Drinks

Three handfuls of slightly burnt popcorn, one Sierra Nevada, half a shot of Petron, one frozen margarita, one whiskey sour, two vodka tonics, two slices of pizza, and four cigarettes with a burnt middle finger does not equal a meal. Also, it is not conducive to error-free typing.

Bean city

Apparently, there is no good Mexican food in Boston. In a city called Beantown, it's a shame that there aren't any decent refried ones, or at least any that can match those found on this side of the country.

So, Susie, visiting from Boston for a few days and hankering for some good Mexican food, and I drove over to Cancun, my ultimate burrito stop, for some Mexican food, Californian style. I ordered the super burrito with carne asada and a Mandarin soda and Susie had the super burrito with grilled chicken and a Coke. My came with an extra toasty tortilla and was yummy, as always. And, Susie's was just as good as she remembered a burrito being capable of being.

I told her that I didn't think it was too hard to do burritos well. You take some beans, rice, meat, and other fixings as you like and you wrap it up in a tortilla. And, yes, I recognize that some places have far superior burritos than others. But still, how in a city so large, so wealthy, and so full of college students not have decent burritos? It's mind-boggling. Let's see someone write a PhD thesis on that.

Snacks in hand

This morning, while I was waiting for students to take a practice SAT test, I ate two Handi-Snak things, a bag of goldfish crackers, and had a raspberry soda. It's grossly amazing what I'll eat when I'm hungry, stuck in a room, and the only edible thing around is cheese spread.

Leftover lunch

Lunch at work today was leftovers from Wednesday's dinner. There were huge trays of beans, rice, meat, and salsa, along with a trash bag full of tortilla chips. There were no more tortillas and Ken lied about there being cheese. I scooped up some of each, stuck it in the microwave, stirred things around, and dug right in. It wasn't bad. It was like a burrito except without the tortilla. It would have been better though with the cheese. I wonder what happened to it. There was a large tray full of that too.

Swine of the times

For those of you curious about where your pork chop comes from and how it's produced, the May issue of Harper's has a great article that might change your outlook on pork (re)production. Check it out.

Fast food nation

Fast food can sometimes be good food, and I'll eat it. That's not to say that I stuff myself with greasy burgers from a drive-thru window three times a day. But, on occassion, at the right spot, with the right company, at a certain level of drunken-ness (or hangover-ness) I'll step (or drive) up to the counter, peruse the lighted board with pictures of burgers, chicken sandwiches, and fries, and place my order by number.

An In-N-Out #2 (a cheeseburger with fries and a drink) animal style with extra pickles, my welcome back to LA meal, is always a welcome treat once off the airplane. Who can question how wonderfully and oddly good those hash browns from McDonald's are? And any sort of ice cream drink concoction (Frosties from Wendy's, Blizzards from Dairy Queen, milkshakes from Foster's Freeze, anything from Orange Julius) can't be too bad.

So, I've got ideas for my next vacation in the works. Or, if I can't stomach it, I can at least read about it: Life in the Fast Food Lane.

Soon

New postings are on their way. I promise. They will include: a Mother's Day meal of stuffed pig's head and chicken liver ravioli at Incanto, French fare at Le Petit Robert, drinks at Zuni Cafe, the panini comeback, and, of course, my continued search for Thai food that'll kick my ass. Stay tuned.

Be My Guest

The quest for spicy Thai food continues. This time, it led me to Be My Guest on Clement and 11th, where Jon was having his birthday dinner.

This time around, I ordered the duck curry and specifically told the waitress that I wanted it spicier than normal. There was no funny business about telling her my plan and why I wanted it spicy. I just wanted it spicy. When she announced the duck curry, I was excited. This was it. I could feel it. My taste buds would wake up, my nose would start to run, my eyes would water. This was it.

I spooned some of that curry on to the coconut milk scented rice and dug in. The curry was delicious, rich and creamy from the coconut milk and full of flavor. The chunks of pineapple and loganberry worked surprisingly well with the other ingredients. There were plenty of pieces of duck that wasn’t fatty at all, even with the skin left on. But as scrumptious as the curry and duck were, they weren’t exactly what I wanted. Sure, I wanted duck and I wanted curry, but I also wanted them to be spicy, I wanted them to kick my ass, and I told the waitress so.

