup that I used as an oversized spoon equivalent- don’t get too caught up on perfect measurements 😊

Next add a couple of heaped tablespoons (or 1/4 cups with a bit) of flour. This was weird for me the first time I saw it as I thought it would end up chunky/lumpy like gravy, but it works itself out. Stir the flour in, it will get thick and pasty very quickly so have your wine ready to go.

Thick and pasty after the flour has been added

I really like using the box wine for this. I have used different types of red and I guess it can’t really be called a bourguignon if you don’t use that wine, but semantics. Lol. The Franzia chillable red gives the dish a lighter taste (which my kids prefer, rather than a heartier red that continues to give it a ‘wine’ taste even after the alcohol is cooked). My friend used a heartier wine but added an equivalent amount of water, so I really find this does the job just as well. I did measure it this time knowing I would share the recipe with you 😊 and I used about 750mls of the Franzia and added about 250mls of a cheap cab sav to find a happy medium in the sauce/stew. I gave it a quick stir and threw it all into the crockpot then added the tomatoes and tomato paste, 3 bay leaves and a huge spoonful of the beef stock paste you see pictured here. I love this paste. Best stock brand in America in my humble opinion. Find a good quality beef stock where you live and use it generously.

If you are cooking it in your pan, add these ingredients, put a lid on your pan and turn it down to a simmer, stirring regularly and cooking for about 40 mins. If you’re using a crockpot, set on low for 8 hours or on high for 3-4 hours, stirring it after about an hour.

Potatoes. In this particular meal, I used a 3lb bag of baby red and yellow potatoes. But I’ve used all sorts of potatoes and just cut them into bite sized pieces. You have some different options here as far as cooking them goes too. I like to cook the potatoes a little bit before adding them to the crockpot as I have had potatoes not quite cooked even after they have supposedly simmered away for 8 hours. Your other option is to cook them and add them at the last minute. I prefer the first method because they get the saucy flavour interspersed in the potato and it adds to the overall quality of this dish, but sometimes things don’t work out, so it’s always an option at the end. If you’re cooking this meal on the stovetop, then your only option is to cook the potatoes separately and add them into the sauce for a few mins. Make sure you taste it after you have added the potatoes to see if you need to add some extra salt, this goes for both methods.

To finish off this hearty stew meal, I throw a loaf (or two) of French bread into some foil and warm it up in the oven. Serve it with some real butter and let your guests dip away into this wonderfully warming meal!

Let me know what you think of this recipe and if you make it, how it goes down with your family and friends. This meal gave 4 of us seconds and lunch for 4 of us the following day, so it certainly went a long way.

If you enjoy reading my crazy, varied blogs, please subscribe here on WordPress. Sharing is caring, so feel free to share with your friends. I’m on Facebook: Aussie Mum’s Adventures. Come like my page and share it with your friends! You can find me on Twitter: @ozmumsadventures, on Instagram: Ozmumsadventures, on Pinterest: Aussiemumsadventures And please subscribe to my YouTube channel: Aussie Mum’s Adventures – it’s a work in progress though 😊

Ingredients

Beef

Bacon

Seasoned salt

Garlic

Onion

Wine

All purpose (USA) or plain flour (Australia)

Large can of crushed tomatoes (28oz in USA equivalent to 794grams metric – but don’t worry about being precise, just adjust your other ingredients to account for amount of tomatoes) and/or

Fresh tomatoes if desired

Tomato paste – small can or about 2 heaped tablespoons – be generous 😊

Bay leaves

Beef stock

Potatoes

Crusty bread

Hearty Beef Bourguignon As with so many of my blogs, they really are random and varied in their subject topics and this one is no exception.

#aussie mum&039;s adventures #beef bourguignon #dinner #dinner party food #easy French cuisine #family dinner #food #life #mil spouse #parents

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dispatchesfromthedome · 5 years

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Winging It

It may come as a surprise to some of you, to find out that Your Own Personal Genius is a guy. I mean, you know I’m a licensed, practicing heterosexual. You know that I enjoy manly pursuits, like watching sporting events, obsessing over obscure automobiles like the 1931 Duesenberg J, and lusting after a variety of actresses from Maria Thayer (Stranger with Candy) to Tatiana Maslany (Orphan Black). I also used to hunt, fish and change my car’s oil back in my younger days when my proclivities were less refined, and my neck was several shades redder.

So, I’m a man. But I’m also a guy. For all my cultured pursuits, from craft beer to Elizabethan theater, there is the overwhelming desire to drink Budweiser at minor league baseball games. I harbor such wide and varied interests as Egyptology and theoretical physics, but I have been known to watch shows like Game of Thrones and collect movies like Showgirls primarily for the nudity. Don’t judge me. I have been known to yell unkind things at hockey officials during games featuring my beloved hometown Roanoke Rail Yard Dawgs of the Southern Professional Hockey League (which, counterintuitively, has teams in Peoria, Ill., and Evansville, Ind.). I will drink a beer straight from the can if the opportunity presents.

But I digress.

