"What's that I smell?" "Burning nun, darling. Cheers."

Random comments about last night:

• When a new gayby (young, either newly-out or new to the scene gay man) says he has not seen The Sound of Music after 21 years on this plane, what do you do? Of course. You devirginize him. With said movie. And lots of friends. And lots of drinks and nibbly things.
• Don't be too bummed if he decides he really won't go out of his way to see the movie again, despite allowing as how he liked it.
• The St. Germain gin and tonic is utterly delightful. I wish I had begun drinking it about six months ago. It makes the perfect summer drink. (Don't belabor it. One gin and tonic, a half shot of St. Germain.)
• Forgive me, for I have sinned. Of all the gawdawful, socially, politically, environmentally, and hygienically repugnant things I could have done last night, this takes the cake: ordering Papa John's.
• Superman: Man of Steel - (Spoilers, natch.) Not a bad movie. I appreciated the story behind why General Zod was so hell-bent on taking over Earth. Not that it particularly made me like him, but it certainly made me understand his impulses better; I could almost sympathize with him. (Compare it with Superman II, where Zod just plain wanted to rule the planet and subject its peons to cruel dictatorship because...well, you know...just because.) But GOD...how many buildings did those two lovers need to throw each other into? And in the end, all it took was a good old-fashioned neck-wrench to send Zod hurtling into the void? What a disappointment.
• Combine the gin and tonics, the pizza, and the hyperkinesis of MOS, and you have yourself one soon-to-be-sick puppy on your hands. Cold sweat, that sudden sense of impending doom if you don't do something NOW...you know the feeling. And so:
• Enter my favorite herb of all time: gentian. Insanely bitter - and insanely awesome. I keep a tincture of it on hand at all times. It has often made the difference between puking my guts out and feeling miserable for hours afterward and feeling clean, cool, and calm. Three squirts of this in a cup of water, sipped over a few minutes, and here was the progression. Five minutes after starting: something is happening. Ten minutes after that: I'm definitely on the mend. Not sweating, stomach is moving, and this noxious brick in my stomach feels like it's dissolving. Within a half hour: completely out of the woods. Not just that, but I feel like I could SOAR, I'm feeling so great. I normally don't have quite that dramatic a response to gentian, but I was in a world of hurt last night.
• Want an aural approximation of this progression? Listen. Start at about 7:30 (just before feeling sick), and go until the vocals kick in at about 13:40. Thank God for prime Floyd.

And banana pudding...mmm...

It is an injustice universally acknowledged that when invited to a birthday party at which über-creamy mac and cheese mixed with andouille sausage is served, one should ideally be able to snarf down at least a whole plateful, yet the richness thereof coupled with the limits of the human stomach make such a delicious and heavenly endeavor fruitless.

Bah.

Oh, yeah...no apocalypse. *yawn*

Things have kinda switched around here since a post I made a few years back about what makes Christmas...well, Christmas. The new stuff:

1. Love, Actually - Sappy, sappy, and trite. Love stories, all done in that lovable British accent. (Those Brits, so quaint...talking about love to each other while filming porn scenes together. And so charming! Flying to the US on a hunch to try to score chicks because Yankee chicks are such suckers for British accents! Well, um...yeah. Guilty as charged.) Also, I honestly think I would consider switching teams for Keira Knightley in this movie...she is so insanely adorable and effervescent and beautiful. But it'd be all off if Andrew Lincoln (the insanely gorgeous guy with a pulverizing crush on her) showed up, since I got a pulverizing crush on him when I first saw him. And finally, Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman. Oh, and some awesome music. And Hugh Grant in the only role of his I've ever been able to tolerate. And Liam Neeson as the coolest, most supportive dad in the world for...oh, just see it already. You'll love it. Even if you don't. You still will.

2. The Sound of Music - Speaking of sappy and trite. And overplayed. And sickly saccharine. And you know, I don't care. I've always loved this movie, and always will. I do keep it to one, maybe two showings a year, but Christmas is always a must.

3. Egg nog. Some things never change. Especially if you find a local dairy that makes egg nog. OMG but delicious. I've been drinking it by the quartful lately. Yes...that good. (Oh, and I don't bother with any rum or bourbon or whiskey or amaretto in it. Ruins its lovely smoothness.)