So, I left yet another Thai restaurant stuffed with good food but still disappointed by the lack of spice.

Blondie's

As a Cal freshman, I had eaten countless slices of pizza from Blondie’s on Telegraph. It was a cheap and convenient way to feel full. Plus, with those coupons handed out at the beginning of each new semester, a slice and a soda for $2 was a steal. As I learned how to better navigate the large Berkeley campus and learned about the mini food mecca that was Berkeley and its surrounding cities, my meals at Blondie’s became less frequent and soon were limited to times when after drinking a little bit too much I needed something to settle my stomach and Jack In the Box was in the wrong direction. Those times were rare.

And, in the seven years that I’ve lived up here (this upcoming August marks the beginning of my eighth year), it never occurred to me to grab a slice from the Blondie’s in San Francisco. Of all those times I’ve hopped out of the Powell Street BART station, I never once thought about turning into the Blondie’s on Powell. It just seemed wrong. Blondie’s belonged in Berkeley.

But Greg suggested we have lunch there on Saturday and I wasn’t going to say no. It was his last Saturday in San Francisco before heading down to Orange County for the summer and I didn’t have anything against the Blondie’s on Powell, except that it wasn't in Berkeley. So we walked there from his place and I was sweaty. It was ridiculously warm and the morning overcast skies didn’t forecast heat.

There was a large menu with pictures of food outside Blondie’s door. Apparently, this Blondie’s not only served pizza but gumbo, catfish, black beans and rice, and other food items that would make one wonder whether or not they were in Louisiana and not downtown San Francisco. I wasn’t feeling too adventurous and ordered a slice of pizza with pepperoni, sausage, and bell peppers along with a Coke.

We sprinkled the mandatory cheese and pepper flakes out of plastic containers roped to the counter onto our slices and headed downstairs to the dining area. I had no idea there was a dining area, nonetheless a dining area so large. It was a vast expanse of tables and chairs in a room with bad lighting and motley people. And there were strange figures cut from or out of and attached to the metal railing to the stairs. It looked like some hippie’s weird idea of art. The strange mix of people, the dim lighting, and the vinyl chairs made me feel like I was in the Shakey’s back at home in LA and that I should be eating Mojo potatoes.

But I wasn’t eating Mojo potatoes and fried chicken. I was eating pizza and did what I did to most of the pizza I eat—I took a napkin and dabbed away some of the grease. The pizza was okay. Although the cheese looked as if it had hardened slightly from sitting out, the slice was still warm enough. And even though I knew that there were things other than pepperoni on my slice that was the only thing I could taste.

I remember Blondie’s being better. I remember Natalie’s dad telling about how good the pizza at Blondie’s was when he found out that I had gotten into Berkeley and how I wondered about this mythic pizza place. I remember their slices being so hot that they would often scorch my mouth with boiling sauce. I remember sitting at one of the stools along the counter eating my slice and sipping my soda while reading pages from Rolling Stone that was attached to the wall and waiting for class to start. Maybe if I go back to the Blondie’s on Telegraph, it’ll all be the same.

The little Bobby

If I could live again in Paris I would in a heartbeat. But since my slim wallet and declining ability to speak French aren’t the best assets when trying to live in an expensive foreign city, I’m forced to realize my beret-and-baguette dreams in San Francisco, where a transatlantic flight turns into a cross-town drive, from Hayes Valley to Russian Hill, where Le Petit Robert sits on the corner of Polk and Green.

Le Petit Robert strives to be an authentic French bistro. From the look of the menu and the appearance of the sophisticated yet homey décor, it felt like some of the ones I ate at while in France. It, however, didn’t have the charm of a restaurant cat walking around and in between my legs, as did a Parisian bistro where, with Ryan, I had one of the best meals of my stay.

Greg, my dinner companion for the evening, and I started with a mesclun salad with currants and candied pecans. The greens were crisp and lightly tossed in a light, fruity vinaigrette. The currants were a nice sweet touch, although they kept falling off my fork to dot the table. And the pecans were lovely, although they too were hard to get on my eating utensil.