Nowhere is my inherent Guyness on display than when it comes to food. Of course, I have a cultured palate that appreciates such delicacies as mackerel sashimi and cabrito asado. But I also appreciate the simple Appalachian staples of my mountain upbringing, such as pinto beans and cornbread. I obsess over the minutiae of such passion-rousing foods as Barbecue and pizza. I love virtually all ethnic cuisines from around the globe, from Pakistan to Polynesia and beyond, but I’ve also got a soft spot in my heart for that humble sports bar staple, the chicken wing.

Hence the title.

Once considered the least useful part of the bird, the wing came into its own in 1964 at a joint called the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, NY, making it one of the few Yankee-centric foods to have earned such a place in my culinary lexicon. Teressa Bellissimo was the cook at the bar, and her son Dominic was tending bar when some of his friends came in after hours harboring serious appetites. Dominic asked his mother to prepare something for the occasion.

Thinking quickly, she took some chicken wings that had been destined for the stockpot and deep-fried them because everyone knows that deep-frying anything magically increases its desirability. She then further enhanced the wing’s palatability by slathering it in a sauce composed of hot sauce and butter, two things that further increase the deliciousness of almost anything they touch, rivaling only cheese as a universal modifier of all things edible. Which Bellissimo understood instinctively and added a dipping sauce of umami-laden bleu cheese salad dressing to create a nearly-perfect combination of flavors. The rest, as they say when their mouths aren’t full of the now-iconic Buffalo wing, is history.

From their beginnings as an impromptu bar snack to a billion-dollar industry, popping up in disparate eateries from homogenized sports bars (Buffalo Wild Wings, a.k.a. B-dubs) to mediocre pizza joints (all the major delivery franchises). Chains such as Wingstop and Hooter’s rely almost solely on the wing as the star of their menus. More fast casual chains than not offer some variant of the Buffalo wing, usually as an appetizer. My own hometown of Roanoke, Virginia, holds an annual Wing Festival, where both chains and local eateries vie for the title of best wings.

Like all American foods, nothing is sacred when it comes to the wing. The original Buffalo sauce is now just one of a myriad of flavors in which the wing is offered. Garlic Parmesan, mango habanero, Jamaican jerk, even the inexplicable mild variant, all vie for popular tastes. Wings themselves can be breaded (Hooters makes the best and most well-known version) or “naked,” baked instead of deep-fried. There is even something called a boneless wing, which isn’t a wing at all but rather a flavorless chicken nugget dressed up in wing sauce (shame on you pretenders).

Another facet of the wing is its frequent use in ultra-spicy iterations and eating challenges. Usually called something like the Super Stupid-Hot Atomic Death Wing Challenge, an eatery makes the hottest wing they can imagine and challenge patrons to consume a number of them within an allotted time, without drinking anything, for a prize such as a T-shirt and getting their picture on the wall of conquerors. I personally have never had time for such contests, even though my love of spicy foods borders on the obsessive. My love of low culture only descends so far, and they never seem to have the T-shirt in my size.

Moving forward.

It may come as a surprise for you to discover that I bake my wings at home instead of frying or even grilling them. For one thing, I haven’t got a deep fryer. I don’t own one because, after a lifetime of battling my weight, I know that if I were able to deep fry anything I wanted I’d overuse the privilege and end up the star of a reality TV show My 600 lb. Genius. For another thing, I like wings a lot. And like anything I like a lot, I like a lot of it. It’s not unusual for me to eat upwards of 20 wings as a game time snack for a special sporting event like the Super Bowl or the NCAA wrestling championships. Deep-frying that many wings in a tiny home fryer would take f-o-r-e-v-e-r. I don’t have that kind of time, I’ve got important Genius stuff to do.

Seriously.

I cut my wings apart in the traditional fashion, separating the drumette from the rest of the wing. Unlike most places, though, I leave the wing tip on. I believe it makes for a tastier wing, even though you don’t eat it, and it makes the whole thing easier to hold while you’re going after the sometimes-challenging meat. I toss my wings in flour before baking, just to hold in the moisture and make it easier for the sauce to stick, but I don’t really bread the wing like Hooter’s does. As you’ve probably surmised, I like the wings at Hooter’s. Sure, the waitresses are comely, and their attire is appealing, but honestly, I’d go to Hooter’s even if they wore snow suits and looked like the Michelin Man.

As for sauce, many of you know my odd predilection for all sorts of condiments, from hot sauce to salad dressing. It would make sense, then, that I would have an impressive collection of wing sauces, as well. But I don’t. Other than a spicy garlic sauce, like that offered by B-dubs, I tend to stick with the tried and true. The original wing sauce was a mix of Frank’s cayenne pepper hot sauce and butter. Frank’s currently offers a pre-mixed version of this sauce, and Southern favorite Texas Pete makes a similar product. I am fine with either. I’ve not yet tried to make my own wing sauce, using any one of my many hot sauces and a higher-fat European style butter, but who knows when I might take a notion and give it a go.

