Thursday, May 9, 2013

easy pantry meals for sexy singles.

welcome to my secret shame.  i eat these delicious rosemary and olive oil triscuits, one by one, with a tiny sliver of prosciutto and a hefty grating of fresh parmesan. in my underwear. accompanied by an entire bottle of wine. i am disgusting. they kind of taste a little bit like stuffing? so sometimes i eat them with ripped up pieces of smoked deli turkey with a couple dried cranberries on top and i call it orphan thanksgiving.

why is the television always pretending that single people aren't standing over their sinks eating from a jar of nutella for dinner most nights? why do magazines insist on perpetuating the fraud that i am upright at home with my bra still on whipping up a gourmet meal for one after 12 motherfucking hours of nerve-grinding deathwork?! who punches the clock, slides down her dinosaur, then spends 3,267 minutes commuting home only to begin another grueling two hours of slave labor in an attempt to prepare a sensible single gal supper? NOT ME, BRO. i am reading my mail while taking off my bra in the elevator, kicking my shoes off in the hallway, and in bed with a jar of salsa and a bag of stale onion pitas approximately 3 minutes after i walked into my building. and then i watch game of thrones on my phone until i fall asleep at 730 because i worked all goddamned day and BITCH, I'M TIRED. 

your instagram is making me feel bad about my fucking self. are you really making beef tenderloin in your real kitchen on a motherfucking tuesday night? DAMN, GIRL. and, if you are, do you need a motherfucking foot rub? can i please come live with you?! i don't "make food" on a weeknight, i "cut the rotten parts off the bread and spread chunky peanut butter on what's left." i would toss your figurative salad every single fucking night that i came home to a literal one. NOT KIDDING. ain't nobody got time or energy to be shopping for fresh produce! plus all 7-eleven has are old dried up apples and i'm not trying to catch salmonella off of them, barf. i haven't purchased fresh vegetables in so long that i am probably dying of scurvy, but no one can diagnose that shit because 1 i'm not a fucking pirate and 2 I LIVE IN A FIRST-WORLD COUNTRY AND THESE DOCTORS HAVE NEVER SEEN THAT SHIT BEFORE.

now, before you get crazy and start assuming that i subsist on a diet made up solely of junk foods, i want you to know that i had a salad on tuesday. and not just any salad, a white people salad that had all sorts of exotic lettuces and herbs and shit in it. let's start a race war, okay? black people salad: iceberg lettuce, pre-shredded carrots, maybe some purple cabbage, RANCH. white people salad: spinach, belgian endive, arugula, radicchio, frisee, rocket, watercress, sprouts, fennel, hearts of palm, dandelion greens, shallots, snap peas, green beans, chilled asparagus, radishes, walnuts, hazelnuts, raspberries, blood oranges, roquefort, fresh black pepper, and lemon juice, topped with a fixed-gear bicycle. ALL LOCALLY-SOURCED AND ORGANICALLY-GROWN. oh, just kidding. besides, everybody already knows that black people salad = chicken with the skin off.

most nights i go out to dinner, because i have limitless disposable income and don't give a shit about saving for my future. okay, that's not real. most nights i go out to dinner, because i need to eat my feelings after a long miserable day on the plantation and i don't know how to make truffle gnocchi as deliciously as the chef at trencherman does. on the rest of the nights, when i'm left to fend for myself in the ghost town that is my abandoned refrigerator, also known as "the place i hide my ice cream behind a bag of frozen whole foods corn," i stand impatiently in my underwear next to the stove dancing from foot to foot waiting in vain for my pasta water to come to a rolling boil. why does that shit take so goddamned long? and, conversely, if you walk away for even a second to take a little poop or check your text messages, why does it boil so quickly that you instantly lose three inches of water from the fucking pot?! life is excruciating, truly.

my darling friend and comedy genius nikki posted a photograph of herself on my facebook the other night holding a box of triscuits accompanied by the following homemade recipe: i found these delicious (and appropriately product-placed) tomato & sweet basil brown rice triscuits at my local grocer’s freezer. if you love pizza (DON’T WE ALL!), but don’t want the digestive problems and shame that come with eating an entire frozen (or delivered) (or digiorno) pizza, then follow this simple summer recipe!

