Beans, Beans, the Magical Fruit

The sort of secret blog of Beans, a.k.a. Jules, a.k.a. "Legs for Miles" a.k.a. "Rackie the Boob Queen." Fine, ok, not the last two. Starting July 2006, sometimes "Mike," aka "fagadoccio," is a co-poster on the blog. The co-poster child, really.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Give me a Fucking Break

Imaginary conversation between a devil and an angel on each side of Iron Chef Cat Cora's head:

Angel (crunching into a raw broccoli floret): I just feel like we don't get the respect the other Iron Chefs do.

Devil (Spreading mayo on a deep-fried Charleston Chew): Word. I mean, Flay and Molto have these sick reputations and achievements and we just seem like the Equal Opportunity hire. We have to do something about it.

Angel (moving into Flowering Shinto Lotus yoga position): Maybe if we just hold our own in the challenges, behave with dignity, and do some really great food, we'll make our own reputation over time! At least we'll stand out behaviorally from Flay, who's manners are less than...

Devil (scratching balls): Oh Flay's retarded. Yeah, he was raised by boxcar children. No doubt. But we'll never get by on performance alone. Even if we outclass these guys, we'll always get our jockstrap hiked up our ass in the locker-room after the battles by the chanting circle of big-guy chefs. No no. We've got to do something drastic.

Angel (drinking green tea): You mean like shave our vagina?

Devil (swilling Beam): Yes and no. I've got an idea...Who's the classiest person alive?

Angel: Nelson Mandella?

Devil: That asshole? Gimme a break. RACHEL RAY.

Angel: (visibly uncomfortable)

Devil: We'll follow in Ray's footsteps and make some skanky nudie photos. Plus, we got better jugs than Ray.

Angel: Well that's certain.

Devil: Done. Trust me on this. We'll have the respect of the Iron Chef locker room in NO TIME. Bite THIS pepper, Chairman!

Nothing says "I deserve respect" like jamming a can of spam in your canola-oiled cleavage!

Let's just hope Batali doesn't follow suit.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Laura Ingalls, but slightly Wilder

When I go to the gorcery store, I deliberately avoid produce from California or South America and try to go for the stuff that comes from remotely nearby. This practice predated the whole e. coli business, and came more from my wanting to abide by the conditions of my idiotic, romantic conception of farm life that involves eating what you'd eat if you were Laura Ingalls Wilder and you called your Dad "Paw" and traded grain with Seminoles. Except sometimes you also have Luna Bars and Gatorade. It's a system, it works for me.

That's one reason I appreciate Whole Foods--even though an overwhelming majority of their produce is from California, they're very clear about where everything comes from and they've always got something or other from the vicinity. And by something or other, I mean cabbage.

That's right. I got through the fall pretty nicely-- lots of gourds, etc., but for the past few weeks I've been, like my distant Schwabian ancestors, subsisting pretty much on cabbage. Pickled, slawed, braised. Gnawed on raw over the evening's reading. If you looked in my purse right now, I'm sure you'd find a couple little purple threads of it, like the stray confetti of a 19th-century Russian serf celebrating the death of a locally menacing she-bear.

I see the stuff from California-- the big, plump, glossy green stuff. "Leeks?" I scowl. "Paw wouldn't have leeks in his root cellar in the middle of January." So it's a no. Whether Paw would have Colombian coffee, Camel Lights, Norwegian salmon and Pecorino is irrelevant. I'm sticking to my guns on the cabbage.

Grandmaw churning Diet Coke.