The cassoulet that I ordered came out in a large, warm ceramic dish, bubbling with juices. The waitress placed it in front of me and I was a little nervous. She gave me an extra plate and an extra knife. I didn’t know what to do other than push those extraneous items aside and dig in with my fork. Those tender white beans with pork, sausage, and a beautiful leg of duck confit tasted just like the first meal I had in Paris, when after walking who remembers how long and seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time, I sat down to eat with Yvonne and the older Asian lady who liked to walk around her room naked. Never before had beans brought back such odd memories, filled with equal parts nostalgia and repulsion. Each bite of the cassoulet was richly flavored with the juices from the pork and sausage, and the leg of duck that sat on the cherry topping it off. I sat across from Greg and picked crispy thin fries off his plate of steak frites. My Syrah, which was slightly fruity, stood up well to the strong flavors of the cassoulet.

For dessert, which we were somehow able to make room for in our stomachs, we had the cherry and apricot pain perdu. I wasn’t quite sure what pain perdu was but rightly guessed it as a bread pudding. It came out warm and heavenly. The custardy bread was soft without being mushy. The cherries were sour and tangy yet sweet and slightly juicy. It was light yet substantial, a lovely end to dinner that, because of our bulging waistbands, we had to leave unfinished.

And, although I knew that I wasn’t in Paris, that in no world could Polk Street be mistaken for le boulevard St. Germain, that I wasn’t sipping luscious café crèmes or strolling through le Jardin du Luxembourg with rose flavored ice cream in hand, I was happy just the same.

Sabuy Sabuy II...the Thai search continues

When I started my Thailand-stomach training, I had no clue that it would be difficult to find spicy Thai food in San Francisco. In a city that in no way lacks amazing dining options, Thai food that’ll sear off one’s taste buds seems to have gone underground. So, my next journey took me across the Bay, to the jungles of the Berkeley-Albany border to Ruen Pair, which was named home of the spiciest Thai food in the East Bay by the East Bay Express last year. But as I was driving to meet Colin and Eleanor there, I got a call a from the digital Eleanor telling me that the folks at Ruen Pair had gone on vacation and that they wouldn’t return until the 25th. What was I supposed to do? It seemed as if the Thai gods were laughing at me, mocking my attempt to prepare my taste buds and stomach lining for the realities of real Thai cooking.

But, Colin suggested another Thai restaurant not too far down along San Pablo Avenue, and so we met up at Sabuy Sabuy II. When we arrived, the restaurant was filled with Asian people. I was surprised and rather excited. Were these real Thais eating at this Thai place? If so, then it had to be good. But it was too good to be true. They were speaking Cantonese.

We looked over the menu and made our decisions. We ordered the appetizer sampler, their Tom Yum soup, the stuffed eggplant with green curry, and the combination seafood with eggplant. On the menu, the combination seafood dish looked promising--the description implied that it would be spicy. And, the soup allowed diners to choose their level of spiciness. I told our friendly waiter my plan--that I was heading to Thailand soon and that I wanted to see how spicy I could handle their food--and asked him how spicy he thought I could take it and ordered accordingly. I waited anxiously for our food.

Our soup came out first. It smelled fragrantly of lemongrass and fish sauce. The broth was both sweet and sour. The shrimps weren’t rubbery, as can happen when cooking the shellfish in soup. And although I could tell that there was some heat to the soup, it didn’t take me by surprise, it didn’t overpower my senses, and it didn’t convince me that it was spicy.

The appetizer sampler came out next. It seemed like a large plate of fried things, very similar to the appetizer sampler Scott, Gabe, and I ordered at Mi Lindo Yucatan not too long ago, and I was nervous. But it wasn’t all fried. There were some chicken satay, which had grill marks on them. There was also a green salad in the middle with slices of carrots cut into chicken shapes and a cucumber salad on the side. The fried taro root was good--the taro cakey and flakey and not too greasy. The fried mushroom was a fun surprise. The fried eggroll things with a single elongated shrimp inside were incredibly crisp. The other fried thing that we couldn’t quite figure out of what it was composed with also tasty. And the chicken satay was decent too.

