Monthly Archives: February 2011

Bon Appetite

I once told a girl that food was like sex to me.  And it was.  It is — it’s an intimate experience.

I rarely “scarf” down anything.  Instead, I savor eating opportunities.  I look forward to robust flavors and interesting textures.  I like eating experiences — where food doesn’t just fill you, it also engages your senses and invigorates your palate.  I like it when macaroni and cheese isn’t just macaroni and cheese. It is the best.  fucking macaroni and cheese I’ve ever had.

In referring generally to “food”, I don’t mean just any ol’ edible.  I mean those most decadent, most savory, and most satisfying of morsels.  Those meals where dinner conversation is measured by the clicks and clangs of silverware against porcelain plates and bowls and shit.   I mean those meals where cats is like, “mmm… mmm.  oh…ohoh….”  Better than a fresh two piece from Popeye’s when the strawberry jam is available.  Better than the best crabcake Ruby Tuesday’s can conjure. Indeed, better than your average “best.”

The Foodie

Self aware asshole that I am can be, I feel some kinda way admitting that I actually am one of those.  It feels like copping to being into green and white tea circa 2007,  and pomegranate in 2009 — it feels trendy.  And I don’t really do trendy like that.  Being a “foodie” was so 2010.  But there’s really no better way to describe my love affair with food.  And it is an affair — it’s emotional and shit.  Shortribs braised for hours in red wine and savory aromatics strum the chords to the tune in my soul.

I go in for food — for selecting it, preparing it, and presenting it.  I spend more time than necessary picking out bread.  Cause I like soft buns… ….   Cause I squeeze a loaf’s girth and inhale its essence to see if its energy matches mine — to see if we can make good sandwiches together.  To see — if I toast it, and lather it in good butter, if I’ll go “mmm… mmm.  oh, ohoh.”

Good Butter

Savory is my thing.  Buttery, salty, fatty, spicy, broiled, grilled, baked, fried — and to perfection?  Is perfection.  And, perfection is requisite in these situations.  Anything less cheats the experience.  Deep in my heart, I believe that happy cows don’t give their lives to end up well-done.  Stiff and gray beside mashed potatoes and previously frozen vegetables 0n a cracked plate.

The Main Ingredient

is love.  Don’t serve me nothing you didn’t love making.  Cause I can taste disdain.  And I’d just rather have eaten somewhere else, where I would expect that the cat cooking my food didn’t give a shit about whether or not I’d like it.  Food without love is like greens made at the wrong woman’s house — missing something, not quite right.  Not respectable at all.

And then there’s salt.  You don’t need to up your ante for hypertension with it.  But you do need to season your food.  Go aggressive or go home.

Happy Endings

Yes, the pièce de résistance of dining can be dessert, and it can be equally as satisfying as your main course.  You musn’t be fooled by too-sweet sweets covering for lackluster ass ingredients though.  Sweet potato pie and peach cobbler should taste like a marriage of butter and appropriate spices, gorgeous sweet potatoes, and firm ripe peaches.  Crusts should be light and flaky, buttery, and little bit salty.  Peaches should be ripe, and maybe a little bit tart.  To arouse your taste buds a bit — to make you wanna go back for that bite.  over and over again.

I don’t know that I can trust cats who “eat to live.”  There are healthy ways to eat delicious things.  And there’s moderation too, so you can still get that fat fix eventually.  Food, prepared well, is an event — a delicious event that deserves a certain degree of respect.  I feel unsafe in the care of cats who dismiss the hedonistic goodness of food, opting for whatever’s available.  I’m deeply troubled by one’s’ inability or unwillingness to distinguish that shit between McDonald’s buns from a finely crafted burger.  I mean, you can food slum.  But you also can’t be acting like that kinda shit is cool just on GP.  Make no mistake, a quarter pounder with cheese is food slumming.  And that black angus bullshit isn’t exempt either.

The Final Bite

is like the kiss goodbye.  Don’t you wanna savor the moment?  Maybe it’s me.  I like to finish strong.  The best piece of this, the best piece of that.  One last tryst with the pan sauce, one more dip in ketchup.  Final bites, final chews.  If it’s my day and I’m livin golden and shit, I managed to save a crispy bit  — the last good fries, the charred and meatyfatty piece of a steak.  Crafting excellent final chews and final bites is a skill.  It takes careful planning, some attention and a little practice.  Cause shit gets mad tender at the end.  But you know you did it right if, when you fold your dinner napkin over your finished plate, you crave that ciggie in your afterglow.


In a Sentimental Mood

...come on and go with me. come on over to my place.

I’m lovin expressions of love.  Not so fond of those grocery store red roses in cellophane wrapping, and the shitty chocolates that most cats will buy their ladies today.  But I do love the sentiment behind it — the “thought that counts.”  Of course, what you do on Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be limited to Valentine’s Day, but that’s a lesson for another day.  Because even if you aint shit the other 364 days of the year, Valentine’s Day is your yearly reminder of how to be a decent significant other to somebody.