Why all the fuss over the smallest piece of chicken with the least amount of meat on it? Part of it has to do with the primal nature of eating meat off the bone, which returns us to our hunter-gathered roots Then, there is the fact that wings are little flavor bombs that deliver a lot of taste in a small package, which also allows you to eat a lot of them over a longer period of time. This fact makes them perfect snacks for events that don’t have a predetermined time limit, like sports. Sure, a football game is timed to last one hour with a fifteen-minute halftime, but in reality, a game lasts on average between 3 to 3 ½ hours. It wouldn’t be practical to have a meal last that long without a tremendous amount of work going into it. So, snacks it is, which is an easier way to allow everyone to graze throughout the length of the contest. I have long felt that opera would be more popular in this country if people were allowed to drink beer and eat chicken wings throughout the duration.

Be that as it may.

From their modest beginnings as an impromptu bar snack to a multimillion-dollar industry, chicken wings have earned their hallowed place among American snack foods right alongside potato chips, popcorn, nachos, and whatever the hell Funyuns are. And, in my opinion, make them an indelible part of the Good Life.

Till next time, kids, exit to your right and enjoy the rest of Tumblr.

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guitarboard42-blog · 5 years

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The Places I Go, Comptoir Libanais

One of the things I really like doing as a food blogger is being afforded the opportunity to enjoy food in new places and venues. Restaurant Reviews don't happen really often, but when they do, I am always really happy to do try something new!

I was recently contacted and asked if I would like to enjoy a meal at the new Comptoir Libanais which had recently opened up in Cheshire Oaks, which is a huge shopping complex not too far from where I live. I was offered a meal for two on the house. The Comptoir Libanais dining experience promises to bring the delicious flavours of Lebanon and the Middle East to the the British customer. With a myriad of bright colours and flavours the food reflects the stunning interiors of all the restaurants.

Founded by Tony, Kitous, there are a number of Comptoir Libanais restaurants now open in the UK, each one offering a fabulous Lebanese dining experience. It has always been Tony's desire “to create a place for everyone to eat and drink in humble and friendly surroundings that is affordable for all”, so to see the Comptoir family expand in England's North West brings much joy to Tony and the team. Comptoir has a strong presence in the North with restaurants in Leeds and Manchester and Cheshire was the natural next location.

Tony grew up in the kitchen where his love for food developed, with his mother and grandmother always cooking delicious meals for him and his family at their home. This love of food and his upbringing is what drives his ambition to share the unique food and culture from Lebanon and the Middle East with the rest of the world.

I brought my friend Tina along with me to enjoy the experience and from the moment we entered the restaurant we were struck by the authentic feel of it, the bright colours, the delicious smells and fabulous atmosphere. It felt just as if we had stumbled onto a wonderful Souk somewhere in the Middle East, with a vibrancy in colour and a truly down home feeling. The colours were a treat for the eyes and everyone was quite friendly and helpful. At first there was some confusion as they weren't expecting us, and didn't appear to know anything about it, but that was quickly sorted by the very capable and friendly staff which showed us to a nice window side table where we could view the whole restaurant from. I loved the colour and feel of the furnishings. Brightly coloured and patterned vinyl seating, and red painted wooden chairs, mixed with a red striped bench seats vie for your attention along with beautiful mosaic tile patterned floors and fabulous pendulum lighting. I found myself wanting some of those light fixtures for my own home. The walls were lined with pictures of famous people wearing colourful Fez's and beautiful handbags which were for sale, silver tea pots, also for sale.

It felt so authentic and real. We both knew instantly that we were in for a real treat. I think about the only thing that was missing was some music. I think a bit of Middle Eastern music playing in the background would be nice, but this is such a busy and happening place and filled with a mosaic of people's, speaking different languages etc. We felt comfortable and at home. Tina remarked that she felt as if she had been dropped into the middle of a lovely Eastern Bazaar. I felt the same.

Within the “souk” feel of the restaurant there is also a real “souk” (market), created by Tony to help guests find hard to find ingredients which are essential to make Middle Eastern food. These include spic’s such as Sumac, Zataar, or Orange Blossom, Rose Water, Tahina, and sweet treats such as Nougat and Baklawa. There is also homeware and goodies and handmade bags which are made by woman in local villages. For those who want to cook Lebanese food for their family and friends, there are two cookbooks, written by Tony and they have recently launched their third highly successful cookbook: Feasts from the Middle East . The book aims to enable guests to create a taste of the Middle East in their own kitchen at home. (Shhh, don't tell Todd, but I ordered one from Amazon!)

The menu is made of recipes which Middle Eastern and Lebanese mothers use at home including Tony’s mother. Comptoir is a place that serves food all day from breakfast until dinner. It is a restaurant where everyone can eat casually and the food is served with warm and friendly hospitality, just like back home in the Middle-East and North Africa. Breakfast is an important meal in the Arab culture, the menu includes dishes such as Shakshuka - a classic dish made up of slow cooked tomatoes, red onions and peppers mixed with parsley, coriander and garlic. Topped with a fried egg and crumbled feta and served with pita. Alternatively , Man’ousha flat bread or full Lebanese breakfast.

