Operation Turkey Destroyer

Welcome back, fellow carb loaders and shopping sadists!  I hope everyone's temporary binge eating/spending holiday was successful and full of gravy.  Mine was successful but not full of gravy.  *grumpy cat face*

Due to some scheduling conflicts the normal family plan wasn't an option.  It was suggested that we all go have Japanese food on Thanksgiving and then anarchy ensued so I offered to host.  

I utilized plants. FROM THE OUTSIDE.

I was the only one starting the anarchy but I think it was warranted considering the situation.  The situation being that my family apparently hates America and delicious food.  But in the spirit of the peaceful agreement during the first Thanksgiving between Charlie Brown's tribe and the Tea Party Republicans, we all found something in common (other than DNA) by letting me host.  

However, I would not be serving traditional Thanksgiving fare.  As long as I didn't eat fried rice from a laminate table next to a hibachi grill on one of my favorite holidays then I guess I would be okay.

Italian also seemed the the easiest option because at least one or all of these people didn't like green things, all manner of vegetables, onions, spicy things, garlic, nuts, herbs or really any other food that I like.  See ya next time, Brussels sprouts.  Approved items are red meat or bacon, cheese (only of the cheddar variety), ranch dressing and pasta.

So I made lasagna.  Meat, cheese, pasta.  No ranch dressing.  You can't get any more crowd-pleasing than that.  I also made an Italian green bean salad AND an actual salad for the two people that wanted it.  Me and me.  It had cranberries in it because FOR THE LOVE OF GAWD, GIVE ME SOMETHING, ANYTHING.

Everything turned out fine and I'll have to keep all the really saucy stuff private of course but the whole dinner can be summed up by the fact that I drank wine during our meal and they drank Mountain Dew.  Ah, family.  

The Disney Forest Noir tablescape was toned down to something a little more tasteful (tasteful if you're the kind of person who likes Mountain Dew that is).  It was really nothing more than a piece of Thomas Paul fabric I found years ago at a junk store for a few bucks used as a tablecloth (selvedge still there - no one noticed) with a cutting board and some shiny things on top.  Total cost: $0.  Cost to my design blogger status: to be determined.

The full spread looked better than this but I totally forgot to take a picture of it before the real meal.  The hot cheese was distracting...  But I did eat some leftovers near the leftover tablescaping so just add in some more dramatic elements to the pictures here to make it more glamorous in your head.

Lacking a  Martha Stewart-style cornucopia of glitter and sequins on the table, we did get to use my mom's gold tone flatware from the '60s which is one of my 'grab in a fire' items.  The other items being my favorite fleece pajama pants and that one picture of me from high school where I looked like Drew Barrymore.  I don't want to let anyone forget that that moment happened.

Canape plates from West Elm (last year's Xmas present from me to me)

Other than flashy utensils, my favorite part of the meal was dessert.  I don't normally bake but I had to do something for the special occasion.  I decided to try a pumpkin tiramisu because it seemed to fit with the theme and by gawd I was going to force some traditional flavors into these people's mouths whether they liked it or not.

It only partially worked because some people didn't know what tiramisu was so they opted out.  Swing and a miss for the Madame.  But *I* thought that shit was fantastic so there was more for me.  I used this recipe but doubled the spices and brushed the lady fingers in a mixture of coffee and maple syrup because that seemed like a good idea.  I couldn't find Amaretti cookies because I live in the middle of fucking nowhere so I crumbled Biscoff cookies on top.  What, WHAT?!  I patted myself on the back for that one.

Other than cook and eat I did nothing over the holiday except watch movies about gay bears on Netflix and stay locked in the house.  Kinda like a normal weekend.  Except I started putting up MY CHRISTMAS TREE!!!!!!!

Thanksgiving you are dead to me now.  

Except if any of y'all have leftover turkey and dressing.  Even some cranberry sauce out of the can, I don't care.  I'll trade you some lasagna for it...

I'd love to hear your favorite Thanksgiving recipes so I can drool over them and dream about next year when I get a new family.  A family that likes food and tells me I look like Drew Barrymore all the time.

Livin' on a prayer. And a swanky bed.

Channing Tatum, y'all.  

That big, beige potato head that probably smells like the inside of a boy's shoe is the sexiest man alive.  Think I'll have to move to Canada with all the anti-healthcare Republicans to avoid the imminent disaster that is our country.  

