The trick with throwing a piece of cheese to the dog is making sure that it lands where she can’t get to it.
She looked for that piece for a long time, much to our somebody-call-the-ASPCA entertainment.
And patiently waited for another one.
Until her head started to implode from need.
(For the record, the cheese stayed there until it became translucent.)
Let’s talk about boys for a second.
Actually, let’s not talk. Let’s look at this photo of what my kitchen floor looked like after leaving a feral Viking and a middle-aged Boston Terrier alone for two weeks.
The upside¹ of the hipstery food revolution taking place in America is that our produce is getting better. Sort of. I can’t walk into my local Ralph’s and find anything but fluffy, tasteless Chiquita Cavendish bananas. I can, however, get 400 varieties of melon. I can get grass-fed beef (and even bison!) but the pork still looks like fake meat sculpted from perfectly even, flesh-toned putty.
I think I pushed an old lady out of my way when I saw this at the Japanese market:
That, friends, is a Berkshire pork. Until recently, no one but maybe a few British farmers knew what Berkshire pork was, and those farmers didn’t much care. It was an old pig breed (apparently the oldest domesticated variety?) that slipped drastically out of favor. It was too fatty! Too fatty, my god. The horror. People are snapping out of it (in particular the Japanese) and recognizing that fattier meat means tastier meat. I grabbed a package of pork belly and my god, was it delicious. But as we stood in the kitchen prepping dinner, Mike looked at the above logo and said to me, “There’s something about that pig that makes me uncomfortable.” It was a while before we realized why.
Oh no.
Yep, that’s it.
¹ Downside: the farmer’s market is way too fucking crowded with double-wide strollers and screaming toddlers reaching for $6 punnets of organic strawberries.
So, I stopped taking the mega doses of vitamin C out of laziness, and then I was hit with the worst allergy attack of my entire life. I’m not saying they’re related, but… That was the chronological turn of events. The last two weeks have been brutal, including a drive from Washington to California where I pulled over not once but three times in order to more effectively gag and choke on post-nasal cloggery. In the last few days it progressed again, this time to full nasal swelling so bad that my Eustachian tubes have blocked entirely which FEELS AWESOME. This is what the bathroom counter of someone without health insurance looks like:
MVP: expired bottle of prescription Flonase I kept around just in case this exact event occurred! Thanks, American health care!
However, this is not why I invited you here today. I invited you here because I am currently super angry at this magazine:
The subscription was a gift from Mike’s mom and I’d previously never really looked through Cuisine at Home. I think I thought it was a little too Sandra Lee, if you know what I mean. As often is the case with me, I was wrong. It’s one of these magazines where — while the recipes are useful and seem solid — the real gold comes from ideas. Like, just reminding you to cook certain things. What I wasn’t expecting was for Mike to lose his mind over this recipe:
He rarely gets on my case to make something other than Swedish meatballs or pie, but it’s almost like the editors of Cuisine at Home knew that Mike was on a pb&j bender lately, because I think the people in space could hear his PEANUT BUTTER CAAAAAAKE SAAANDWICHES! shriek. Basically the idea is: make a peanut butter cake in a loaf form, slice it and serve it with peanut butter frosting and jam as the “filling” instead of as frosting. Great! Except I refuse to make their peanut butter frosting as it was just peanut-tinted sugar and butter.
So I’m sitting there, making this recipe and thinking to myself, this will never work. It seemed ill-fated from the start. Part of the recipe advises to cream the peanut butter and sugars together until the sugar dissolves, which after 10 minutes still never happened. And I thought to myself, why would the sugar dissolve? It’s not liquid, it’s a fat, and it’s not warm. It also recommended sugaring the pan instead of flouring it, which is like 14,000 sad faces waiting to happen. I mean, that shit is gonna stick, dawg.
And the batter was so runny! I didn’t get a photo of it, but it was not what I expected at all. I was drafting a message of condolence to Mike for what was undoubtedly going to be a lame-ass cake.