The all day menu includes a huge variety of different dishes from a large selection of hot and cold mezze which are ideal for a quick snack or to share with friends and family. All the usual dips, salads and dishes are also available, from Baba Ghanuj to Marinated Jawaneh - Chargrilled marinated chicken wings with garlic, lemon & pomegranate molasses. Warm Lebanese wraps (served with a Comptoir salad and pickles) are especially popular, as are the Marinated Grills and Tagines. No Lebanese meal is complete without something sweet there is a selection of Baklawa and Lebanese desserts, which are delicate, fragrant and delicious, such as Dark Chocolate Orange and Cardamom Cake. Refreshing homemade lemonades such as Romana - orange blossom water and pomegranate lemonade and Rosa - rose, lemon and lime lemonade, as well as Fresh Rose Mint Tea , served in a silver teapot are the perfect accompaniments to the meal as well as freshly squeezed juices, cocktails and a selection of Lebanese wines and beers, specially imported from the Bekaa Valley.

We were really spoilt for choice. They offer a variety of drinks for their customers. Hot drinks such as teas, coffees, chocolates (both European and Middle Eastern choices) along with a variety of wines, beers, spirits, cocktails and cold drinks. We don't drink alcohol, tea or coffee, but were keen to try some authentic Home-made Lebanese Lemonades.

Tina chose for herself a Toufaha, which is an Apple, Mint and Ginger lemonade. (regular £2.95)

For myself I ordered a Roza, which was Lemon and Lime, with Rose Syrup. (Regular £2.95) Oh boy, but both drinks were amazing! We tasted each other's (of course!) and I loved both flavours. The Toufaha was spicier than the Roza, but both were deliciously pleasant and served with plenty of ice and a lovely paper straw! (Yay!)

There is a huge selection of Mezze, both hot and cold, available, along with a variety of Dips, Soups, and Salads. The people next to us were having a Mezze platter for two and it looked fantastic. You can also get a Mezze Platter for one. We knew we wouldn't have room for that, along with a main and dessert.

We didn't want to overly fill up before our main course, so we ordered two separate Mezze to share. All were moderately priced, ranging from £2.95 for a selection of pickles to £6.25 for the Lamb Kibbeh.

(Sorry we had taken a bite before I took the photo)

Lamb Kibbeh (3 pieces) (£6.25) - Minced lamb cracker wheat parcels, filled with lamb, pine nuts and onion, served with a mint yogurt sauce.

Cheese Samboussek (£5.50) - Pastry parcels filled with Halloumi & Feta cheese, topped with sesame seeds, served with mint yogurt sauce.

I think our favourite of the two was the Cheese Samboussek, but both were delicious. The Lamb was nicely spiced, and not greasy in the least, with a crisp crust and flavourful filling. I love Kibbeh, and this was very good, not too spicy, but well flavoured.

The Cheese Samboussek, had lots of filling and we both fell in love with it. Tina wanted to show you the insides. Both dishes came with a delicious creamy dip and pickles. I wasn't sure what the pickles were, but we both enjoyed them. There was a type of hot pepper, and a crisp green stick with we think was cucumber, but my favourite were the pink ones, which you can't see here because I had already eaten it. It was so good. I saw jars of them for sale, so when we go back (and we will because we want to bring our husbands with us) I am going to buy some for here at home. Seriously tasty! Both Mezze were a nice size and not overly filling, which was a plus for me as I don't want to already be full before my main course arrives. A good Mezze should whet the appetite for what is to come and these did just that!

They are a variety of warm Wraps on the menu ( Falafel Lamb Kofta, Chicken Taouk, Halloumi & Olive) all served with a Comptoir salad and pickles. You can also get a Wrap platter. There are four different kinds of Large Salads, with vegetarian and vegan options. There are also Grill options and Fattets, several favourites, and Tagines along with a variety of sides available.

For our main, we again chose two different options which we planned on sharing. They didn't bat an eyelid when we asked for two separate plates. Let me tell you, it was really difficult to choose only two things. I could easily have eaten everything on the menu. It all sounded very appealing!

One choice was the Chicken Moussakhan (£11.95) - Roasted marinated half baby chicken in pomegranate molasses, walnuts, and sumac onion confit, served with Comptoir salad & Vermicelli Basmati Rice.

THIS WAS GORGEOUS!

The portion was very generous, the chicken was well flavoured and tender. Delicious with a crisp skin. I normally take the skin off my chicken, but I ate the skin, I couldn't help myself. The salad was nice and well prepared with a lovely dressing. (I have had some pretty manky salads in restaurants over here) This salad passed my salad test. I also really enjoyed the rice. I love Vermicelli rice. This had a faint flavour of chicken stock. All told, we were both very pleased with this option.

For our other option we ordered the Lamb & Prune Tagine (£12.50) - Tender pieces of lamb with prunes, butternut squash, roasted almonds and sesame seeds. We chose couscous as the go with.

This was also delicious, with plenty of prunes, lamb, squash and a nice thick gravy. It was nicely spiced with a really fruity flavour, which went very well with the sweetness of the lamb. The lamb was so tender it fell apart.

A variety of sides are also available on the menu . . . rice, couscous, olives, quinoa, Batata Harra (Lebanese spiced fries), Hommos, and a selection of pickles.

