Happy New Year, fuckjobs.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
News Wire: December 28, 2012
The past year has been devastating for the food industry in the United States. After the anti-carb, anti-gluten, anti-meat, anti-dairy fanatics joined forces and came to the conclusion that all humans are intolerant to every fucking thing in the world, they decided to reject food in all its various forms other than vapors. We caught up with a self-proclaimed “Anti-Foodite” and this is what she had to say:
“I’m completely intolerant to all foods. I never realized it before this movement became mainstream but since I’ve stopped eating food I feel fantastic and I’ve lost a ton of weight! I mean, look at how little food those poor Asian people eat and they invented Buddhism and Yoga. I try to only drink one glass of water a week and every day I go to one of the many new molecular gastronomy restaurants to breathe nutritional supplements.” She subsequently dropped to the ground and died of hunger.
Farms, grocery stores, and traditional restaurants across the nation have taken devastating losses while the molecular gastronomy “Breathing Rooms” have occupied every street corner. The founders of the Anti-Foodite Movement have been elected to the highest offices in Washington and now run our country of malnourished, self-absorbed, brain-dead yuppies.
The new US government, led by Alton “Iron Fister” Brown, has rejected a plea from the international community to encourage its citizens to start eating again. The US’s self-imposed famine is projected to eradicate the entire country’s population by mid 2013. The Iron Fister replied to the world by tweeting, “Don’t hate because we are smarter than you and can turn food into vapors.” The international community @ replied him stating, “Fine, go ahead and die. We don’t really give a shit.”
Happy New Year, fuckjobs.
Monday, December 26, 2011
1 Apple, cored and sliced
1 Orange, sliced
1 1/2c Cranberries
1/4c Ruby Port
1/4c Brown Sugar
The Christmas Goose is a longstanding tradition to honor the birth of Santa. One December morning long, long ago a single whore mother gave birth in the lobby of a Motel 6 after turning her third trick of the night. In celebration of this miraculous bastard birth, the redneck tweeker desk clerk ventured to the manmade lake outside, strangled the life out of a goose, drowned its orphaned young, and roasted that motherfucker over the radiator. This pivotal moment ushered in a new era for the history of human civilization. Lord Santa would grow up to become the patron saint of consumerist capitalism, serve four terms as Grand Overlord of Earth, and eight terms as Ruthless Dictator until his untimely death at the hands of Jesus IV. It is in his memory that I make this dish.
Shove your hand up the goose’s ass and pull out all the innards. Reserve all that crap for pate or some shit. Since geese have more fat than the dumpster behind a liposuction clinic, lightly score the breasts and legs so it can drain out. Toss the apple, orange, and cranberry with a little salt and cram it up the goose’s butt. Mix the glaze ingredients together and brush the bird with 1/4th of it. Reserve the rest for later applications.
Put the dickhead, ill-tempered bird in a 375 degree oven, uncovered. After 30 minutes, baste it with some of the melted fat, add another layer of glaze, loosely cover with tin foil, and turn the heat down to 350 degrees. Continue to baste and glaze every thirty minutes for about two and a half hours. The goose will produce about a mason jar of fat so when you are done let it cool a little and put it in the fridge. Use it in lieu of butter in future dishes.
Share the goose with a gaggle of hookers in honor of Santa’s dirty whore mother. Eat it.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
2 1/2c Flour
2tsp Saigon Cassia Cinnamon
1 1/2tsp Baking Powder
2 Sticks of Butter, softened
1 1/2c Brown Sugar
2tbl Ruby Port
5oz Dark Chocolate, coarsely chopped
I decided to make some sort of holiday-ish cookies yesterday so I took a gander around my pantry. At first I thought of chipotle chocolate cookies but when I googled it I found out every fucker in the world has made them, including the culinary icon Rachael Ray, so I kept looking. I found some specialty sweet and spicy cinnamon and decided to go that route. Then I laid my eyes on some leftover port from Thanksgiving. I smelled the port and then the cinnamon. Then I stuck the port in one nostril, the cinnamon in the other, and huffed them at the same time. Heaven.