Our entrées were coming next and here was where I hoped the lack of spice would some redeem itself. The stuffed eggplant was nicely presented—leaf-like slices of eggplant with fish paste stuffed between were arranged in a circular flower-like pattern. The eggplant was just a little bit mushy, as eggplant should be, and the slightly tougher texture of the fish paste was a nice balance. The green curry sauce in which the eggplant was resting was strong in coconut flavor at first taste but the complexities of the curry, along with the subtle spiciness, slowly crept out. The seafood and eggplant stir-fry was also good. The red hue hinted at the dishes spiciness, although, as with the previous eggplant dish, the spiciness was subtle. With each successive bite, the heat of both dishes gradually climbed although at their peaks I would still fail to call them spicy.

I was beginning to wonder if spicy Thai food did exist or perhaps that my tongue was already trained to be able to handle the spiciest out there or, which is most likely the case, that the chefs in Thai restaurants just refuse to serve their idea of spicy food to non-Thais for fear that those farangs won’t be able to stomach it. I’m still searching though and I’m sure I’ll make it back to Ruen Pair sometime soon and sometime when it’s open for business.

Pig head and chicken liver goodness

I grew up eating some strange things. Pig intestine, pig tongue, and chicken feet graced many meals. And soups made of sea turtle, fish stomach, bird spit, and shark fin were common at dinner. It wasn’t like I was growing up on the set of Fear Factor or that my parents had a strange way of punishing us. That was what my mom cooked, we ate it, and it was delicious. I didn’t think much about what my mom cooked and how probably most moms didn’t cook those things for their families. It was just what we ate. So, when a plate of stuffed pig’s head is placed in front of me, as was what happened when Jeanne and I met Colin, Eleanor, and Alex at Incanto for dinner, I don’t bat an eyelash.

I had wanted to go to Incanto ever since having brunch at Colin’s weeks ago, where Carlo was talking about the work that goes on there--how they cure their own meats, have whole beast dinners, and use parts of animals that, in most kitchens, would get thrown out immediately. And, I knew that few people would be willing to eat random meat parts with me. But, Jeanne, who was in town for the evening, would, and so would Colin and Eleanor.

We ordered the antipasto plate of house-cured meats (there was no way we couldn’t order that in a place that makes their own charcuterie) and the fava bean and strawberry salad with rucola and pecorino. The waiter also brought out single serving dishes of a tuna salad with tiny white beans in an olive oil dressing and a plate of marinated sardines (how great it is to know one of the chefs). The tuna salad was light, the beans tender, and the olive oil fruity. The sardines weren’t greasily weighed with heavy oil but were delicately fishy. The fava bean and strawberry salad was interesting—I had never had strawberries in a savory dish and the pairing was delightful though not wowing.

And then came the plate of meat, a whole slew of different types that I can’t remember, although I do remember the stuffed pig’s head that Colin had specifically pointed out as being stuffed pig’s head. I feel like my mom must have served us some version of stuffed animal head at some point because the texture of Incanto’s version brought back memories of my mom’s kitchen. The meat had an interesting texture, a cross between bologna and super-gelatinous gelatin. The meat had a mild taste of something I can’t recall and the texture seemed to play a more important role than the flavor. There was a very good pate as part of the spread as well as some delicious versions of cured meat (I didn’t know what types of meat I was eating then, even though the waiter explained it to us). The mustard was fabulous and the roasted garlic was better than any I could have made.

I had a tough time choosing an entrée and decided on the chicken liver ravioli at the last minute. I was expecting just a smudge of chicken liver encased within an adequate amount of pasta, but I was in for a surprise. My hot plate delivered several rectangles of ravioli that looked like they were about to burst with a brownish gray filling. I was intimidated and slightly scared. But I ordered it and I would eat it and I would like it. I used my fork to cut a piece of ravioli in half and chowed down. All I could taste was chicken liver. It was rich and thick and totally kicked my mouth with chicken liver flavor and that slight grainy chicken liver texture. I knew that eating that whole dish would be an endeavor (there must have been the livers of about ten chickens on my plate) but that I would leave with a body full of iron.

Jeanne had the steak with broccoli di ciccio in a bath of warm olive oil, and it was delicious (I ate probably almost all of her broccoli). Colin ordered the signature handkerchief past with a pork ragu, whose flavors and deceiving look of simplicity were comforting. Eleanor’s gnocchi were pillowy soft. And, Alex’s braised pork shoulder, which was the size of my head, with rhubarb and fava beans was tender with a slight tang from the rhubarb.

