Savory Shrimp & Grits

Rita and I like to host little "dinner parties" where we invite people over to cook for us. It's a great trick - you should try it. Each couple gets assigned a different course to make/bring and you end up with this excellent meal where you only made one course (unfortunately - "ice" is not a course, so my participation is limited). Well....a couple of weeks ago - we hosted just such a get together and one normally reliable couple brought an appetizer course entitled "Savory Shrimp & Grits". Well...apparently...in Texas, savory means HOT, like smoke-coming-out-of-your-ears hot. I don't think it was intentional - but there WAS an awkward moment where I thought one of our guests was trying to kill us with tabasco.

Which (of course) led me to a few observations from the experience:

• When the chef has to serve the dish cloaked in a hazmat suit - bad sign.
• If I EVER actually MAKE a course for a dinner party...I will now have my eyes peeled for an uncomfortable silence following that first bite...which apparently means: "Holy crap - I can't feel my face any more."
• At what point have you eaten enough of a course to be polite? I can barely handle barbecue potato chips - I wasn't about to finish the nuclear shrimp.
• The dessert course assignee smugly announced "I ate the whole thing". Called her the next morning - not mobile.
• The person to my right very casually leaned over to me and whispered..."Savory Shrimp and Grits...more like Save-Yourself Shrimp and Grits". (which of course was followed by me saying "omigod - that is HILARIOUS. Listen to this, you guys... ")
• The pairing for the course turned out not to be zinfandel, but milk.
• Apparently, one partner made the grits while the other half of the tandem contributed the ummmm...savory parts. The sous chef spent the entire course declaring the innocence of her grits. I half expected the grits to turn state's evidence on the shrimp and sauce at any time.
• We looked at the hot sauce bottle later and a) it's called Inferno Hot Sauce b) they won't sell it without a parent or guardian present and c) what did you THINK the skull and crossbones meant??
• I looked at the pictures from the dinner....three courses later and Joe's face is still blotchy, there's a bead of sweat above my lip and the sous chef is in a corner still pushing her grits.

PoCo for Life

Christmas in southern Indiana - (Kentuckiana for those in the know) would be culturally educational for many. This year, we learned an endearing new term at the McConville family xmas - "PoCo for Life". PoCo being Posey County, Indiana - where no one thought twice of naming a county "Posey" and where parents dream of GEDs for ALL their kids.

The term seems to be a quaint carryover of my (now college-degreed, I swear) 23 yr old niece's high school years. And just to give you some context, I think Levi Johnston, the father of Bristol Palin's baby, (and especially his mother) are honorary "PoCo for Life".

And the term seems inextricably linked to synthetic urine - of the drug-test-fooling variety. Apparently, the MOST eligible bachelors in PoCo are the ones with a synthetic urine subscription...presumably allowing them to smoke dope with abandon? I guess the boffo combo of a quarter bag AND a job (that drug tests, no less) makes you hot property in PoCo. (What!??! - you guys didn't talk about the same thing on YOUR Christmas morning???)

Which is how we came up with the following ditty about my brother - sung to the theme from the Beverly Hillbillies:

Come and listen to a story 'bout a man in PoCo
Poor engineer should've moved a while ago
Then one day he was talking with his daughter
and UP came the case of the big ol' fake water
(urine that is, fake pee, synthetic piss)

Please tell my niece's boyfriend is not REALLY Seth Rogan.

Soda POP

Holy cow - world's best Christmas present ever. Rita got me a seltzer water maker. I thought the only type of seltzer makers anymore were those little squirtee ones from old Tom & Jerry cartoons, but Rita found the new Penguin Club Soda model. It is awesome. You put one of the special carafes full of water into the little vacuum chamber, slide the top down to seal the chamber and then pump it full of co2. There is a button to "release" the carafe from its little vacuum chamber when you're finished and...voila! Your very own Pellegrino.

Everytime I push that button - it sounds like the roller coaster coming to a stop at Six Flags - with basically the same level of anticipation. If I get particularly exuberant pumping the carbon dioxide...billowy white smoke comes tumbling out of the vacuum chamber like some special effect from an 80s rock video.

The kit even came with different flavor syrups so I can make my own lemon-line, root beer and.....diet soda. Follow me on this...with a little more recipe-tweaking, I could be making my own Diet Cokes by President's Day. (And you thought the economy was bad NOW - if I stop buying Diet Cokes.... You may as well add Coca-Cola to the bailout list right now.)

Between the espresso maker and the club soda machine (not to mention the UPS-looking wine fairy), Rita's house is like the adult equivalent of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Seriously, I don't see a reason to ever leave the house again. I am going to be the most hydrated woman in Southern California.

Although the responses from others to my Christmas present have been a little...ummm....interesting:

"What's the over/under on when you pop an eye out with that thing?" [Thanks Mom]

"Can you do whip-ette shots with it?" [if you have to ask what a whip-ette shot is, you obviously invested your college years more wisely than others]

"Have you tried it on milk? If I got a toy like that - I would try it on everything." [a) thanks for sharing b) no milk...but I AM working on my very own Champagne - a little number I like to call Estate Zinfa-cola....mmmmm (don't tell Rita).]

Final NYC thoughts

Just a FEW more observations from our trip to NYC…

• That Barack Obama fellow must have a new movie coming out because he has promo stuff EVERYWHERE!
• Spoiler Alert – rolex watches for everyone at Christmas
• I think I finally found my mid-palate
• Yes we DID see the parade. In between the commercial breaks.
• I don’t care if it is crowded, holiday-spirited, window-watching in front of Macy’s - if a baby stroller spears you in the kneecap, you can attack back.
• Have YOU ever tried to explain the concept of unisex bathrooms to a 71 year old relative? Not fun.