There are plenty of options for dessert and the sweet tooth! Dark Chocolate & Red Rose Berries Cake sounded good. So did the Orange and Almond Cake, the Mango and Vanilla Cheese Cake and the Chocolate Brownie. There are also Baklawa and ice cream or frozen yogurt. We wanted something really authentic and light so we chose the Orange Blossom Mouhalabia and a selection of Baklawa.

Orange Blossom Mouhalabia £5.45 - a traditional Lebanese milk pudding with date, fig, apricot, prune and sultana compote.

Can you say TO DIE FOR! This is what we wrote down . . . Smooth, silky, light and satisfying . . . this was a clear favourite. We had no problem polishing it off and the compote went beautifully with it. It almost tasted faintly like Turkish delight. We are so in love with this, that I am now looking for a recipe to make it at home. We want it for our Christmas lunch dessert!

The Baklawa (£4.95) was amazing also. I love, LOVE Baklawa. It is like one of my favourite things on earth. There was a very generous serving of six pieces. It was all delicious. You can also buy the Baklawa in the "Souk" along with a multitude of other goodies.

With an ample Breakfast Menu, a Children's Menu, as well as a Takeaway Menu, there something here for everyone, and every occasion.

We were very happy with our meal. It was well prepared, delicious and the servings quite ample. The service was excellent. The atmosphere was excellent. All-told this was a very positive experience for both of us. Lunch for two, with drinks, excluding tip, came to about £50.00. All in all we gave this dining experience a perfect 10 out of 10! It is a very family friendly restaurant as well. The couples sitting next to us had small children with them. I loved the colour and the vibe of the place. There is also an upstairs. Washrooms are available, both regular on the upper floor, and a Handicapped accessible on the main floor. Very clean.

We will return for sure.

Many thanks to Comptoir Libanais, Cheshire Oaks for this really enjoyable dining experience!

Special notes -

Tony started his entrepreneurial flair from a young age selling lemonades and sandwiches outside his home on the street in Algeria. This drive inspired him to come to London with very little and grow the restaurant business that he has today. The authentic journey of flavours from the regions where Tony spent his childhood and where he still regularly travels now, continuing to source ingredients and decorations that will enhance the intoxicating eating experience of the Middle East.

The food is available to eat in the restaurant or to take home back to the office or to your home. Takeaway food is part and parcel of Middle Eastern culture and so Comptoir Libanais s proud to offer this service to guests at the Cheshire Oaks restaurant. Not only this, but the team will soon be launching an exclusive delivery service with Deliveroo . Comptoir Libanais will, therefore, provide the perfect option for eating at home or for picking up on the way back from work.

The restaurant also offers a large dedicated children’s menu with an activity pack and colouring in section to keep the little ones entertained. Priced at £5.95 it includes a main course, drink and dessert and includes favourites such as Halloumi Halloumi platter with falafel and hommos and Chicken wings with hommos and Lebanese fries.

About Comptoir Libanais There are 23 restaurants across London and around the country, including Manchester, Bath, Leeds, Reading, Birmingham, Oxford and Exeter. Comptoir Libanais also has a branch in Holland and is in the process of expanding further internationally, with restaurants in Dubai and Abu Dhabi.

Founded in 2008 by Tony Kitous, the name means Lebanese Counter, as it is a place where everyone can eat casually and enjoy Middle Eastern food, served with warm and friendly hospitality, just like back home.

www.comptoirlibanais.co.uk

Source: https://theenglishkitchen.blogspot.com/2018/12/the-places-i-go-comptoir-libanais.html

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meditationsinausterity · 6 years

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A Little Goes a Long Way: SO MANY MUSHROOMS

Here we are at mid-week with what seems to be becoming a regular round-up of what I've been cooking to make sure I use literally everything in the fridge. As per my last post I have decided that the best way to structure the way I note my week in the kitchen is to start with a master list of the foods i bought home from the trash cafe, so as to avoid continually repeating myself in the smaller run-downs at the beginning of each dish, and make plain the cyclical nature of my cooking week and how I play around with different combinations of the same produce.

I have to say, the trash cafe has yielded a lot of fresh produce recently, so my hauls have been very heavily canted in favour of that. Great for me because I do prioritise cramming in as many nutrients as I can when I cook, but it does put a stricter deadline on what I make and when. I think writing this master list is actually going to be useful in terms of documenting the varying trash cafe hauls, as well; as I've worked with the project I've been fascinated to see the ebbs and flows of what we get through the doors, depending on what businesses we're working with and what they've had an excess of.

I'm also noticing my week changing as I work more. I'm on about 50 hours a week on average at the moment, so I have less time to be in the kitchen, but also, I have to think about bulk cooking things I can take to work with me when I'm on a double shift. I do have the option of a free sandwich and chips when I work a double (I usually rack up two of these a week), but I don't often take the chefs up on it, which my coworkers think I'm crazy for. I'd rather just have it as a backup for if I've forgotten to bring food, or not been staying at mine, because I don't like being too carbed out at work, and lately, where I've been taking in leaner, more vegetable driven food and fresh fruit, I've been really feeling the difference in my body after my long days and walks to and from work.