4. Cooking. Of course. After about four years, I think I've finally perfected making meringues, using a decorating tube and all. Peppermint and chocolate (with some flavoring...cinnamon or orange, usually) are the perennial ones. But then there's the fudge. The spritz cookies I tried this year that turned out great...all 7 dozen or so of 'em. The orange butterscotch oatmeal cookies. And I'm sure I'm missing one here. Oh yeah...my faves from years ago: the corn flake marshmallow wreaths, with cinnamon dot holly berries. I may have to make those next year, too. (I haven't even touched on the chocolate mousse pie or creme brulee...but I already brought those up.)

5. Ru Paul - Ho Ho Ho - This kinda straddles the line between quaint and fun. Recommended, even if only for "All I Want For Christmas" (...is my liposuction...and my cheek implant, and my chin implant, and let's see...my butt should be risen.) Ru's vamping is kinda amusing, too. But it does tend to get old after a spin or two.

6. Skiing - Well, we'll see. Mr. Man and I are headed up to the mountains with the whole clan. And lots of us ski. Problem is, I haven't skied in a few years, 'cause last year's snow was nonexistent. And since that time, I have been lifting lots of weights, but any sort of endurance training has been MIA. This came through loud and clear two years ago as I was skiing some blacks. Form was good, sure...but only for about four, maybe five turns at most before my thighs began burning fit to kill me. I was the last one down, usually, and people were asking me if it was my breathing that was a problem. Nope. Oh...and not only was this two years ago, this was also about 20 pounds ago. (It has not escaped my attention that some of that 20 pounds has found its way onto my calves, the likes of which are wedged into my boots so tight my feet may go numb.) So next week should be reeeally interesting. I'll report back...if I survive.

7. A new car! No, I'm not kidding. Brand-spankin' new. A Ford Fusion hybrid - a deep cobalt blue that's utterly gorgeous. Voice controls like you wouldn't believe. Navigation. Adaptive cruise control (so if there's a car in front of you, this car will automatically slow down). And an auto parallel-parking feature I cannot WAIT to try. Santa arrived early this year, and was extra generous. I'm not sure what I did to deserve it, other than drive my old, long-loved and lamented Subaru into the ground. The only downside goes along with skiing: we'll see how well its front-wheel drive self does up in the mountains, particularly with the snow that's supposed to start falling tomorrow and not let up much until Christmas.

Because Twitter is too pithy.

Quick update for my millions of minions. In Kona. Gorgeous. Starbucks for my legal speed before a workout, but gee, it's nice to have some time to myself. So I'm lingering.

Mean Girls, the movie. Major score for Tina Fey. Awesome script. No surprise there. The big surprise: Lindsay Lohan? Like eight years ago? I say this with all sincerity and nary a hint of sarcasm or snark: TOTES ADORBS. Like, the most perfect rendition of the cute, guileless SoCal teen girl since Alicia Silverstone in that remake of Emma. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I haz a sad for LiLo.

Established: a beautiful tropical island paradise simply isn't enough without good surf. I don't demand much. 3-5' is perfect...maybe 4-6' if I really want to get wild. But the waves this week have been dead flat, nonexistent. Normally, you'd see me chomping at the bit to get to the beach. But not this vacay. Hence why I'm here at the Death Star, on terra firm. I will have to plan for more in the future.

Damn, but clothes sizes vary wildly! Maybe obvious to those who are more conscious of such matters, but until recently, I figured a large is a large is a large. Now I put on an XL (because you can't contain these growing muscles...and let's be honest...this expanding midsection), and one fits loosely, while the next hugs the curves just right, and the next hugs a bit too tight for comfort. And because of my growth this past year, I've had to donate generously to Goodwill. Oh well.

Every day, a grape licks a friendly cow.

Note to self: when the office has a 3-day weekend, don't bother keeping your Saturday mornings open! Lucky me, I'm the only person in the office today, and that was basically to drive down here (45 minute commute) for a 15 minute visit. Ugh. So now I get in my workout, and wonder what the fuck to do for the rest of the day. Mr. Man is in New Orleans for the weekend (I KNOW...but apparently Isaac didn't do a tremendous amount of damage to the French Quarter, where he is, so.) and I'm here, apparently bereft and adrift in a sea of what-the-fuck-do-I-do-nowitude. So here ya go...your solipsism for the day. Oh, and happy September.

- Unfriended about 125 people in one fell swoop about a month ago. Including some erstwhile choir girls with whom I have gotten along in the past. The vast majority of these were not due to anger or illwill. Just an acknowledgement that they aren't really a huge part of my life, or they post really annoying political shit all the time (from any part of the spectrum), or their posts, despite merely intending to be thought-provoking, resemble interview questions from hell (imagine if Stephen Covey and Dolores Umbridge were to have demon spawn). Yes, I have standards that are perhaps too high relative to the average FB user. But seriously, what sense does it make to have FB "friends" that are good for nothing but a cyberpoke once every few months?