Yeah, unpanning that loaf was a goddamn mess.
It even baked in a half-hearted way, taking 10 minutes longer than called for and requiring a tent of foil over the top to keep the surface from burning. And if you haven’t already guessed that the cake turned out to be FUCKING EXCELLENT then you’ve clearly never read Anger Burger before.
No kidding, it was the best peanut-butter flavored baked good I’ve ever eaten. The texture was incredible, moist and supple and sturdy all at the same time, easily among the best pound-cakes I’ve ever had. The crust was magical, like the best soft peanut butter cookie you’ve ever eaten, all chewy from the baked sugar. Warm from the oven, the cake was impossible to keep from eating. And the next day it was even better! Mike and I ate the entire loaf in about 24 hours, which while I am not a calorie-counter, still makes me cringe. That was a cup of peanut butter. And like, two cups of sugar. Yeesh. But this is the truth: I looked at the calendar to see when I could in good conscience bake this again (Friday the 2nd). It was that good.
Peanut Butter Bread Cake
i’ve made a few adjustments to the recipe, the first of which was to cut the entire thing in half — because, honestly, WTF is up with making two of these loaves at once? that’s a lot of goddamn cake. other adjustments are primarily to the instructions, since they were lacking.
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1/2 cup whole milk, room temperature
1 tsp. vanilla extract
3/4 cup creamy, all natural peanut butter (with no added palm oil)
2 oz (1/2 stick) butter, room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup packed dark brown sugar
3 eggs, room temperature
butter and large-grain sugar for coating the pan
To prepare as Cuisine recommends, make dessert sandwiches with the cake. Mike and I were both (he more so) surprised to discover we like the cake better just plain without any jam. It would also make beautiful little teacakes if you have mini-loaf pans, and would make a totally adorable tea-party slice. AND! I toasted a piece on the second day and it was amazing, which makes me think of 100 more possibilities (peanut butter french toast ???!!), so maybe they were onto something with making two loaves after all.
Sorry, but I forgot to take photos of the Carl’s Jr chicken sandwich and the Sausage McGriddle I ate while Mike, Tank and I rocketed up I-5 in an underpowered economy car for days. Wait, I’m not sorry.
The dog was basically stoned the whole way, I have no idea why. We didn’t drug her. That’s 100% all-natural weird dog.
Also: I kind of love motels, even with my fear of bed bugs. I guess because I’ve also rationalized eating fast food and watching stupid television shows on the room’s TV. And I’ve just spent the day speculating as to the genetic deficits of other drivers, so I’m kind of ready to hibernate and allow the bell curve to take over. Did you know there is a reality show about mall cops? It’s like bed bugs for the mind.
Presented to you as a series of bullet points.
I cannot believe what a poorly written, poorly conceived book this was. I guess I thought I expected better from Del Toro, and I don’t know Chuck Hogan from a hole in the ground, but now I am going to avoid both like the plague this book wishes it portrayed. Ostensibly: vampirism takes over Manhattan. Entertaining, right? No. It would take too long to explain why it was so bad, but rest assured that every single literary mistake was made: angelic Protagonists, cartoonishly evil Antagonists, every single character has way too much psychic instinct, diseases/parasites that don’t follow rules of biology or evolution, vampires that are basically zombies, kids that are mature beyond their years, “geniuses” that are morons, I COULD GO ON FOREVER. And it’s going to be a trilogy! God have mercy.
¹ Well, maybe not “basic” exactly – telling the phone to find the Simple Mobile 3G network was a little bit of a pain that took Mike and a customer service rep about a half an hour to slog through. We all agreed that written email instructions would have been easier than someone verbally telling someone a super-confusing long-ass URL to type into their phone, so maybe Simple Mobile will do that in the future.