For dessert we had the bay leaf panna cotta, rhubarb crisp with cardamom ice cream, and a chocolate lavender pudding thing that came in a ramekin (they gave it some fancy name that I can’t recall). The panna cotta was simple and good. It’s smooth, cool creaminess was just sweet enough and melted on my tongue. The rhubarb crisp was just a slight bit tangy. The crust was crumbly crisp and the velvety ice cream had just the faintest hint of spice. The chocolate pudding was rich and thick and decadent.

The meal was great, but the best part of the evening was about to come. As we were on our way to say goodbye to Carlo and to thank him for a wonderful meal, we were offered a tour of the kitchen. We met Chef Chris. He told us about the vent system and then had Carlo show us the rest of the restaurant. We stepped into the walk-in refrigerator where buckets and baskets of food rested. We climbed into a tiny, low-ceilinged attic that was reminiscent of something from Alice in Wonderland to see what they used as storage space. And, we were shown the glory of the restaurant--a carefully monitored refrigerator filled with meats of all sorts hanging to dry. And, on our way out, I met one of the chefs who would be returning to his native Thailand in a few months and who said his friends who live there currently would take care of me during my stay in Bangkok--a generous offer that I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable in taking up.

I left Incanto stuffed with chicken liver and rather happy about it. I told them I would return soon to try their braised ox tails--I just need to find someone who’s up for some adventuresome eating.

Luna Park

I felt silly hopping into a cab to take a short ride over to Luna Park to meet Shari and Kelly for brunch from my house. But I didn’t roll out of bed until a little after noon for a brunch date at 12:30. There was no way I was going to make it. But after a super quick shower and drying of my hair in a cab with windows rolled down, I made it there only half an hour late.

Kelly and Shari had gotten a nice spot near the window, where we could watch all the Valencia Street passersby in their Sunday hipster outfits, showing more skin than usual because of the unusual warmth. I felt underdressed in my summer dress, which incidentally, and rather embarrassingly, matched my glasses (being in the Mission almost inevitably brings on a strange inferiority-of-coolness complex). But, I got over it and ordered the meatiest sandwich on the menu.

I didn’t know what I was getting into when I told the waitress that I wanted the Autostrada. I was excited at the thought of having a pressed sandwich, something I don’t get the chance to order all too often. But, when it came—that sandwich filled with mortadella, hot coppa, salami, provolone, and pepperocini relish—it was stacked with layers and layers of meat. I took a bite and it was all meat. I don’t even know if there was bread on that sandwich, but there must have been. I had to work those teeth to chomp down into what seemed like a half foot high stack of meat. I finished the first half of the sandwich okay but the second half loomed ominously on my plate. How much more meat could I handle?

I took a few more bites when I had enough. It was too much meat. I opened up my monster meat sandwich, pulled off a few slices, and replaced the toasted bread top. That was much more of my style in terms of meat-to-bread ratio.

Pot pie

I wish Eleanor would marry me. Sure, her boyfriend is already my husband but Eleanor is the one I really want. Who else would call me to see if I wanted a chicken pot pie (the last pot pie to grace the Bakesale Betty kitchen), transport it across the bay on BART, pop it in my oven cook, and share it with all the people who happen to be in my kitchen? I can only think of one person, and that’s Eleanor.

She and Colin showed up at my door with pot pie in hand. We put it in the already pre-heated oven (we had planned ahead) and sat around in the kitchen waiting for the microwave timer to count down those sixty minutes. After a while of anxious and hungry waiting and what seemed like a period of time when those digital numbers started counting back up, the timer beeped, announcing a succulent savory pie.

Greg, Scott, Colin, and I all had our eyes fixed on the pie as Eleanor sliced through the crisp and flakey top layer of crust and into the rich, thick gravy with chicken chunks and vegetables. And the pie tasted as good as it looked and smelled. The crust was light and crunched faintly as the fork cut through it. The gravy was rich without being heavy and overpowering. And, the chicken pieces, a mixture of breast and dark meat, were tenderly soft. The three components worked together to create a buttery, heavenly savory pie. It made me remember how much I loved meat pies and yearn for their presence on more restaurant menus.

Instant oats

Trying to save some money and slim down to my pre-desk job size has brought me to this: eating instant oatmeal for lunch. It’s almost an all-time low, I’ll admit it.