- Love the bee commentary? Miss the bee commentary? It's gone from this here screed forevermore. You'll find it here, along with some more cerebral stuff. It may help lay the foundation for a secondary career for me, and if there's something I don't need to sully a reputation, it's intentional misspellings for effect, immediate references to "what-the-fuck-do-I-do-nowitude" and the like.

- Young coconut. To be specific, the stuff by Philippine. I picked some up at Costco recently, intrigued. Good GOD, people...if you like coconut, you HAVE to get summa this crack. May have a bit too much sugar in it to be healthy, but then again...14 grams of fiber per 1/3 cup serving? AWESOME! (I have heard, however, the sodium metabisulfite-preserved stuff is awful, and one should seek out the sulfur dioxide-laced goods at all costs. Yeah...we're not talking health food here.)

- "You have to have a look!" So sez one semi-fictional Maria Callas in a fabulous play, "Master Class." "And if you don't have one...get one!" Kinda makes sense to me. I hate to say it, but I may have drunk the "branding" Kool-Aid a bit. Lots of successful people have a "look," whether or not they realize it and whether or not it works for them. Suze Orman's earrings and swooped bangs, Donald Trump's unfortunate toupee and boxy suits, Paul Ryan's overgrown-Munster appearance, Michelle Obama's KICKASS style across the board (Jackie who?)...you get the picture. So I've been trying to cultivate said "look."

- Must write. No...must go to Starbucks to get my coffee before my workout. No...must eat, I'm starving. No...must read. Wait...what am I doing here at work, anyhow? Wasn't I done with my appointment an hour ago? GAWD. Procrastination 1, me 0.

Your nun foams with a freezing companion.

Glee, I'm done with you. Furreals now. Yeah, some of you who know my erstwhile fanaticism may question this, but the most recent episode (post-Karofsky coming out and Quinn's texting-while-driving accident) turned me off for all time. All the songs - and I do mean ALL of them - made me spit up in my mouth. Pure High School Musical. And the plots were all strict by-the-numbers after school special boilerplate. It actually made me feel sorry for all the actors...particularly Jane Lynch, whose talents are surely needed elsewhere by now. (Isn't there a Christopher Guest vehicle coming down the pike soon? Seems overdue by this point.) Also: Slash refuses to let any G&R songs on Glee. (Duh...like matter meeting antimatter.) Stick a fork in it, y'all...it's done.

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Pinterest. Yea, I have succumbed. As of a month ago, the interwebs reported that it was 90% driven by women. And ugh...the sheer number of feel-good quotes, comfort food recipes, and domestic designs substantiates this. Even the men's fashion on there is of the GQ ilk - assuming that all men are pretentious, quirky, urbane, somewhat muscly but wasp-waisted, and too hipsterish to care about reality. But I'm on there all the same...sensing that there's gotta be enough stuff on the world wide webiverse that isn't as touchy-feely as all this. Somewhere.

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Black Sabbath. I find it a travesty and a sin that none of their back catalog is available on mp3. Not even We Sold Our Soul For Rock 'n' Roll. Doesn't matter that Beavis & Butthead supplied my first exposure to them. Nor that Girl Talk gave me my second hit. I'm ready for them to hit me hard.

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Gardening. As part of our landscaping last summer, we got three good-sized garden plots. Didn't plant anything - thought it was too late - but hoo boy! did we get a bumper crop of weeds! Even some aspen saplings poked through the dirt. But planting for this summer has already begun, despite predictions for snow tonight. And I'm thrilled. I don't think we'll have enough room for my ambitions (60 gladiolus bulbs? AND other flower seeds alongside?), but it'll be fun trying it out. In the ground so far: strawberries, broccoli, and chard. Soon: cabbage, corn, the aforementioned gladioli, radishes, raspberries, dill, basil, and garlic. I'm KICKING myself for not getting spaghetti squash in there. But maybe there's room yet. I may not be able to devote much time to the garden, but there's something so cool about putting something in the ground, caring for it a bit, and knowing that within a few months, it'll give back to you in some amazing ways.
(Oh, and no tomatoes or lettuce for us...we're not fans.)