Be grateful for the forgiving and gracious nature of the feminine species.  Because even if you select from the Valentine’s options at CVS, she’ll still appreciate it.  Of course, you can do better, but at least you did something.  And that probably carries enough weight to get you a good kiss, a lil bit of tongue, and a few brushes up against her booty.  However. Aim higher and you just might be in for a long night, and breakfast in the morning.  A little bit of effort can yield glorious benefits.

Because I’m a giver and shit, I’ll share a few tips for setting the stage for a sexy evening.

  • Buy flowers.  Or pick em’.  But do have them and ensure that they are gorgeous and fresh and free of filler — toss that baby’s breath shit and the extra greenery.  Choose an exceptional flower and you won’t need the extra distractions.
  • Be creative.  I think cats wrap themselves in I aint got no money, or me and my girl don’t need no gifts bullshit because they still don’t get that it’s never really about the gift, or the coins you spent on it.  A unique expression of your affection may not cost you much more than time.  And you can give that.  —  Don’t be no fool though, Tiffany’s will go a hell of a lot farther for you than a homemade card.
  • Respect the element of surprise.  There’s no substitute for opening the front door to a room filled with candlelight and rose petals, and the right song.  Except maybe if it’s the bathroom door, and the tub’s overflowing with bubbles.  Yeah, make that happen.
  • The “mix tape.”  Fuck whatcha heard about romance being corny and/or dead.  It works. Sifting through your life’s soundtrack, plucking out the song that best describes that dope ass feeling you felt that time with that person requires a certain level of engagement and attention.  And she loves that.  Trust me, she loves that.  Besides, the music and that memory will last well after the chocolates are stale and the flowers have died.  And that stuffed animal is more or less in the way of your real, adult life.
  • “Turn off all the lights, and light some candles instead.”

I feel like every blog worth its arrogance has a Love Song List as its rite of passage.  In keeping with tradition, here’s my offering.  You’re welcome, mufukkas.

1.  Garden of Love – Raheem DeVaughn

2.  Adore – Prince

3.  Sparkle – Cameo

4.  I Wanna Be Closer – Switch

5.  Superhero – Esthero

6.  Hey Now – Carl Thomas

7.  Easy Conversation – Jill Scott

8.  Love TKO – Teddy Pendergrass

9.   Send It On – D’Angelo

10. Submerge- Maxwell

11. You Move Me – Cassandra Wilson

12. Closer – Slum Village

13.  Reasons – Faith Evans

14.  Lay Your Head on My Pillow – Tony! Toni! Tone!

15.  The Look of Love – Isaac Hayes

*Feel free to edit accordingly, but do apply liberally.*

Happy Valentine’s Day, yall!

I hate. Yep, hate. The Litterbug.


I hate litter. And I despise the bastards who do it. They are scourge of the Earth, closely linked with meter maids and bottleneckers and them gleeful ass tow truck drivers. who towed my car from my own apartment parking lot. foul fucks.

And they’re always carelessly casting aside some bullshit, the litterbugs are. Eight o’clock in the morning, and they throwing chicken bones out the driver’s side window. two blocks later, the bleu cheese containers and ketchup packets get tossed. Before his/her raggedy ass gets to his/her raggedy destination, they gotta get rid of the container and the napkins too. Cause trash can’t be piling in the ride, of course.

I’ve seen cats standing less than 5 feet from the nearest trash can choose instead to drop their McDonald’s bag right where they stood. And I’ve never forgotten the time I watched a kid undress half a cupcake, take one bite, and then purposely drop the whole thing on the sidewalk.  I mean, the garbage was right.  there.

I asked a boy whose jump shot/trash failed to make it into the hoop/garbage, if he planned to pick up his trash and place it in the garbage can. He looked at me like I was speak Farsi to his lil simple ass. No concept of the fact that if you miss the shot, you still gotta put the shit in the trash. It’s not an oh well type situation. THROW.THAT.SHIT.IN.THE.TRASH.  And his mama was standing right there. She didn’t say shit though because she don’t respect shit. He don’t respect shit because she don’t. Simpletons havin simpletons. It’s a vicious and filthy fucking cycle.

On my way to work this morning, the woman in front of me chucked several Pringles from her car window. Shortly after, the kid in her backseat did the same. Only he made sure to chuck the container they came in, too. I rolled my eyes so hard. I was so offended. No, the road we drove on wasn’t mine; it wasn’t the one in front of my house. The sidewalk isn’t my sidewalk, and the stairwell someone mistakenly thought was a wing bones receptacle isn’t my stairwell. But I do use it. Like I use the road and the sidewalk — because they’re ours. As are the parks and neighborhoods and parking lots on this Earth that we occupy.

To be sure, you can fuck your own house all the way up. Leave the wrappers where you unwrapped. Leave empty containers on the counters. Whatever. You can do that in your space. But the common areas — like everywhere outside your filthy residence — are out-of-bounds. I have an affinity for beauty and beautifully fragrant things. So, I don’t wanna not have a choice about wading through the manifestations of a mediocre life. Wings and chips and quarter waters for breakfast, and their remnants left dismissively at the corner of my block. Please don’t destroy the simple, lush green of manicured grass with your finished Chik-fil-a bag.