Whisk all the dry ingredients together and set aside. Cream the butter with the sugar, add the eggs and port, and completely combine. Slowly incorporate the dry into the wet. “Hehe, that sounds dirty.” Shut up, you fucking pervert. Fold in the dark chocolate and roll the dough into balls. “Hehe, balls.” What the fuck is wrong with you? Can you at least try to keep the moron hole in your stupid fat face closed for one second while I finish this? Jesus Christ. Bake them at 350 degrees for 13 minutes and transfer to a wire rack to cool. Happy fucking holidays, bitches. Eat it.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
1/3c Brown Sugar
Zest from 1/2 a Lemon
1 1/2tsp Baking Powder
1/2tsp Baking Soda
1 Stick of Butter, chilled and diced
1/2c Whole Milk
2oz Cream Cheese, room temperature
1/2 Pint Blueberries, or some other crappy berry
“Gross, only chicks eat scones.” Exactly, stupid. Why the fuck do you think we are making them? Furthermore, it’s those local independently owned coffee shops where they make you feel like you’re not worthy enough to drink their free-trade organic shade-grown vegan-fed gluten-free pour-over French-press crappy coffee that have given scones a bad name. Since those idiots make their scones with cute puppy blood, they turn out as hard as a rock and are capable of chipping teeth. This recipe turns out fluffy delicious scones because I use ugly kitten blood. Just kidding, I drank all mine last night.
Bust up the first seven ingredients in a food processor and then grind in the butter. Whisk together the milk, cream cheese, and egg. Dump it in the processor and crank it. Put the dough on a surface dusted with flour and gradually fold in the blueberries. Toss and smack it around until it gets about ten inches wide. Give it an egg wash, sprinkle on a liberal amount of white sugar, and cut it into eight triangles.
Bake at 400 degrees for 15 minutes. Serve these to the special lady you are currently stalking to finally win her over. Women love baked goods from complete strangers. Eat it.
Monday, December 5, 2011
4 Garlic Cloves, minced
2c High Acid White Wine
Lemon Juice, a tiny amount
Saffron, a pinch
Salt, a pinch
Garlicky Cheezy Bread
This dish contains as much wine as your mother before noon on a weekday and it’s just as acidic. The difference is we’re not going to use box wine or a beer bong.
Gently place the mussels in a large bowl and fill it with water. Let them sit for about a half an hour and then drain. Some will be as hairy as a French woman’s armpits so use a pair of scissors to trim that gross shit. Discard any broken or unresponsive open mussels. Remember they should be alive when they hit the pan. Dead shellfish will make you piss out your ass and shit out your mouth. Put them in the fridge while you prepare the broth.
Melt the butter over medium heat and sauté the garlic until fragrant. Pour in the remaining ingredients and bring to a boil. “Even the garlicky cheezy bread?” No, super genius, just add the shit that makes sense. The best wine to use here is either a French Picpoul de Pinet or a zesty Portuguese white blend. Even a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc would work well. I would advise against using any wine that has seen oak or anything from Australia. Fuck Australian wine.
After the broth has reduced a little, slide the mussels into the pan, cover, and steam for about ten minutes. Shake the pan a few times during this period to move the mussels around. “Wouldn’t the top fly off and create a huge mess?” Shake it horizontally, not vertically, dumbass. Once the mussels have popped open, as seen in the picture above, they are ready to eat. If there are a few that did not fully pop, pry them open and eat them first. Those are the really tasty ones. “Really? I didn’t know that!” Okay, even I’m not that mean. If you do that your chances of getting food poisoning skyrocket. In fact, it’s pretty much guaranteed. Discard them.
Consume this dish with some garlicky cheezy bread or pour it over some type of long skinny pasta. “Should I cook the pasta first?” Holy shit, I give up. Eat it.