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Lime jello marshmallow cottage cheese surprise. After hearing the song about it, joking about it for years, and unwittingly causing countless friends to reminisce about Minnesota/family reunions/Mormon church dinners/stuff their grandmothers made and forced them to eat/what have you, I finally decided to make it. Seriously. And I ate it. And I...uh...actually liked it. I may make it again. (Without the pimentos or mayonnaise.)

On The Occasion Of A Most Impressive Breakfast.

Slow day down here at work. Colleagues have all left for the day, and my stomach commenced to grumbling for lunch. So I traipsed on down to Toast, one of my favorite comfort food joints in town. There's many blessings to working in the downtown district of one of the best towns/suburbs in Denver, and this here is one of 'em.

I walked in for lunch today, well after 1:00 (my yoozh nowadays), to a nearly-empty diner. The manager, a gruff bull with shaved head and a perpetual don't-fuck-with-me expression, still managed a natural smile and seated me. Then came my server...a beefy twentysomething guy with patchy three-day stubble and an adorable smile. Swoon. Friendly as anything, too.

In comes the requisite freshly squeezed orange juice before breakfast, in the classic textured plastic glass you associate with diners and cafeterias. I've had other great things there...the gargantuan sausage and gravy hotcakes, the chorizo breakfast burrito, the Nutella French toast...all fantastic. But today, I was basic...just chose the sausage and eggs with potatoes and a side of biscuits and gravy.

Well. Good GOD. I'm raving about a simple breakfast like this? That should tell you something.

Le Peep calls their eggs "pampered." Um, no. I don't want to be reminded of diapers while I'm eating eggs. Besides, that word (along with "gosh") just weirds me out like the word "moist" inexplicably weirds out the rest of the world. The eggs at Toast are the exact opposite of "pampered." (And for me to rave about eggs, that says a lot. Aside from scrambled and in omelettes, and with plenty of accoutrements, I won't even touch eggs.) In the back, they must have been whipped to within an inch of vaporization, and cooked with a cappuccino steamer. Not a single mucus-like strand of egg white anywhere. Perfectly fluffy...and with none of that icky, uh, liquid that you sometimes see on other egg dishes. Oh, and they say two eggs, but it looked like they served me four. Maybe they like me. I'm not quite a regular there, but I do go in a few times a month.

The sausage links were firm, thick, spicy, and luscious. I will avoid any double entendres from here on through.

Potatoes...pretty well cooked, sliced, and seasoned. No complaints here...as far as adding substance to a meal goes, these were pretty great.

But OHMYGOD...the biscuits and gravy. I have no idea why I have been here for over a year and have only today tried them. Best sausage gravy EVER. It tasted like it was made with black-label bacon drippings. Damn near perfection.

When I was done paying, the server handed me the receipt and gave me a wink. And again, set my heart all aflutter. Then flashed a peace sign when I left. As I walked out, I just thought...man...let me give him a few beers, and he might be up for some, uh, M2M fun!

I stopped back at the office right after...uh...breakfast? lunch? to pound this out. You're welcome. Now go patronize Toast when you're hungry for some excellent breakfast like a good kid. And tell 'em I sent ya when you're done.

Adventures in Puddletown, part 2

So, a minor update on yours truly before we get to the subject matter you all came to enjoy. Woke up bright and early to a crisp, sunny morning. Running out the door, spilled coffee on my tie, so I had to run back upstairs. Showed up at Bally to get in a workout before work, but it was closed and wouldn't open until 8, damn it all. Then I show up at work, and the computer we all rely on to print out schedules is exhibiting the black screen of death and constantly rebooting. It's gonna be one of those mornings. At least I have Avenue Q to look forward to this afternoon. And perhaps a switch of my club membership over to 24 Hour Fitness. I've heard they're better, anyhow.

Anyhoo...back up to Portland...

Blue Moon - There's a chain of pub-style restaurants in Portland called McMenamins, with basically the same menu. Some variation here and there, but if you want good, reliable pub grub, this is the place. Blue Moon is my favorite, if only because it was the closest one to the blessed studio I inhabited at 2151 NW Johnson for six months. A good dark interior, lots of pool tables, floor-to-ceiling windows, and of course, the place smells like beer, like a good pub should. Since it's Portland, you know there's gonna be tons of microbrews on the menu. Oh, and the bonus this time? Tater tots with my burger.