Who Put the Slum in Slumlord?

Part of the California move included the rental of my house in Nashville. Now…I have a picture of an ideal renter and it involves two gay boys who love to decorate and clean. However, I ended up with three just-out-of-college single guys. Fabulous.

Now that we are a total of six weeks into it…my upstairs renter has already decided she’s moving out and the next-door neighbor complained about the number of cars. Which means that Slumlord Maeve was at the house in Nashville bright and early on Monday morning to do a walkthrough of the place and check it out. Here are just a couple of observations about my new renters:

• The décor seems to be early dorm-room. Wait a second…they stole that look from ME.
• Ummm, SOMEONE forgot to remove the pot poster from the fridge – a picture of a pot leaf with the inspirational adage “it just makes you answer to ‘hey stupid’ 15 seconds slower”. Excellent.
• They are excited that one of their buddies may move into the apartment upstairs. Oh great – why don’t we just hang the Sigma Tau banner out of the window and get it over with?
• “Stevie said to go ahead and wake him up to do the walkthrough in the basement.” Are you freakin’ kidding me??
• I sure am glad I spent the extra money to get the silent-operation, nine-cycle dishwasher. I bet it works GREAT on the bong.
• They have asked me three times if I can fix the windows so they open. Who wants to get “fresh air” when its twelve degrees outside? Ummm, pot smoking frat boys, that’s who.
• If it wasn’t true before…it sure as hell is now – I am never standing in that shower again.

Momofoku you too

On the LAST night of our trip to NYC with my mom – Rita decided SHE was going to pick the restaurant for dinner (apparently...it doesn’t MATTER that it was New York - pizza on three straight nights was enough). So we end up at a trendy little place in “the Village” called Momofoku. First of all, I am incredibly likely to mispronounce the name of this place and embarrass both my mother and me. Second, an itty-bitty noodle bar where the patrons’ median age is 22? Could you PICK a more incompatible place to bring my 71 year old mother for our last dinner in New York?

Let’s just set the stage:

• The wait staff at this place could NOT have wanted to be there less. I don’t know if it was part of their schtick or what – but they were just good-old-fashioned, New York ruuude. To which I could only advise, “listen you pixie-like little waif, replace these chop sticks with a fork for this woman – or she will drop you like a linebacker sacks a quarterback”
• The menu was about 4 inches long. Honest to god. But then again, how much space do you NEED to list noodles; noodles and pork; and noodles and chicken? Of course, there was ALSO the seafood covered kim chi. Knock yourself out, mom.
• Okay, okay – to be fair – there was ONE steak dish hidden on the fortune-cookie-sized menu. Sirloin tips with cooked spinach with some spice none of us mom and I couldn’t pronounce. In keeping with her “drop-dead” schtick, the waitress – when asked if we could get that steak done medium instead of medium-rare – replied….“no”. Good chatting with you, Soon Yi.
• The wine “list” ALSO fit on the 4 inch menu. Would you like merlot or merlot? (but there was, however, a 3 page sake list – who picked this place again?)
• The table choices were 1) community seating or 2) a stool at the bar overlooking the grill. And when I say “choice”, I really mean “can I show you to your bar stool”. Granted...it was a very trendy, Ikea-ish, little bar stool – but also a hey-mom-don’t-fall-off-the-backless-chair-of-death, little bar stool.
• More than one time, I heard mom say – “we’re paying HOW much to have Ramen noodles at a Waffle House??”
  
  I finally just told mom this was an NYC version of dinner theatre. With expectations appropriately adjusted, we had a lovely time.

Welcome to NYC

Jeez-oh-pete’s, this j-o-b is REALLY cutting into my blogging time.

And to think I had been in the target-rich blogging environment of a trip to NYC with Rita and my mom!!! This is the trip that got off to a blazing start when SOMEONE wasn’t at the airport to meet my mom. Apparently, mother must have read the blog because she seemed a little worried that she would become the human equivalent of my iPod. (It’s only JFK on the day before Thanksgiving, mom – fend for yourself). But here is the problem – why does EVERY train I ever take in NYC end up in Queens??

Our lunchtime waiter (aka travel agent) said – “oh it’s EASY…just take the E train to the Airtrain and then when they say ‘JFK next stop’ – get off the train”. a) tourists should ONLY ride NYC trains for the amusement of the locals b) the E train goes two directions c) will they EVER say “JFK next stop”? and d) my mother is screwed.

After spending 55 minutes riding around the subways of NYC (did I mention there is no cell phone service when you are 100 feet underground?) – I estimated I would arrive to pick my mother up approximately 4 hours after her plane landed (and 3 hours after the will was changed). Best to jump off the train and take a taxi the last 15 minutes of the journey.

HOWEVER, upon arriving above ground – let me just say that I don’t think there has been a taxi in this particular part of Queens in.a.very.long.time. And umm….my little Winter Barbie overcoat and Cole Haan loafers looked pretty out of place in Compton Queens. Meanwhile, just as my you-are-utterly-lost-in-NYC reality sets in – my cell phone beeps to tell me…you have THIRTEEN new messages. My mother hasn’t called me thirteen times in my entire adult life…but suddenly I was on speed dial. And can I just ask – who the f*** gets a flight into JFK on the day before Thanksgiving that arrives 35 minutes EARLY????? My mother, that’s who.

So there I am…flapping around the Jamaica Plains train station in a full blown panic attack, when it suddenly came to me…CALL NICOLA.

Needless to say, Mission Control Nicola got mom to the hotel, me back to the city and Rita to a wine store all from the comfort of her Tennessee living room.