To kick things off then, let's start with that big old list:

Things I got from the Trash Cafe:

a packet of six chicken thighs (These had been defrosted to use in the kitchen, but I got through four packs during service and still had leftover stew to send to another cafe, so I bought these home)

2 1/2 punnets of chestnut mushrooms

2 punnets of plum tomatoes

1 bag of lemons

1 bag of limes

1/2 pat of salted butter

A block of mild goats cheese (it behaved similarly to a sharp cheddar in texture and flavour)

A packet of mint

Rye bread with sunflower seeds

A bag of red onions

A bag of broccoli florets

A bunch of asparagus

A white cabbage

Half a bag of mixed salad leaves

2 pots of prepped pineapple chunks (I tend to just eat these as they come, with breakfast or at work, so they don't get photographed)

2 pots prepped mango chunks (likewise with these)

Now onto what I made with my bounty:

Mushrooms on toast a couple of ways

Way One:

Items purchased for this meal:

None

Items already had for this meal:

Eggs, from the previous week's trash cafe haul

Ciabatta bread, likewise, and I keep my bread frozen, as I always eat it toasted, so it keeps indefinitely

Garlic, always in my storecupboard

So I am not going to patronize you, this was literally just mushrooms, panfried in garlic and butter, with scrambled eggs. I do not need to tell you how to do any of that. i do need to emphasize, however, a belief I hold that cooking does not have to be overtly technically skilled to be good. granted, I know some amazingly creative and talented chefs, and what they do is mindblowing, but by the same token I know if they came over for breakfast, they wouldn't turn their nose up at this because it's still good food. one of my pet peeves in this life is the attention seeking cook, who only ever makes masterchef-esque showstoppers for the drama and attention of it. Sometimes life is literally just a low key breakfast while chilling with a magazine before work, and sometimes that low key breakfast may be the best thing you could eat in that possible moment. A true love of the kitchen and feeding yourself involves care and attention applied to even the quotidien dishes.

Way Two

Items purchased for this meal:

None

Items already had for this meal:

Marmite; an absolute store cupboard necessity for me. This yeasty little umami bomb is one of the very few things that will make me misty eyed and patriotic (the other two are Barbara Windsor and Kate Moss, in case you were wondering)

So this was perhaps a slightly more elaborate take. Inspired by a breakfast dish I had at The Garage Lounge in Southsea, which was mushrooms in a white wine cream sauce, on marmite toast, with a poached egg, and was amazing, I decided to work with what I had (SO MANY MUSHROOMS) to channel similar vibes.

I pan-fried the mushrooms with garlic, and parsley, and finished with creme fraiche, piling onto rye and sunflower toast with marmite, and added some bagged salad dressed in oil and lemon to mop up the juices,because I like raw food with my meal, and i do like something acidic to cut through a rich dish. This was incredibly satisfying in the eating, and felt far more indulgent than the small amount of creme fraiche I added would have suggested it would be.

Leftovers from these meals:

None

Baked lemon and oregano chicken with goats cheese and tomato couscous

Items purchased for this meal:

None

Items already had:

Pesto: there's almost always an open jar of pesto in my fridge. Like any ex-student I've done my time eating pasta with pesto at least once a week, but now I use it as quick flavour for grains and dishes when i don't necessarily have fresh herbs.

Couscous: another storecupboard stalwart. Really good for quick, cheap, light dinners and salads. Also, call it the Ottolenghi effect, but I'm never averse to any form of grain salad at lunchtime, so having enough of a grain to bulk batch them is always good.

Oregano: From last week's trash café haul

This was a doddle to make. I put the chicken thighs in a pan with a handful of whole, unpeeled garlic cloves, squeezed the juice of two quartered lemons over them and chucked in the lemon pieces themselves. I added a handful of oregano stems, some oil, salt, and pepper, tossed it all to coat, and left to marinade for a few hours, before baking in a gas mark 6 oven for about 45 minutes-1 hour, turning occasionally.

The couscous itself was easy, I diced onions, mint, tomatoes, and goats cheese, and tossed it together with a huge bowl of couscous i'd made up with boiling water and a glug of olive oil. lemon juice, salt, and pepper to dress.

The pesto cream was easy, I think I got this idea from one of those little booklets you get with cooking magazines, a little '30 low carb recipes for January' thing. it's just one parts pesto to two parts creme fraiche, and it's a pretty good, lazy way to perk up chicken. it's banging in sandwiches with leftover chicken as well.

A nice light meal, that was, I grant you, a bit late 90's housewife, but nonetheless, I'm always here for dishes that fill you up without bloating, and this was up there. Not to mention the flavours involved aided me in my current project to deny the fact that the weather is getting colder and winter is coming (other allies involved in this are the crisp blue skies Portsmouth is giving me, and largely being inside most of the time).

Leftovers from this meal:

4 x chicken thighs: Taken to work on two days to get me through double shifts.