3 Friends - The bohemian coffeehouse (oh, wait...this is Portland, right? All coffeehouses are bohemian here, even the Starbucks...es) where us gay boys would meet before a night on the town, or at least dinner. We'd spend the first half hour just hanging out, then spend the next fracking half hour trying to decide where to eat dinner. Did I say bohemian? Yeah. Barely-running toilets, lots of wacky artwork, couches unafraid to show their inner parts to the world, and a front doorknob that rattled and jiggled like crazy, like it was about to fall off. That was the early 2000s. When I returned, apparently nothing had changed...except for the doorknob, which was now wired onto the rest of the door. I considered contributing some of my well-earned to the "get this damned door a new handle!" fund...and maybe I should have. Oh, and much less gay during the day. Oh well.

Marco's - I didn't go to this umbrella-ceilinged breakfast nook this time, but back in the day, Marco's had THE most awesome omelettes and coffee. And by coffee, I mean espresso-strength. I would have loved to drink more than one cup, but I would have been zooming all day and all of the night if I dared. And by omelettes, I mean gobs of molten cheese and thick black-label bacon with just enough egg to cover the whole thing.

Coffee Time - A personal anecdote: the night before I was to move away from my studio in NW Portland, I spent ALL night packing. So at 7:00 the next morning, I decided I owed it to myself to get some coffee and coffeecake at this place a block away. Very bohemian here...dreads, lip piercings, appropriate '90s noise blasting through the speakers, that sort of thing. Got my goods, downed them, then decided to get just a half hour nap before finishing up packing. I didn't even get that. Only 15 minutes later, I got a call from Mr. Man.
Three weeks prior, we had met for the first time, and he offered me a ticket to see Madonna in LA. He also offered to fly to Portland from Denver, pick me up, and then fly down first class.

But over the phone, with panic in his voice, he told me that we were not going to be flying anywhere anytime soon. Terrorists had just flown two planes into the World Trade Center.

(Incidentally, if you like the bumper sticker up top, pick it up here! Because keeping Portland weird simply isn't enough.)

Adventures in Puddletown, part 1

I'm sitting here in PDX, waiting on a flight back to Denver that's now delayed 2.5 or 3.5 hours, depending on whether I believe the Orbitz updates sent to my Android or the flight departure boards. Either way, I'm now afforded some downtime before the phantom flight arrives from Denver.

I can't believe it's been almost 5 years since I was last in Puddletown, and almost 8 since I last drove here. As such, my rented transportation appliance enabled me to indulge in some pretty cool nostalgia. I mean, I spent a good 4 years here, possibly the most life-changing years of all. But although it was a good place to live for four years, I probably could not live here.

For one, people here drive WAAAY too slowly. (Oregon is the only western state with a speed limit of 65 - slowest of 'em all.) When I first moved here, I was thrilled that Portland drivers seemed to be so polite, allowing me to cross multiple lanes when I realized that I had to turn right, not left. They drove slowly and allowed me in without hesitation if I needed to cut in front of them unexpectedly. And it stayed that way for three weeks. But then I learned how to navigate Puddletown, and by then, I realized that this driving-slightly-under-the-speed-limit thing was not politesse, but the MO. Well, I like to drive, I like to be in control, and I am positively thrilled to be moving at a glacial pace on the road. Especially if I have a flame thrower or a bazooka handy with which to obliterate mealymouthed drivers in front of me.

From a weather perspective, I love four well-defined seasons, and Portland only has two: rain and sun. And even with that, the rain isn't all that wild. More like annoying drizzle that falls from pea soup skies - no texture to the clouds at all. If you hear more than three thunderclaps in a year, that's pretty severe. And if more than 1/4 inch of snow falls, the whole city shuts down. For those of you in warmer climes, you may commiserate, but guess what: this Colorado boy scoffs unapologetically at this sort of thing. So there. But on the other hand, summer in the Pacific Northwest is one awesome secret. Gorgeous, warm, comfortable, very little rain (!), and sun for weeks on end. Even can get amazingly hot, with heat waves above 100, the likes of which even Denver rarely sees.

A traipse down nostalgia lane here:

Russellville - The apartment complex where Mr. Man and I first lived together. We drove together from Denver and arrived in Portland in time for a very uneventful New Year's Day, 2002. Thus continued my stint in medical school, and thus began possibly the worst phase of Mr. Man's life: being unemployed in a town he'd never been in, with no friends, arriving from the land of 300 days of sunshine a year and landing smack-dab in the middle of a typical gray, miserable, sunless winter. You never realize how much you depend on the sun for sustenance until you're forcibly deprived of it for months on end. And man, it made him depressed. Going back "home" to the place we first started forging our relationship under some pretty difficult circumstances was really poignant.

