Yesterday I started my hypertrophy training. Today, I was ass-deep in estate tax notes to the tune of 115 pages. Today, I ate my lean muscle mass in ramen. We all know ramen is elevated as an obsessive art form in the US, ever since we discovered that the rest of the world knew how good ramen was long before we cracked open our first Maruchan. But I’ve discovered the intersection of boxed, laxy convenience and near-gourmet seasoning and preparation. Its name is Myojo Japanese Yakisoba, and it played the dozens with Nissin’s version and won hard. Sauce in the house, playa. Continue reading “Myojo Ippei-chan Yakisoba Japanese Style Noodles”
Superbowl Sunday holds a great deal of significance to me- a day savage and full of masculinity, a day to reread A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, pump iron, and take a cool lavender bath. To change the channel from NBC to the Animal Planet and watch the Puppy Bowl over homemade Pad Kee Mao and Riesling. But above all, to eat copious amounts of meat. Let all humans take the day to observe a protein-based diet, rife with trend-influenced flavors like buffalo, chipotle, and ass-reaming hot. I’ve got a meat bar in my pocket, and no, I’m not just happy to see you. Continue reading “Epic Beef Cherry + Habanero Bar”
Was I on a diet? Did it not include cookies? Believe me, I’ve been trying to resist the allure of processed foods, snacks, and generally comforting complex sugars, but in this case, SCREW THAT. Beast-flavored supplements have nothing on cookies. I have been wanting these for years. This is my Oreo Make-A-Wish except I didn’t have to have a terminal disease to get this in my belly. People, behold. One of the first non-Buzzfeed reviews of the Red Velvet Oreos, debuting in February for your Valentine binge. Continue reading “Limited Edition Red Velvet Oreos”
When I am feeling depressed, which is, as my therapist tells me, an entirely normal thing despite it happening more often than I’d prefer, I remind myself that I ate a $1,000 sundae. I ate it while smiling at screaming children, a verb, adjective, and noun pairing that comes only once in a blue moon, when I’m sending thoughts their way to the tune of, “This costs more than a week at your boarding school, this costs more than your vacation, I am putting it in my mouth. I will shit gold.” It’s a bit of a clunky mantra but man, it works. Continue reading “I ate a $1,000 sundae; I do not have to be good.”
Maybe it was the excessive profanity, or distancing from my family, or perhaps the entire butchering and consumption of a whole pig that piqued you, but I’m not necessarily the most observant Jewish person in the world. Specifically, I take an existentialist approach to the whole shebang, short of turning my tallis into an ascot- it’s what you make of it and it’s what it means to you. More specifically, I’m not great at yom kippur, but I always enjoy it, except for the one year that a young men’s rights activist threw out my birthday cake in the 4th grade because my birthday landed on the day of atonement and food fasting. Damn it, Max, I wasn’t even a real woman yet.
But as a holiday, I find it comforting to sit in bed and sip loose lapsang while The Bedfellow and I watxu the 2010 Vienna production of Carmen blast, or bond over a compilation of traffic accident-related public service announcements and contemplate my mortality and the many blunders over the past year that allowed me to avoid it, and overall, determine that it was indeed, a sweet year, and cap the day off with oysters and a rousing listen to kol nidre, brought to you by Neil Diamond in ‘The Jazz Singer’. And this year, we broke the fast with hipster yogurt and unlimited ahi tuna procured from TGI Friday’s offshore river banks. Chag same’ach indeed.
Continue reading “White Moustache Yalta Yogurt”
I’m taking back my own damned blog.
I’ve spent the last month anxiously yapping about it at ten-minute table talk sessions, I’ve fervently advocated for it and laughed too loudly at dinners with endless cocktails and enough steak to fell a Texan. But it hasn’t really felt like mine. Do not blame me, readers, for falling prey to the allure of capitalism, networking: the potential to work alongside esteemed writers with eponymes like eggboy and Dex, grinding out ouevres like ‘Ten Ways to Garbage Up Chinese Takeout,’ and, ‘Why My Ovaries Hate Gluten: A Primer’ on fly-by-night Millenial publications. Do not fault me for double-fisting gimlets at that one reception. Do not hate me for not hating.
Yes, I missed Whole Foods. Even though they have a monopoly on the bourgeois central Connecticut area. Even though they cajole me into paying $30 for a pound of raw fish. Even though they have products with stupid names like ‘Paleonola’. I missed them. The Fresh Market in Arkansas just didn’t quite cut it for me. So today, after joining the gym, missing hot yoga, and cleaning my house, I decided to break my streak of responsible adultability and bought a $10 chocolate bar, #noregrets. Vosges has been on my radar and palate for a long time, since the booming success of their bacon chocolate bar. While perusing the cheese section, I found a cheese-infused chocolate bar- a Whole Foods exclusive, with aged parmesan cheese and tellicherry peppercorn. Continue reading “Vosges Super Dark Parmesan Peppercorn Bar”
I’m home. Oh, god, I’m home. And instead of summery lemon and fruit Oreos or whimsical Rice Krispie cookies, we’re slammed with some back to school shenanigans of caramel apple. Apples are for teachers. Caramel is for jerks. The two combined include schedules, grades, and more curves than a poorly angled photo on Tinder. However, Caramel Apple Oreos might be pretty tasty. The internet has been all abuzz about these and at my local treacherous Target today, I found them, right next to the school supplies. Continue reading “Caramel Apple Oreos”
Atlanta is a clever city- a combination of hilly Seattle and the funkier parts of Brooklyn. I stayed right in the center of downtown and meant to try some Southern delicacies, but was so impressed with the cocktails that I decided to do a little bar-hopping instead. Continue reading “Road Trip II: Atlanta to Asheville”
Please, please, please don’t make me leave Arkansas. It’s a secret prayer to the complete and beautifully blanketing anonymity of the internet, where you are a stranger to all but your closest family and friends, a few bosses, and 7 billion random people. I’m sorry that people think it’s a flyover state. I’m sorry that I even know that phrase because I went to a Jason Aldeen concert of my own volition and I liked it, and I’m sorry that I still have a billion restaurants to try and not nearly enough time left in the world. By next Friday I’ll be in Memphis or somewhere in the Northern part of Alabama and fuck those places, because they’re not Arkansas, employment, or a place where I can stay more than a night. Continue reading “Dreaming Cow Blueberry Cardamom Yogurt”