1 cut a square of previously sliced mozzarella into four tiny squares. (be careful if you are young or super old, and are using a sharp knife; and make sure to be properly supervised, if so. otherwise, your parents or caretakers will be super pissed if you cut yourself and they have to clean up the mess while you are crying and whining about your finger bleeding.)
2 place one tiny square on one triscuit, so it looks like a personal-pan lunchable.
3 eat that tiny, cheese-topped triscuit!

DO YOU TASTE IT?! it almost tastes like you’re eating pizza!  AND…if you consume almost a whole box of them and about 6-8 ounces of cheese, you’ll experience the same digestive problems and shame as eating REAL PIZZA! it’s a lose-lose!

fucking delicious, sister. little did she know that at the same exact time she was plastering that gourmet-type shit on my faceborg i was standing in my hot kitchen barefoot and naked except for a too-small robe shoveling triscuits and parmesan into my face hole while scrolling through pictures of naked fat chicks on my phone. coincidence?! I THINK NOT. my heart soared at the realization that i am not the only fully-functioning adult who chooses to eat kid-friendly finger food rather than scrub a motherfucking saute pan at 10pm on a thursday. because, DUH, i made a stir-fry on monday and let the shit soak and now it stinks in here and blaming the smell on the cat makes me feel guilty. anyway, fuck cooking. here is a list of all my gross shame meals:

spaghetti, bacon bits, lesueur peas: cook spaghetti, sprinkle a little olive oil on it; drain peas, add them. shake bits on top. SO GOOD. also, somehow vegan.


no one ever tells you that canned fish is a single person's miracle food. benefits: glowing skin, shiny hair, and even panhandlers can afford it. i could write a book (wink, wink) filled with recipes for canned tuna ALONE. i'ma call it "glamorous sex foods for sassy spinsters." okay, so tuna crostini: drain a can of tuna, squeeze a lemon over it (if the gas station or liquor store has them and that don't look too busted), eat atop single potato chips, all delicate-like. you need a fresh bag of hearty chips, like krunchers, that can support the weight of the tuna. add capers if you're fancy. add mayo if you want, but i'm fat already so i try not to push it.

grits and salmon croquettes, kind of: drain most of the liquid out of a can of pink salmon and pick out any large bones. or don't, you won't die. pour the dregs of whatever cereal you have lying around into a bowl, dump salmon in. pour some egg beaters over it, just enough to make it damp, and cut up an onion and add half of it. OR skip the cereal and the onion all together and crush some funyuns into that shit like i did last night. JAMMMMM. form into little balls. spray a pan with PAM (single gal pantry staple, amirite ladies?!), brown both sides, eat hot from the pan off the spatula, burn mouth and scream. fancy it up: i always keep a canister of grits in the house because 1 they never go bad and 2 add sugar for breakfast or add salt for dinner: MAGICALFOOD. so, when i'm feeling particularly extravagant, i make some grits to eat with my croquettes and then read cat on a hot tin roof aloud in a shitty southern accent while i eat it.


dry imitation rice krispies eaten absentmindedly from the box while watching SVU and writing jokes in bed: SELF-EXPLANATORY.

let's take back the (week)night, fellow eaters of saltines for dinner! no more hiding in our apartments, huddled with shame as we lick cashew butter off a butter knife 37 times in a row. no more humiliation as we sprinkle cinnamon on a piece of white toast thinking we're doing something remarkable when really that ain't shit! other people grill their own dinner, dummy. and i'm over her feeling special because i substituted greek yogurt for sour cream on top of that can of chili i poured over a bag of fritos and baked? well whatever. f them and their stand mixers in the b. some of us are JUST FINE posting pictures of the slice of bologna we fried and topped with some old shredded cheese we picked the green shit off of, hmph.

boner appétit.