NCNM - The reason I moved to Portland for 4 years. Kick-ass school. It was great to return, and everything brought me back: the smells, the staircases, the stories of the water that somehow had magical powers of fertility (in our class of 100, we had 10 births). But man, sitting for hours in this weekend seminar also brought back the drudgery and annoyance of being ground under by schoolwork. Don't miss it one bit. And I have to admit...the more I see the typical naturopathic student, the more it makes me cringe. It's the (almost always) woman that looks entitled to being upwardly mobile, driving a Prius, doing yoga multiple times a week, shopping almost exclusively at Whole Foods or the like (because even for these students, shopping at co-ops is a bit beneath them), wearing the latest Columbia gear...oh, heck, you see them in magazines like Real Simple or Martha Stewart Living. You kinda wonder if they've ever been mediocre at any point in their lives, or had to deal with any sort of poverty or even middle-class status.

CC Slaughters - The gay club I used to go to all the time, very neighborhood bar-ish. Loved it. It used to have gay porn playing on the monitors to scare away the straight boys. I cultivated my first bartender there...at least until Mr. Man happened on the scene, and the bartender suddenly grew jealous and my drinks suddenly grew more opaque. I came back on Mardi Gras weekend, filled with guys I once would have considered more or less my peers, but who now are anklebiters to me. Damn, I'm getting old. (Incidentally, I also happened to see a guy who I once dated a few times and unwittingly screwed over. Also also, saw the guy I had my first LTR with. Last I saw him was actually at Slaughters, the night before I drove away from Portland in 2003. Being a particularly furry cub, he was being tossed around and groped by horny bears, and just lapping up the attention. Kinda disturbing to see that...not to mention that it also made me jealous as hell. Oh well.)

Delta Cafe - Good Southern cooking just doesn't exist in Denver, so I got my fix here. It was the second restaurant I went to when I first moved to Puddletown. If you don't mind a really bohemian vibe and Sonic Youth blasting from the speakers, it's all good. Man, is it good. Collards practically soaking in bacon drippings. Some hellaciously decadent mac 'n' cheese. Fiied chicken that puts KFC to shame. Jambalaya, gumbo, etouffee, red beans and rice, andouille sausage...the whole thing just gets me hungry...and I just had lunch not even an hour ago.

How NOT to start a new year...

AKA ramblings on why I'm glad the holiday season is (almost) over*

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Item the first: Jägermeister is NOT my friend.

Item the second: Can't remember the last time I got in such a strenuous abdominal/diaphragm workout, voluntary or no. (Note: this is closely related to item the first.)

Item the third: Repeat item the first.

Item the fourth: How fucking old am I? Shouldn't shenanigans of this sort have ended years ago?

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Yeah, decorations, Christmas trees, lots of baking and cooking, parties, and such. But man, does it place a strain on my ability to maintain a clean house! Just loaded the dishwasher to overflowing, and there's still enough dishes to run a second load. Not to mention the other chores I've been neglecting. I'm such a huge fan of simplicity and efficiency, and this time of year, I recognize I have to just let all those values drop for a month or two. But ah...the good a clean house can do for the soul once the holidays are over is just plain bliss.

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Good God, this fudge recipe is AWESOME. It's like I've never had fudge before. I'm not even that big a fan of chocolate. Waistline be damned. (And it may well be so now.) A half cup each corn syrup and heavy cream. Bring to a boil. Take off the heat, add 3 cups chocolate chips, 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar, and 1/2 tablespoon vanilla. (A cup or so of walnuts too, if you want 'em.) Stir in and bring back to heat until the chips are all melted. Pour in a foil-lined 8x8 pan and refrigerate a few hours. And slice and eat away.

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*The holiday season will not officially end out here in Bum-Fuck Kansas Estates until our post-holiday party on the 15th. Prayers for the longevity of our tree, whose needles are getting pretty damned hard, are welcome.

Bacon, too...but that's too obvious.

Or: Foods that make my life worth living.

Cinnamon. Like coffee for Seattleites. I'm pretty certain that without cinnamon, I might shrivel and become a shadow of myself. Cinnamon and chocolate. Cinnamon and honey wrapped in a tortilla. Cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon crumb donuts. Cinnamon and yogurt. Cinnamon and smoothies. Cinnamon and black beans. Cinnamon and peaches. Cinnamon and apples. My infatuation may very well protect me from ever getting diabetes.

