Tuesday, August 18, 2009


i was talking to some random bitch about my blog and she asked if it was a foodie/restaurant/recipe kind of thing. and, after looking at her like she was from mars, i haughtily said, "NO, lover. i write about dudes and shit." she returned the look, and the haught, and replied, "oh that's weird. why is it called 'bitches gotta eat, then?' i mean, if it isn't about food? why would you call it that?" i guess because i'm a dummy who thinks "bitches gotta eat" is all witty and clever and hilarious on its own. it scarcely crossed my mind that people might tune in hoping to find something delicious other than my scathing wit and sarcasm. i guess i figured that if you know me, you know how a bitch gets down in the kitchen. or a dining room. or in a restaurant. or in my pajamas in bed. i fear no calorie.

i also happen to be pretty badass when wielding a pot and pan, and not just during violent outbursts. it's not a misconception that fat people like to eat. you don't gain weight because celery and bran are so fucking tasty. nor do you pack on pounds because you love to run so fucking much. fat people cook and/or eat. A GODDAMNED LOT. at the moment i'm trying to work on being less fat, because my doctor would shut the fuck up and i'm sick of my thigh-teeth ruining pair after pair of expensive jeans. i am rarely ashamed, but sometimes being voluptuous has its drawbacks. just sayin'. i'm afraid getting into my issues of self-loathing might put you off your dinner, and who the fuck needs that? besides, there's plenty of time for that later.

i have three superstar go-to dishes in my repertoire: chicken curry, macaroni and cheese, and penne arrabiatta. there are a million others, but these are the three whose recipes i can recite in my sleep. i'm not going to fuck around and lie and say that i make all of my meals from scratch all the time. i eat a lot of fucking lean cuisines and mcdonalds. but when i need to cook (or, more likely, when i have someone sexy to cook for) i absolutely CAN. i make chicken curry for every dude i'm about to have sex with. or have recently had sex with. and it knocks them dead every single time. it, unfortunately, does NOT make them wonderfully loving boyfriends who happen to stick around being perfect all the time, marrying me and financially supporting my gorgeousness, but that's quite an awful lot to ask from one little bowl of chicken, isn't it?

i have to get a few things out of the way before i start divulging my sexy kitchen secrets:

1 i am not a fucking chemist. so no fat grams or calorie counts. because that dumb shit is for jerks. you know if something you're eating is fattening or not. if i tell you i use four sticks of butter or eight cups of heavy cream in something, you know good and well that shit is not "diet." on the other hand, if i use pam and there's no animal fat or sugar or lard or butter or cheese or anything else creamy and delicious, eat your heart out. or eat until you puke. whichever it is, i'm into it.

2 i'm broke, but i don't buy cheap shit. so if you buy cheap shit, i can't guarantee your dish will be as tasty as mine. i understand that the economy is bullshit, and i am constantly paying rent/phone/bills/tuition/books/tacos/beer but EVEN I don't buy shitty cheese. so you shouldn't either. most nights i eat chips and salsa for dinner. or diet coke and a cupcake. or linguine sprinkled with olive oil and garlic and tossed with half a cup of frozen peas. really, whatever i have lying around. but if i'm going to actually cook i go all the fucking way. that said, i just bought a giant tub of cinnamon from the mexican market for thirty-five cents. i mean not really, but it was close. you just have to know where to scrimp.

3 finally, i'm not taking pictures of a damn thing. i ain't got no digital camera, and my food looks just like yours. LIKE SHIT. delicious shit, but shit nonetheless. let's just be honest with ourselves here, famous chefs with glossy cookbooks have teams of people to make sure that food looks a way you will never be able to achieve in your raggedy apartment kitchen. chopping and basting and roasting and mixing shit is messy. and tiresome. and the more difficult the dish, the more likely it is that you end up flopping on the bed, SWEATING, with a big bowl of whatever it is you just made while wearing the gross ass clothes you wear to clean the bathroom. and on the off chance something i make looks glorious, i am not in the business of pissing on people's self-esteem.