About 4 portions of couscous: Taken to work alongside the chicken and some fresh fruit, because it does feel good to be smashing out your five a day even when you're working 13 or so hours of it. Also eaten upon returns home, in a bowl, in bed, while reading in my pyjamas. I guess most people have the luxury of being able to not eat late at night, but consider the humble bartender, doing a physical job until the witching hour, coming home shattered and grabbing the first thing they can find before they collapse. At least, in this instance it actually had some nutritional content. Back in my early twenties it would have been fried chicken, or spinach pastries from the 24 hour turkish supermarket at the bottom of seven sisters road (shout out to the lads at Akhdeniz, absolute fucking legends)

Tomato and mint Bruschetta with goats cheese:

Items purchased for this meal:

None

Items already had:

Salt, pepper, oil

I know, I know, another 'things on toast' moment. it probably looks like I eat far more things on toast than your average bear. I don't think I do, but actually,as a nocturnal worker, I tend to have more time in the morning to take care over what I eat and cook something from fresh.

This was a straightforward chopping of tomatoes, red onions, and mint, and tossing it with oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper, allowing to steep for a little while to draw out the juices of the tomato. then just piled onto crisp rounds of toast and topped with thinkly shaved goats cheese.

Another breakfast that allowed me to stave off the winter sads, whilst also getting the nutritional benefit of raw vegetables (I do, really, find any excuse to pack raw fruit and veg into my diet). Also, given how many tomatoes I actually had to power through this week, a raw dish of them was somewhat inevitable.

Leftovers from this meal:

Enough tomato mixture to fridge and repeat the exact same breakfast the next day before work. It was actually better the next day after the tomato mixture had time to mellow and marry.

Sweet Potato and Mushroom Frittata with chilli and soy green salad

Items purchased for this meal:

None

Items already had:

Sweet potato: from a previous trash cafe haul

Romaine lettuce leaves: from a previous trash cafe haul

Eggs: from a previous trash cafe haul

Birds eye chillies: from a previous trash cafe haul

Garlic, paprika, salt, pepper, soy.

The salad for this was simple. I snapped the asparagus tips at their natural bending point (the best way to make sure you're not eating them stringy, which is what puts most people off asparagus) and steamed them with the broccoli florets for a few minutes. I sliced white cabbage and red onion, and tossed the lot in a mixture of oil, soy, diced chilli, and lime juice, leaving to chill out in the dressing.

For the frittata I roasted diced sweet potato in oil and paprika until soft, before frying the mushrooms in garlic and oil, and adding the sweet potato to the pan. I added five beaten eggs to the hot pan and swirled over the heat to cook the base, before using a plate to flip the frittata,as I would with a spanish omelette, and cooking the other side. I left it to sit on a plate for about fifteen minutes to set fully, and then sliced it and served it with the salad, served on romaine lettuce leaves.

An odd jumble of flavours here, but it worked really nicely, and left me feeling really full up without any carbs to speak of. i ate it as a kind of hybrid breakfast/lunch situation, which is a pretty key mealtime on my days off where I don't have a strict deadline on my time.

Leftovers from this meal:

2/3 frittata: Taken to work with me to eat cold. Ideal take-to work food because you actually don't want it fridge-cold, so you can leave it in tupperware in your bag, as I did, and it's at room temperature come your break.

2 portions of salad: again, boxed up and taken to work. I find spicy food on my break means I don't so much get that just-eaten, sleepy bear feeling when I have to return to shift. That plus filling up on food that isn't carb driven means when it's time to go back on shift I've got a spring in my step.

Another week then, another series of purchase-free meals. This was the week before my first set of wages landed as well, so the purchase-free thing was still pretty key. I have, since, been buying spices and seasonings and storecupboard things, which will probably change the face of my cooking even more, but I think I'm really getting into the swing of making diverse meals over the course of a week that fill me up, are tasty, and are nutritionally pretty sound. I'm equally pleased that I'm managing to fit it around work, and that I'm also, despite being much busier these days, NOT THROWING ANYTHING AWAY. I thought for sure that being at work would mean I'd be busy, and neglecting the fridge, and ending up wasting food, but I've actually been so organized and on top of my shit that I've used up every last scrap of what I have, and I'm feeling super proud of that.

#meditations in austerity #a little goes a long way #cooking #food #chicken #mushrooms #couscous #zero waste #frugal cooking #using leftovers #love food hate waste #trash cafe #portsmouth #food diary

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thesinglesjukebox · 7 years

Video

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DIRTY PROJECTORS - UP IN HUDSON [4.29] No, we didn't plan for this to be Controversy Wednesday...