Orange and vanilla. When you combine these two and consume, magical things begin to happen. I fondly remember a joyride in southern Minnesota as a college kid, wherein I purchased and ate a whole box of Creamsicles. Well, almost. I was kind enough to give a few bites to one friend, and let a second one eat a whole one. But the other 10 1/2 were all mine, and slid down my gullet like honey. That was my dinner, and I felt great afterward. It's all been downhill from there. (See also: Stewart's orange cream soda, orange/vanilla soft serve in ice cream cones, ice cream floats with vanilla ice cream and mandarin orange Slice..and yes, it HAS to be mandarin orange Slice. Accept no substitutes.)

Carbonara. Here's my theory. Some glutton with cast-iron arteries decided that alfredo sauce just wasn't decadent and unhealthy enough. A parmesan cream sauce only goes so far, amirite? So said glutton decided to add more butter, cream, fatty pork (pancetta, guanciale, bacon...take your pick), egg yolks (and yolks only, because the egg whites were just too...I dunno...South Beach omelet-esque?), and voila! But then the health food mavens screamed bloody murder. So M. Glutton threw in a few peas or caramelized onions to appease them. Good GOD-amighty, eat some of this, and you're as good as comatose for the night.

Borsch(t). I'm not kidding. But first: I grew up with You Can't Do That on Television on Nickelodeon. Remember that disgusting chef who always put boogers and loogies in the burgers? Apparently he also made borsch; the kids asked him why it was called that, and he joked that it was what everyone did when they ate it (cue kids charmingly puking at the table). But then I went to Russia and discovered that this much-maligned soup could be SO heavenly. The key? An ingredient that I've yet to find over here: smetana. Loosely translated, it's sour cream, but sour cream just falls apart and curdles in borsch. Smetana (accent on the second syll-AH-ble, please) is like thin yogurt in consistency, has a smoother taste, and mixes perfectly with borsch, turning it a delightful pink. Oh, and lots of dill, please. Lack of these two ingredients will render this soup inedible to me. By the by, spelled correctly with or without the "t." In Russian, it's spelled without the "t," while Yiddish adds it.

Coconut. And you probably don't like it. That's fine. More for me. I'll happily get sick on macaroons, add coconut milk to smoothies and cereal (with rice milk), frappefy it with ice, orange juice, and vanilla (see above) for a heavenly mock-orange julius, slurp hot Thai coconut milk soup, follow it with coconut curry chicken, and snarf down gargantuan slices of coconut cream pie (that are over 1/2 whipped cream).

Pho. The Vietnamese have given us this humble beef-and-rice noodle soup to nurture us through frigid, snow-bound days. You get a huge bowl of the stuff, bring your nose down to the bowl and inhale the lime, beef broth, and basil combination as your glasses steam up. Smile with the deepest of gratitude for something so pleasing. Add some Sriracha, and slurp away. Comfort food that blows chicken soup out of the water.(Although it kinda makes you wonder: why such a hot soup from such a hot country? Wouldn't it seem more appropriate for, say, Norwegians to come up with something like this to warm you up in the winter?)

Khachapuri, khinkali, and Khvanchkara. Don't sweat the pronunciation. Three Georgian (as in Caucasian) foods that are just heaven on earth, and that's meant more literally than you'd think. Georgians like to say that God traveled around the world, distributing food to each region. God decided to keep the best for him/herself, but underestimated how high the Caucasus mountains were. God tripped and fell, and the best food fell upon Georgia. After enjoying a few Georgian feasts while in Russia, I totally get it. Georgians know how to party and EAT like there's no tomorrow, and Georgian food as a whole is the best I have ever had.
Khachapuri is a simple light baked bread with melted cheese as an appetizer, served hot. Khinkali are luscious, juicy, almost buttery meat dumplings. And Khvanchkara is some of the sweetest and fruitiest red wine you've ever had, just this side of wine coolers. (Also recommended: Kindzmarauli, if you can't tolerate the really sweet stuff.)

Lime Starbursts (and Conejos Cabins)

It pains me that 1) I can't find a single picture of the glorious candy that was once lime Starbursts, and 2) that so many people nowadays have no inkling that there was such a creation. But yes, way back during the disco era, when Starbursts first happened on the scene, they included lime, and cherry was nowhere to be found. I was sore, SORE disappointed one day in the early '80s to find that lime had disappeared forever. Have to admit that cherry was a pretty grand substitute...for about six months. Then the suckitude took over the novelty, and cherry has sat at the bottom of the pile for me ever since. Strawberry has always reigned supreme, with orange, lemon, and lime (back in the day) jockeying for second. Really, they all were good.