Shopping at discount food stores has it’s ups and downs. Today I scored several large and fresh packages of PG Tips for $3 each as well as six-packs of my favorite lemonade for $2. But then there’s this stuff:
I’m sure this jam is fine. Even if it’s Extra Jam and has a label that I’m pretty certain was designed to be used for a body paint sexual aid. Hell, I’ll always wonder if this was the best cherry jam in the world and I was just too conservative¹ to try it. But probably not.
In totally unrelated news, last night I stuck my head in a small hole in my mom’s deck armed only with a flashlight and my denial that horror movies are real. I was looking for a rabid raccoon. I assume it was rabid. I did it as a favor beings as I am the only one in the house limber enough to squat on the deck and hang my head inside a hole. The spiders in my hair were free.
Anyway, it was one of a dozen recent reminders of a conversation my friend Leesa and I had about how people in horror movies don’t act like real people. They do one of two things:
1) Are incredibly alert, noticing the smallest of creepy sounds. They will of course investigate this sound.
2) Are totally not suspicious of creepy sounds at all and act like they just heard a kitten. They will of course investigate this sound.
In reality, what happens is this: upon hearing creepy sound, you realize you’ve been hearing a creepy sound for a while now but you haven’t been paying attention. Now totally startled by this creepy sound, you’re aware that you are “in a horror film” and then spend a decent amount of energy trying to convince yourself that horror movies aren’t real. Once this is complete, you pick up a small, useless “weapon” and attempt to “calmly” determine the source of the noise. Even if you see something totally terrifying, you will then be satisfied that EVERYTHING IS FINE. Case in point: the time I saw a man in the woods staring at my mom’s house and convinced myself I imagined it. Later, when I told my mom I imagined a man standing in the woods staring at her house, she said to me, “Oh no, that’s the guy that lives in the back woods. He’s always coming up to make sure no one is clearing brush anywhere near his property line.”
!!!
Anyway, the raccoon wasn’t there. Nothing pulled my head off. But make no mistake: this is a horror film.
¹ Get it? CONSERVE-ative! HA!
Let’s get off to a new year of Anger Burger by talking about facial moisturizer, shall we? See you tomorrow, everyone who cares about food and butt diseases. Everyone else, sit down and listen up.
I have a terrible time with any product for my face. Just about everything makes me break out. I tried Aveda. I tried Proactiv and got chemical burns all over my face. I’ve tried heaps of expensive, organic, homeopathic, foreign, space-age facial washes and after 10 years have finally just admitted that Cetaphil is the only thing that does the job. Stupid, grandma-fragranced Cetaphil. But it works! It actually removes waterproof mascara and doesn’t give me Deadly Face Rot Syndrome.
The problem was then moisturizer. Because while Cetaphil miraculously got my face clean without making me look like a leper, it also dried me out so badly I got face-dandruff. True! And gross. But better than acne. Coincidentally, my mother is going through having terribly dry skin for the first time in her life and tried some ridiculous hippy moisturizer that I would never in a million years have purchased. And was basically compelled to call me within minutes and tell me: this is the best moisturizer in the world.
Sure, I said. And especially when I saw it in the store: oh, for Christ’s sake. I mean, it comes in what appears to be a toilet paper tube. It looks like it’s going to smell like patchouli. And it costs 40-fucking-dollars. I refused to pay that much for something I didn’t have a chance to try first¹, and instead got a small amount from my mom to try.
And guess what? It’s the best goddamn moisturizer in the world.
I’m not exaggerating at all: Grateful Body’s Normal Skin Moisturizer is the only moisturizer I’ve used for longer than three days in a row. In fact, I’ve been using it for four straight months now, every day (sometimes twice a day!) and I have had like maybe literally one zit and I’m pretty sure that was because I ate pizza and a whole bar of Lindt Intense Mint chocolate in one day. Grateful Body hasn’t given me anything and doesn’t know I’m writing about them, I assure you. I’m telling you about this because I’m now terrified that the company will go out of business and stop making the stuff, so I need more people to buy from them.