4 one more thing. i will write recipes the way i ACTUALLY make them, using realistic words and amounts. i mean, come ON. alright, already. all of my ex-boyfriends' favorite chicken curry.

you will need: 1 lb. boneless, skinless chicken thighs, 3-4 medium zucchini, a small sweet onion, a handful of almonds (sliced or chopped; i buy the nice blanched ones in the baking aisle), a can of chicken broth, a quart of heavy cream, olive oil, cinnamon, curry powder, salt+pepper, fresh basil, and rice, for serving.
1 cut the chicken into chunks. put the chunks in a big bowl and sprinkle liberally with both cinnamon and curry powder. they should look like they've been rolled in dirt. set aside.

2 slice the zucchini, not too thick, not too thin. dice the onion. or buy a container of already-chopped onion like my lazy ass. fuck chopping onions. z+o in a deep pan with a lid (i use a wok pan with a clear domed lid), drizzle with oil and sweat the onions and soften the zucchini for a few minutes. no more than eight, you don't want limp zucchini. stir while it's cooking so you don't fuck up the onions. sweaty, not burnt to hell.

3 dump the z+o into their own big bowl and set aside; pour some more oil in the pan (a tablespoon or two maybe? don't scorch your pan!) and dump in the chicken. it's hard to really tell when the chicken is cooked through, because the coating is brown and the chicken is brown..., but it usually takes just a few minutes. the chicken gets bouncier and less squidgy the more it's cooked. i usually take a fat piece and cut it open on the counter and judge the doneness on that.

4 dump the zucchini and onions into the pan with the cooked chicken. now here comes the part where people who need exact measurements are going to have a heart attack. i pour in a quarter to a half of the can of chicken broth, just so things get a little floaty, and then i add enough cream so that it almost reaches the top of the pan. i prefer more cream than broth, but you can play with the ratio as you see fit. ultimately, you want the chicken and vegetables floating in a pale yellow liquid. i've made it more broth-y, but prefer it more cream-y. whatever tickles your fancy. bring to a boil (sometimes i'll add a bit more curry powder while it boils), lessen the heat, then simmer until it reduces a touch. season with salt and pepper to your taste, then sprinkle a little dried basil on it. dump in a bunch of almonds (seriously, i put in a cup or two; i like this shit CRUNCHY) and then you're done.

boner appetit.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

nation of irritation.

six weeks or so ago i met some old balls. at cuatro, my most favorite of favorite hanging and dancing and eating and drinking spots at the moment. you should go there. with me, maybe. i'll buy you some beers. i don't mind old balls; frankly, there's a lot less pressure for me when a dude's main priorities are his pension and his heart medication. and trying to stay awake at parties. i rarely discriminate against anything other than missing front teeth and chemical dependencies, anyway. and besides, he was a really good dancer. i mean, twirling and breakdancing and shit in the middle of a fucking disco, which was pretty much proof positive that there wasn't a pacemaker ready to explode in the center of his chest.

we shouted over the music (really, it was just SO LOUD) for three hours in that forced intimacy club environment way, heads and torsos all pressed together. as an aside, can i tell you how much i totally hate it when i can smell someone? i mean, in an intimate way? i hate smelling some strange dude's breath or musk or armpit funk or sweat or butt stink. just thinking about it makes me cringe, the thought of smelling some weird person's mouth. their smelly teeth and tongue. you can always tell a smoker. or a motherfucker who loves raw onions. i suppose this is just further evidence that i am immature and have an intimacy problem and will never have a boyfriend or husband or even a long-term regular-basis booty call, but i mean it with what's left of my whole heart. and i don't even mean it judgmentally; i hate flossing my teeth in the worst way and if i go out without deodorant i smell like a farm animal and my ladyparts stink just like everyone else's. that's why i make a point to always smell as amazing as i can. i just have sensitive-ass nostrils, man. and it just adds to my dread/impending doom when i encounter a new hot piece: will he smell weird? i went on a date once with a dude whose breath made my eyes water. it's just godawful.

i'm sorry about that. 