Those two packets of Quaker Instant Oats in the apple cinnamon flavor were one of several edible options I had in my office. The others were bite-sized candy bars, an apple, and two cereal bars. The oatmeal seemed like the obvious choice.

I poured that packet of questionable oats into my mug, picked out some of the apple bits because I think they’re too sweet, walked over to the water cooler and poured in some hot water, and stirred that goupy grayish mixture with a plastic fork (I had no spoon). My water to oat ratio was off and the oatmeal looked more like oat-liquid than oatmeal, so I opened up another packet of oats and poured in half. The extra oats helped a bit in thickening it, but it was still hard to eat with a fork. After about four forkfuls and nothing really making it to my mouth, I opted for the faster way to eat oatmeal—to drink it. So, I sat at my desk chugging oatmeal.

Chips

Recently, I've been on a pre-dinner meal of chips kick. And Kettle Chips are my chip of choice. They're so crunchy that they drown out the accent of the BBC news reporter. They don't coat my fingers with a thick layer of grease. And, they've got some spectacular flavors: Chedder Beer, Yogurt and Green Onion, Spicy Thai, New York Chedder, Honey Dijon, Roasted Red Pepper.

I lounge around on the newly fashioned couch watching BBC News on PBS and eating chip after chip. And, soon enough, the bag becomes empty and my stomach full, and dinner becomes a notion of the past.

Thai medication

Alvaro just stopped by my office. For the past several weeks, he's been working with students at the school, helping them get their final drafts ready for publication. And, I've been hoping that our schedule would work out so that we could go to the neighborhood In-n-Out for lunch. I haven't been so lucky.

But, this morning, as he knocked on my door and walked in on me looking drowsier and more pathetic than usual and with papers scattered all over my desk, he had just what I wanted in his bag, something better than burgers and milkshakes. He had pills. A green and yellow paper wrapper encased a plasticy coating that held four round tablets. It looked curious. Thai text covered the packagaing, and I really had no idea what he was handing me and was a tad bid nervous, but he assured me that it was the Thai version of Advil and that it had helped him with a hangover once.

So, I tore through that plastic wrapper and took two of those yellow rounds with some Throat Coat tea. I didn't feel better. I think I acutally felt worse, like that time when I took some Get Well Soon pills (which have a foul smell of garlic and are the size of half a large thumb) and some tea and threw up in my office just minutes before I had to make a presentation. This time, it's not that bad but it's not all too great. I wonder if it has to do with all the herbal supplements I've taken this morning: Throat Coat tea, zesty orange Airbourne, and now some Think O2 tea. Or maybe those Thais are trying to take me out. Or maybe Alvaro is.

Not so hot Thai

I’m preparing for Thailand. I’ve got guidebooks galore scattered throughout my bedroom. I’ve been listening to Thai language tapes, hoping to learn enough Thai in a month and a half to prove myself not just another lame tourist. And, I have a plan to ready my taste buds and stomach for Thailand as well. For the next several weeks, I’m going to eat the spiciest food I can handle. Let that sweat roll down my forehead. Let my eyes tears up. Let my tongue burn. Those Thais will never know that I’m not one of them.

Today I had the first meal in my See How Much Heat I Can Really Handle training regimen. When I told Scott of my plan, he gave me a look, but we went to have dinner at Thep Phanom, the Thai place on the corner of Fillmore and Waller, to test it out.

I chose a dish off their “Some Like It Hot” section of the menu. It was a beef, chicken, pork, and bamboo shoots stir-fry with southern Thai spices. Scott chose the poached salmon with special red curry. My stir-fry dish came out first, and it was not so hot. It was tasty and fragrant from the wilted basil leaves. The meat was tender too. But it was far from spicy. There was just the vaguest hint of it, and each bite got progressively more spicy, but it was nothing. It didn’t wake my taste buds. It didn’t make me sweat. It didn’t do anything to make me believe that its spot on the “Some Like It Hot” section was warranted. It also seemed like something I could make at home.

Scott’s poached salmon was good too but nothing special. The salmon was moist and tender. And, the red sauce, which looked more of a pink color, was thick and tasted of coconut. We found capers sprinkled throughout the sauce and questioned whether or not capers were common in Thai food.