And! Mike the Viking tried it on his grumpy man-face, and had the exact same experience: used after shaving, his skin was smooth, even and happy whereas it is normally red and furious. And it smells nice, sort of generically fresh. Not like hippies.
Alright, I’ll stop now.
¹ I didn’t yet know that they offer a full money-back guarantee on their products — it doesn’t work for you, you send it back.
Bored? Me too.
1. Food Service Worker, Evergreen State College cafeteria during the summer English as a Foreign Second Language session – had to draw pictures to explain to Japanese students that “chicken fried steak” was not beef.
2. Easter Bunny, two week job at the mall, possibly worst of entire life – had to spray giant bunny head out with Lysol every day just before inserting my head into it because two other employees had the flu and wouldn’t stop coming into work. I got sick anyway. Boss was 40-something year old mother of seven working her first job ever, who treated everyone like shit. Giant bunny head was so heavy that my shoulders were literally black with bruises. I was too young to know that minimum wage wasn’t worth it.
3. Youth HIV Educator, trained to draw blood but wasn’t allowed to graduate when they found out I was 17 (I didn’t mean to keep it a secret, I thought they knew). Taught kids in juvenile hall how to put condoms on.
4. Barista and Baker, small popular cafe. Formative life experience.
5. Body Piercing Parlor Desk Girl, occasionally terrifying job (disliked co-worker was eventually fired for showing his penis to underage girls in piercing room) that was also a blast. Brazilian boss was reliable entertainment. Met my best friend.
6. Baker, started a bakery with my mom and dad. Easily best job of my life. I think about it often.
7. Tattoo Parlor Desk Girl, nothing but fun. Everything about this job was pretty much hilarious.
8. Food Service Worker, deli at high-end privately owned grocery store. Second-worst job of life. First interviewed to be bakery department manager, was hired and told I might have to do “other work” while they arranged for my position to open. Put me in deli slicing meat for prissy rich assholes and then covertly gave bakery manager job to someone else for no given reason. I gave two weeks notice, was later told by manager that he was surprised I “kept my word”. I angrily asked him what evidence I had given that I was a dishonest person and he answered “Oh none, but no one has never stuck around after giving notice here before.” Was notably treated weirdly after I observed that the store’s only black employee was the one chosen to sample out the deli’s fried chicken to customers.
9. Barista, the usual shit. Expected to perform like Waldorf-Astoria, treated like McDonalds.
10. Espresso trainer, where I realized I didn’t have what it takes to be a true coffee jock.
11. Travel Writer, for large newspaper. Really, really high expectations for a job that ended up being like having dental surgery.
13. Book Seller, in between Hollywood and Beverly Hills. 90% hellish, 10% bizarre. Met over two dozen major celebrities. Well, maybe a dozen major and another dozen lesser. Giver or take.
Notable failed job interviews:
1. Data Entry, for the State of Washington, a coveted “state job”. Was told in the first interview that the best part of the job was being able to wear sweatpants to work. During second interview I was asked if I could take a typing test. I readily consented; I type an average of 80 words per minute. Then I was informed that I could both not see the keyboard (it was on a sliding keyboard shelf that was slid under the desk), but the computer monitor would be turned off as well. A “double-blind” test, I was told. I could also not use the backspace key. I insisted that this was a joke, and the woman giving the test assured me they were serious. My resulting test page was gibberish. My fingers had been lined up one row over too far to the right. I was later told by a friend who’d had the exact same job that she’d never heard of a “double-blind” typing test and she could barely type when she was hired.
2. Tattoo Desk Girl, at a prestigious Los Angeles tattoo parlor. Was called back for three interviews. Was 100% sure I had it in the bag — after all, I’d been a tattoo desk girl for over 5 years and could type over 80 words a minute. Did not get job.
3. I know there’s more but I’m blanking now.
Fascinating, right?
Mike: Can you pretty please make me a big, big cup of coffee?
Me: You mean a pot?
Mike: Whatever you want to call it.