anyway, he was nice enough and wanted my phone number (in retrospect, i'm almost 100% positive he called me using a rotary phone) and he didn't smell bad, and since there are much bigger assholes in possession of those 10 precious digits i figured, why the hell not? we totally hit it off right away. he sort of talked too fucking much, and that annoyed the shit out of me at first. i don't like anyone who thinks they're so interesting that they don't even pause for audience response. if you expect me to laugh, motherfucker, why don't you take a breath? i just chalked it up to his forty years on the planet; he's had a lot of experiences, you know. all of the blah blah blah worked itself out, though, and we got a nice little friendship going. he was very clear that he wasn't interested in anything romantic, which was totally fine by me. i am trying to use abstinence to change my dick karma anyway. besides, he told me about how important having become muslim was to him, and i know that there is absolutely NOTHING about me that fits in with what a muslim dude might want in a ladyfriend. i don't know much about it, but i'm sure tattoos, cursing, and writing a pussy blog aren't kosher with allah. plus, pigs are delicious.

so we talked all the time for weeks and weeks (four, to be precise) before he dropped the "i've fallen for you" bomb. BORING. now i'm not such an asshole that i wasn't totally flattered, let's be fucking clear. but this is a dude who said, almost verbatim, "i don't have time to date. i don't have money to date. i want to focus on my career. i want to focus on my religion. i haven't been out with anyone in TWELVE years." and this is how those statements sounded inside my head: "you shouldn't date me. you shouldn't date me. you REALLY shouldn't date me. my balls are totally wrinkly and a puff of dust will probably come out of my penis if you touch it." and that was cool, man. preferable, even. all this going back to school has resulted in a shitload of new friends, and i love it, especially since the bulk of them are dudes. guy friends (the ones that aren't trying to fuck you) are good for all sorts of insight into how retarded the guys you actually are trying to date really are. and that's handy.

only a super lame delusional dude would think that three weeks of "how was your day?" erases the whole "I WILL NEVER BE A QUALITY BOYFRIEND" thing. and i'm sick and tired of being sick and tired of assholes who treat me unacceptably. at some point it really is just my fault for continuing to deal with it. so i've raised my fucking standards. for the last year or so i have been implementing my new dating plan with sort of meh results: i successfully lay out the plan, they usually attempt to follow it and FAIL MISERABLY. at the risk of sounding like a self-centered bitch, i have decided that it's all about me for the rest of my effing life. not in an asshole way, just in a you-must-take-me-out-several-times-(and no you needn't PAY)-and-return-my-calls-consistently-before-i-let-you-see-the-inside-of-my-apartment way. so i told brother troy what would be required of him and he swore he and his viagra would rise to the challenge.

i don't know, man. sometimes forty looks like forty, and other times forty looks like fifty. and in extreme cases, forty can look like seventy. no hate, just sayin'. use fucking sunscreen. and homeboy looked younger than i fucking do. thank horus for all that melanin and shit. and, as i said before, i can hardly afford to discriminate, so i decided to give granddad a shot at these chonies. i'm not trying to have any babies (sorry, universe), and i figured nothing would fit my child-free bill better than a dude whose sperm are collecting social security. we went on a very nice date. VERY NICE. you know why going out with a dude WHO HAS AN ADULT CHILD (for real for real for real) is awesome? other than the fact that if things don't work out with him you could totally cougar it up with his son? because homeboy wore a suit! a real live jacket and pants! now that's what i'm talking about. finally, a goddamned gentleman! and i know what you're thinking: "pshaw. that shit was from the 70s."

and maybe it was, asshole, but he still looked all neat and clean and put together. i already knew him, so there was none of that weirdo fidgety small talk, but there's always the chance that someone you've gotten to know on the phone is a disgusting fucking imbecile in person. he just kept telling me how amazingly beautiful and wonderful and smart i am (more, please!), which was hilarious considering i was sweating like a whore in church and could barely formulate words other than, "is it just me or is it hotter than the tenth circle of hell in here?"
here's a tip: don't go on dates in august.

two days later i get this text while at the mos def show: "allah wants me to be a better muslim. and after our delightful evening i've decided you belong on that journey with me." aww. gee, thanks. now i've met a lot of dudes with incredibly lofty expectations, but since when do a couple of martinis buy you a religious conversion? and ONE of the rounds went on my motherfucking card. the nerve, right? why would you even want to be with a person who'd trade in a lifetime of religious apathy after one measly date?! peach martinis might get you a glance at the meat curtain, but SWITCHING GODS might require a little more of a down payment. unbelieveable, dude. needless to say, i don't have the crushingly low self-esteem to accept such a generous offer and politely ended our acquaintance. idiot.

now he is literally mister x.