It was a decent meal but I was disappointed. I wanted spice, I wanted heat, I wanted dishes I wouldn’t believe myself to be able to make at home. The next meal in my See How Much Heat I can Really Handle stomach and tongue training will have to take place somewhere else.

Thailand

Food Blog is on the move and heading to Thailand. Three weeks in late June and early July will be spent eating, lying in the sand, and undoubtedly getting fat. Lovely.

If anyone has been to Thailand and have food recommendations, send them along. For this trip, I'll try to take notes.

Nuts

I need to learn to stop eating food that’s within arm’s reach because of its close proximity. Today it was a can of honey glazed macadamias I found in my mail box at work. Ken must have brought it back from his vacation in Hawaii.

I knew that once I opened it, I would just devour the whole thing, and not because I’m a crazy nut fan but because they were there. So, I held off. I didn’t pull that metal top off the can until about one in the afternoon. That’s four solid hours of restraint. But, once that top was popped, I was all over those nuts. One after another after another somehow kept managing its way into my mouth. I would put the little plastic lid on, and that would somehow become un-topped and yet more nuts would find their way into my belly.

And, the nuts were good, just a little bit salty and just a little bit sweet. I sat at my desk and ate almost the entire can of nuts. That’s two thousand calories of nuts and sixty grams of fat! That’s a lot of nuts. Now, I’m staring at the almost empty can sitting next to my bed as I type right now. I know they’re waiting for me to finish them off as a pre-bedtime snack.

Scramble

My body has been off kilter recently. I think I'm getting sick. I know it, actually. And, when I'm sick, I usually can't do much to muster up an appetite or a meal that's good enough to make me really want to eat it.

For dinner tonight, I made an egg scramble. Eggs are the easiest thing to make, and I complicated it this time. I was overzealous; I wanted it to be too many things. My other mistake was that I used a frying pan with walls that were too low (I didn't want to wash the other frying pan with higher walls). Food keep spilling out over the edge as I stirred with my spatula. Bits of red onions went over board, and then chunks of sausage. I fished those suckers out from underneath and tossed them back in. Eh, a little heat'll kill anything off.

So, in went some chopped red onions, some chicken and portabello mushroom sausage, and some diced tomatoes. I then poured on the egg and grated all the cheese that was leftover from Scott's fajita dinner on the eggs, which was quite a hefty amount of cheese. I also toasted some wheat bread to go with all the eggs.

It took me nearly half an hour to cook up eggs (What would Rachel Ray say?), and, in the end, they were just okay. The mushroom sausage was a bit overpowering and the tomatoes didn't add much to the mix either. The flavors didn't meld at all. The bite of sausage tasted like sausage; the bite of tomato tasted like tomato (but coated in egg). The cheese, however, I think played the most vital role. It kept the eggs moist. And, because the cheese had melted into the eggs, I couldn't really tell how much cheese I was eating.

Whopping good time

I have a love-hate relationship with movie theater meals. Popcorn, Sour Patch Kids, Milk Duds, frozen ice slush drink with the straw that's also a spoon. It all tastes so good when you start, but by half way into the movie your stomach starts to angrily growl in protest of all the junk you're putting in it that you don't know if your body that's making that horrific noise or the sound effects of the movie on screen. I've had a fair number of movie theater meals in my life, and Tuesday's trip to see Half Nelson at the Kabuki added another notch to my bed post.

I thought I had planned ahead for the evening: the movie starts at 9, I meet Quressa there at 8:30, I leave my house to walk there at 8:10, I get ready at 7:50, I have a light meal at 7. But, even with all that planning, my light dinner of leftover chicken, rice, and broccoli at 6:15 proved to be too light. And, when I got to the movie theater, the glass counter full of candy was beckoning me towards it's glorious golden light of sugary treats.

I couldn't resist the siren call of the Whopper. Malt balls covered in chocolate and so delicious. Sure, it was overpriced (I could have gotten that same box for which I paid $2.75 for 99 cents at the Walgreens up the street) but it was so worth it, just for a little fleeting moment in time. I plopped myself down in my seat and started popping ball after ball into my mouth. Crunch, chew, melt. Crunch, chew, melt. I had guessed correctly that I would finish that box of Whoppers even before the movie began.

The movie, by the way, was very good. The story of a junior high school history teacher in Brooklyn reminded me of a certain English teacher, right down to the cat and station wagon.