Just like food can transport you if you let it, I can imagine the taste, smell, and texture of lime Starbursts, and immediately I'm taken back to summer trips down to southern Colorado, in the middle of nowhere a stone's throw from New Mexico. Conejos Cabins was the place to be, and you got there via a LOOONG drive south from Denver through South Park (yes, there really is such a place, and it's truly gorgeous) and along the Arkansas river, past the Great Sand Dunes, and even still a few hours further south. (Obligatory soundtrack: The Carpenters' Horizon. Oh, and probably some John Denver and Mac Davis thrown in there, too.) Then you took a dirt road for 20 miles(!) or so until you hit the Conejos River, in the middle of a beautiful valley. Heaven. The rustic cabins all smelled a bit like natural gas, and Mom always served slightly crunchy and perfect Krusteaz pancakes with bacon for breakfast, alongside Tang (and coffee for the grown-ups). The skies were seldom flawed with clouds, and if rain fell, it was usually a quiet, comforting rain. Board games like Sorry! and Parcheesi came along for the ride, as did my Speak & Spell. (Fast forward 10 years or so to see the end result of my obsession with said gadget.) Dad went fishing virtually every day with our golden retriever Duchess, and our sandy Jeep Wagoneer perpetually smelled like wet dog and freshly-caught trout. My brother and I, the best of friends at this point, would wander the side of the frigid Conejos and throw seaweed-covered rocks into the river, scaring away fish and inevitably angering our dad, trying to catch dinner for us all. And the air was as clean as you could ever hope for, aside from the road dust which coated your mouth as you drove off with the windows open. But those luscious lime Starbursts took care of that.

I will admit that the lime Tootsie Rolls do offer a very good approximation of what I've missed for years and years, both in flavor and texture. But I just plain miss opening up the square candies with the wax paper folded just so, seeing the light green jewel in my hands and biting it in two to see how white the center got. (I was always convinced that Starbursts were white in the center. Such a silly kid.) Until Mars/Starburst decides to bring back lime (and not in a limited-time, retro sort of way, but for good), I'll always feel like my life is somehow incomplete.

Thus ends the solipsistic trip down memory lane. I now return you to your regularly scheduled life.

The Jucy Lucy

First off: No, that is not misspelled. Well, yes it is, but it's intentional. Sic. To spell it correctly is to get the Jucy Lucy all wrong.

Second, the picture just doesn't do this hummer justice. People, listen up. There's cheeseburgers. And then there's cheeseburgers. But this? Hot DAMN, the Jucy Lucy reigns supreme o'er all. A cheeseburger with the cheese (American or Velveeta, of course!) placed in the center of the burger. Then cooked until the cheese is liquefied and the temperature of the earth's core.

Somehow, during my six years of tenure in Minnesota from 1993-1999, I evaded the gravitational pull of the Jucy Lucy. Seems like hotdish, wild rice soup, and the belly-busting fare at the Minnesota State Fair (a demimonde all unto itself), may have kept me in check. My loss. Years later (like 2004, I think), I finally found my way to Matt's Bar at 3500 Cedar Ave S in south Minneapolis, home of the original Jucy Lucy. And began doing penance for my decade-long sin of omission.

When you go to Matt's, there will be a wait. At least 15 minutes, more like a half hour. The whole restaurant is the size of an old 1950s style icebox. Sardines is the word you're looking for. As for the decor, it's all vinyl seats, wood paneling, and laminate table tops. Lowbrow kitsch seldom gets better than this. Once you jimmy yourself into your seat, order a pop. Only don't expect a glass. If a can's good enough for Matt's, it's good enough for you.

Now, when I said I did penance, here's how it happened: I received my Jucy Lucy, grabbed it, and immediately took my first bite. And squirted molten lava all over my hands and into my mouth, cauterizing most of my taste buds in the process. Lesson learned: No matter how hungry you are, you do NOT eat a Jucy Lucy when it first arrives. You'll look like a rube. Stuff down the fries that arrived in the basket. (Oh yeah, no plates here, either...they don't need no stinkin' plates.) Look around and enjoy the people-watching. Take your time. The cooks sure did, didn't they? But it just takes that long to make the perfect Jucy Lucy. And if you can evade the tongue-searing effects of the liquid cheese, then you'll taste a Midwestern carnivore's idea of heaven.