Katherine St Asaph: A couple days ago, the perpetual airbag suffocation device known as music-critic Twitter paused its bemoaning of the death of the American experiment to bemoan the near-completed death, or maybe just those objecting to the death, of indie rock. The half-backpedaled eulogy, delivered by Dave Longstreth and Robin Pecknold, was insufferable in every way you'd expect: breading a Migos concept in irony and detachment then frying until soggy ("the raindrops and drop tops of lived, earned experience" is some real Chip's Challenge manual hot-sorrow-bath-in-despair-room shit); those particular flinchy blog-writing mannerisms ("just a thought thought thought") that always read to me like someone bottled the concept of ghosting; the sense that no one involved had ever liked or acknowledged artistry in, a song by a woman. A trinity of last known good music ("progressive w/o devolving into Yes-ish largesse") is presented, it's Merriweather Post Pavilion, Veckatimest and Bitte Orca again, the canon remains untroubled and the idea of progressiveness remains frozen in 2009. "Up in Hudson" is of this school, and its innovations are: backmasking, YouTube high schoolers' multitrack videos, a jury-rigged recreation of playback singing or Kate Bush, a Peter Gabriel beat, 2017's requisite snaps and cadences from better R&B songs, an outro of oompah farting. Self-indictment is everywhere: the Vernonesque trilling of "move to Brooklyn on your own" like a savage-but-obvious indie parody, the underlining of the one line about sex with gag-barbershop vocals out of a Lonely Island sketch, the recruitment of Kanye and Tupac and Roberta Flack and Molly Bloom as the unvolunteered Greek chorus of a mundane twentysomething relationship. (Press release: "a piece of epic storytelling." Actual story: basically the Chainsmokers.) A specific relationship, too; this is the second consecutive Dirty Projectors single that is an explicit, all-but-named plaint about Longstreth's breakup with Amber Coffman. Unlike "Keep Your Name," "Up in Hudson" says nothing so contemptuous as "I don't think I ever loved you, that was some stupid shit" or self-righteous as "your heart is saying clothing line / my body said Naomi Klein, No Logo." The 808sisms of the outro exist to embody the anger and bitterness Longstreth leaves as abstractions, as if to sprinkle the perimeter of the lyric with anti-feminist-blogger garlic. And sure, it's a double standard to find this sort of thing searing honesty from women and disingenuous wallowing (at best) from men. So it's not that I object, per se. I just don't care. [0]

Alfred Soto: Irritating, but I'm not about to parse the depths of its ability to irritate me. Channeling electronic manipulations through a Lindsey Buckingham-indebted sensibility that delights in whimsy, David Longstreth has a good ear but not much sense; Dirty Projector tracks are often too thin to support the clutter he heaps on them. "Up in Hudson" is strongest when the vocals disappear in its final third. [6]

Maxwell Cavaseno: The awkward use of weird Eastern samples, esoteric horns and early James Blake cyborg-twisted vocals ensure that we're supposed to hear arty reverence, but Dave Longstreth is more fascinated with making things that feel ornate than things that feel good. Nobody else can make listening to Kanye sound more pretentious than even Kanye himself would insist it is. [3]

David Sheffieck: The only time Dirty Projectors were even slightly tolerable -- at least as background music in "hip" stores in 2009 -- was when they managed an occasional woman-fronted track. Even then, their inability to manage any sort of coherent songwriting turned it into a crapshoot. This rickety assortment of sounds lacks that slightly redeeming grace and stumbles around for a grating, unnecessary 7:48. If we ever needed indie-prog, we definitely don't need David Longstreth to be the one to make it. [2]

Juana Giaimo: My patience for experimental music has decreased, but I still consider myself a fan of Dirty Projectors. Since Bitte Orca, Dave Longstreth has acquired a new sensibility, one that favors his emotions over the aim of making a unique sound. He begins "Up in Hudson" with warm and quiet vocal melodies, joined by his usual playful backing vocals and some strident horns to create different textures, then duplicates his voice in a bittersweet crescendo. The lyrics don't aim to portray an epic love but the simple rise and fall of a relationship like any other -- and it's exactly for being like any other relationship, for putting together two people, that it was unique. [8]

Tim de Reuse: The level of detail in the production (the scattered electronics, the growly brass harmonies, the Bon Iver-worshiping vocal treatment) is impressive even where all the gloss and flash and showoff is overbearing. Worse, though, is how Longstreth only occasionally sounds humbled by the raw, personal subject matter, more interested in dramatic flourishes than emotional gravity. I don't like to dismiss stuff as "faux-arty" or "too indulgent" because responding like that denies the artist a good-faith assumption of sincerity -- but for fuck's sake, how am I supposed to parse the overlong meandering outro or the awkwardly specific clichés or the insufferably trendy sound design, if not as signs that something in the foundation has gone rotten? It's all the more frustrating for the glimpses of the love-is-over gutpunch that could have been: the chorus, wailing over a relationship's ugly death, briefly makes tonal sense! As raw as the underlying emotions might have been, and as much as I want to engage with them, most of the finished tune feels infected with Dunning-Kruger levels of unwarranted confidence, announcing its arrival at every turn with smothering fanfare and pomp; something that should be heartfelt instead turned alienating. [3]

Claire Biddles: I imagine it as a video, with close-cropped images of bits of the body: a finger snapping, lips tensing up and blowing into a mouthpiece, a tongue forming words right in front of the camera lens. Like everything's percussive. It all comes from the body. Or maybe it's a performance, a one-to-one performance, with all the human elements laid out in front of me. And then it's the way these elements are processed and artificially shaken-up -- blatant about the way real life is remodelled into stories. This has some of both the real life and the story -- awkward made-up-on-the-spot phrasing falling into a reflective chorus when it needs to. Like the way we convince ourselves to be rational in heartbreak. And it takes its time. I guess all music comes from the body, maybe it's obvious to say that. I don't know, it just feels real. [8]

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#Dirty Projectors #Up In Hudson

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