Friday, December 2, 2011
The mysterious silence of other public transit patrons combined with the repetitive thunk-clunk of the train slowly rolling over the Steele Bridge added a particular eeriness to my journey downtown. The warm winter sun was already hidden behind the west hills striping the sky in a brilliant display of pink and purple ribbons. Soon I would be encased in darkness; the only light, created by man.
As we shuttled through the city's core I glanced over to see Portland’s living room encompassed by an expansive white tent and our Christmas tree in all its shimmering glory. Within the white canvas walls the Holiday Ale Fest was already underway. This is not your ordinary beer fest. Every beer poured is either specifically crafted for the festival, exceedingly rare, or vintage. Aficionados and connoisseurs live for events like these where they can sample some of the finest beers in the world. But I am here to get fucked up. Holidaze, bitches.
They mistakenly let me through the entryway; I guess they don’t remember me from last year. The lapse of time and man’s imperfect memory are a scoundrel’s best friends. I purchase extra tasting tickets and make my way into the main hall. I take a survey of the land and plot my course. Imperial bourbon stouts, winter strong ales, and aged barleywines dominate the landscape. I can hardly contain myself but the drunk tank will have a better chance later.
After my third beer I take a seat in a hallway to discuss the nature of existence with a beautiful and intelligent woman, as usual, and the older gentleman next to me sees someone he knows, lunges towards them, spills his beer everywhere, and attempts to drink the remaining beer in his cup but unfortunately it’s upside down. I look at this poor wretched soul and think, “With any luck, that could be me in an hour.”
I walk upstairs to the sky bar tent and a large portion of the walkway is open to the winter elements. Right as I begin to think what a fantastic place this would be to sneak a puff I spot a wretched little man in a security uniform staring down everyone who saunters past as if they had just murdered a dozen babies and stolen their blow. He must live for events like this. I’m sorry the police academy wouldn’t accept you little buddy, but that ain’t my fault. His hyper-vigilance forces me to put my secondary plan into action. Unfortunately it involves a port-a-potty and I am none too happy about it.
The series of events that subsequently unfolded remain a spotty and mysterious so I will recount them as well as possible. I made it through all the beers I wanted to taste with time to spare so I retired to a table with a beautiful and intelligent woman, a different one naturally, to engage in a sophisticated and urbane discussion on the absurdity of eastern philosophy. At this point a gigantic fire breathing robotic gorilla stormed the beer tent demanding me to apologize for my disparaging words about eastern “religions.” After I stated that you can’t spell eastern without Easter the robotic gorilla became enraged and began slaughtering everyone in sight, except the bourgeois buddhists. At this point I swung down from the rafters on a giant rope and dumped a bucked of beer on the robot gorilla killing him and saving mankind from enslavement on the planet RoboGor. You’re welcome.
Oh yeah, my favorite beers were (in no particular order): Elysian’s Bye Bye Frost, Hopworks’ Kentucky Christmas, Natian’s Holla-Day, Ninkasi’s The Little One, Upright’s Noel, and Oakshire’s Nutcracker. They tasted good and contained alcohol. The festival runs through the weekend so go get your drink on, motherfucker. www.holidayale.com
3c Fresh Spinach
1 1/2c Raw Broccoli
1 Head Roasted Garlic, shucked
1/3c Pine Nuts
1/2tsp Kosher Salt
3/4c Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Basil pesto may be great and all but sometimes I like to make the same shit with different crap. My favorite pesto variation is elephant garlic scape but if you blink you will miss the season. For year round deliciousness Pesto alla Stronzo gets the job done. Due to its festive color it is the perfect ethnic holiday finishing sauce. Make it for your special dinner guests and really accentuate the name to demonstrate how you’re all fucking cultured and shit.
Throw the first six ingredients into a food processor and bust it all up. While the blade is running slowly drizzle the olive oil through the pour spout. When there are no big chunks left it’s done. I cooked some pasta and tossed it with the pesto and a little chicken. Feel free to do whatever you please. “Can I use it to simulate ejaculate in my bi-weekly extra-terrestrial role play sex parties?” Sure, why not? Eat it.