And I LOVE Chic-fil-a. I just value values more.

Fuckin’ litterbug.

Canonizing Reagan

30 years later, still on this cowboy shit.

He was John Wayne and Ward Cleaver all rolled into one.  He was a nod to the romanticized American past — that era where you had a milkman, and your wife’s only job was taking care of your shit — your dinner, your house, your children.  It was the era where sharing a milkshake with two straws was almost second base and kissing on the 12th date meant you were probably easy — not the type to take home.  It was where wearing black made you seem edgy.  And, well, being black was neither here nor there.  (They didn’t have no power no way)  The image of Ronald Reagan reminded you that your country had prevailed in the second World War, that it saved millions of people and it did away with an evil never before seen.  Well, since slavery, maybe.  …Maybe.  Because you don’t really do revisiting that part of American history. You were American — leader of the free world, denizen of the greatest, most powerful nation on Earth.

Reagan’s persona reminded you that when everywhere else in the world that “mattered” to a capitalist lay in rubble and shame after World War II, your country emerged with moral and economic wind in its sails.  It was empirical and without question.  You were American — exceptional and entitled.  To whatever you wanted.  To address, and to ignore.  To write and reframe the narrative however you choose.

I get it though.  The passage of time can blur certain details.  I suppose the  absence of those “details” are what make the good old days “good”.  So yeah, sure, put Ronny’s face on my dollar bill.  It is a dollar after-all — and I’m a big picture kind of girl.

Texture, Color, Flavor

I can’t get enough of cool socks and tweed and good color.  Winter — especially this winter — definitely blows, but that doesn’t mean fashion has to suffer.  These cats prove that you don’t have to look like a shlup just cause it’s cold outside.  What’s a shlup?  The cat who refuses to wear anything other than a sports hoodie and tattered jeans. You can do better.  I’m just sayin.  

The Aftermath.

The “fuck up MAG’s 30th Birthday” weather service predicted that 5-8 inches of snow would fall on the DC metro area on January 26, 2011. The morning and midday hours would be nasty with  rain and snow and ice.

I didn’t care though. I was roused from a delicious sleep, greeted by kisses and a beautiful breakfast. My spirits were light as a feather. It was my day. I was alive. I was surrounded by love. The joyous occasion of my 30th birthday could. not. be. derailed. I went to work on CP time cause, shit, it was my birthday. And I felt like I should could take certain liberties. Habitually line-step, if you will. Folks went out of their way to make me feel special. I got thoughtful lil gifts. I got my coffee topped off with Bailey’s. Folks made sure that I got to taste good cuts of Turkish lamb. It was a good time. I felt loved. We even found out that we’d be leaving work early. It was only 4:30 and I was headed home to surprises. To being spoiled. And to being snowed in. In a really dope place. It was about to be on and poppin.

And then the shit hit the fan. Now, I’m no longer whiny about the hellish DC commute. I’ve come to expect that everyday — every morning, and every afternoon there’ll be some shemminysham on DC area roadways. It is what it is.  January 26, 2011, though, was incomparable. There was snow and icy rain, and traffic and insanely inconvenient road closures. The streets were awful. Whoever was responsible for plowing and salting or sanding hadn’t yet gotten around to that shit. So muhfukkas started getting stuck and spinning out, and getting stuck some more. Some of these people concluded — through their own logical process — that their best bet was to simply abandon their cars. Yep. Folk went right on ahead and abandoned their cars. “Imma just leave this right here.” Like, right here. Even if “here” was the middle of the Interstate. Situated across two and a half lanes.

the fuck?! I mean, where are you going if you’ve decided to abandon your car on the interstate. How are you getting home? How was this a good idea? Wait. Oh, so you’re walking? In a snowstorm? On the interstate?


What other choice might one have in a situation like this? I don’t fucking know. I’m just saying that car abandonment seems a bit rash to me. A bit foolhardy. A bit fucked up, when we’re stuck. Behind your abandoned ass vehicle.

It took more than two hours to drive just 4 miles. And because traffic had packed the snow into the roadways, and steadily dipping nighttime temperatures had turned that shit into ice, it took me eight hours to get home. Kindly recall that I’d left work at 4:30. On my 30th birthday.

I didn’t arrive home until 2 a.m.

The morning after my 30th birthday.

It was awful. I will suffer PTSD for months from the endless trail of tail lights and spinning tires that wasn’t gettin no traction no time soon. It was, in short, some bullshit.


The flyest M&Ms ever crafted.

But I survived it. And now I have a great “30th Birthday” story to tell. However, between me and you, graciousness and positivity aside for a moment, it was definitely some bullshit. Make no mistake about it. The brighter side of this tragic tale is that She had these beauties waiting for me when I got home. Totally made it worth it. Thank you, B.

Happy birthday to me.