But hopefully he can follow in the footsteps of other Sexiest Mens Alives like Edward Scissorhands and Gay Wolverine.  And don't forget about 2-time winner Benjamin 'Brad Pitt' Button who has gone on to do great things like grow lots of facial hair. 

In honor of Thanksgiving week let's remember all the good things Brad has done for the community like donating money to the Human Rights Campaign to fight for marriage equality (in Maine, Maryland and Washington and that turned out pretty well).  He also helped rebuild New Orleans with his Make It Right Foundation (don't even get me started again on that again...ugh) in addition to continually blessing us with his handsome visage.

I'm starting to sound insane...

...

But Mr. Jolie Pitt just keeps. on. giving. to the world with his new furniture line.

...

Christ on a cracker, that's ugly.

OH DEAR GAWD IT'S WORSE FROM THE SIDE! (Just like me)

Brad has had a constant design boner after taking a course in college on a whim where it quote Changed His Life end quote.  Since then he's been collecting women, children and super fancy furniture.

A few years ago he was having a reproduction Emile-Jacques Ruhlmann desk installed (yes "installed" not delivered(?) according to AD) when the maker of said reproduction and other exquisite Art Deco furniture pieces, Frank Pollaro, saw Brad's sketchbook and squeed his manties.  He immediately asked Brad if they could collabo like Jay-Z and Kanye on some bitchin' furniture.  Brad scratched his goatee in brief contemplation and then acquiesced.  They high-fived.

At least, that's how I imagine that exchange went down.

I'd be a little upset if some dude read my diary and looked at my private sketches but I guess rich people are different and also my sketches are of me as a woodland nymph having woodland sex with a woodland centaur and THAT SHIT IS TOTALLY PRIVATE, MOM.

So this diary-reading, opportunity-slut (that's a compliment), glorified furniture delivery installer Pollaro dude is just a working boy from New Jersey that decided his life's goal is to recreate Art Deco's finest and snobbiest king of furniture.

*Tommy used to work on the docks...* 

Backstory and picture from Forbes

Aww... he's kind of adorable in an Eddie Bauer/furniture dictator kind of way.  

Ruhlmann, if you don't know - and I didn't - was apparently maniacally elitist and was quoted in a 1920 magazine interview as saying "Only the very rich can pay for what is new and they alone can make it fashionable."  

Hold my glass of boxed wine, y'all.  I'm gonna need to sit down and rethink my life after that bombshell.

Ruhlmann moved to the top spot of my "Dead assholes invited to my next casserole party" when he added "Fashions don't start among the common people.  Along with satisfying a desire for change, fashion's real purpose is to display wealth."  

And somewhere Donald Trump just jizzed dollar bills into his silk pantaloons.

This is the reason I don't spend hours trolling on 1st Dibs.  Naturally, rich people today are covetous of Ruhlmann's work but totally because of his amazing art and stuff and not because they feel the same way about money.

But mad props to Pollaro whose life's goal is to be a master of craftsmanship probably unparalleled in today's world.  But I think you can see how the Pollaro-Pitt relationship blossomed.

*We've got each other and that's a lot...*

Here they are in Pitt's wine cellar in France (my eyeballs involuntarily rolled when I type that) talking about Brad's diary.  After a helluva a lot of wine and numerous 10 hour discussions, y'all about their mutual love for tropical hardwoods that probably involved the word "transcendent" far more than is necessary, they created this...

A bed made of mutual masturbation, exposed nickel trusses, integrated shagreen foot pads (???), nickel side tables covered in silk.  This one bed took over two years to create because of the "difficult physics and engineering issues related to the simplicity of the design," says Pollaro.

Now I know for sure these motherfuckers are high because that's the most complicated bed I've ever seen.  And my mind is now flooded with images of Tyler Durden and a pair of yellow rubber gloves using that bench for leverage. 

My mind is also flooded with this image:

The Homer.

Restraint.  It is not found in a wine cellar in France.

Once these two dudes saw this sketch-turned-real-life-fuckery they congratulated each other with bro hugs and decided to exhibit the bed as well as a create a full line of Brad's drawings.

One of those pieces being this two-person bathtub.

Perfect for Tommy and Gina.

Fill with guacamole or Chanel No. 5 - your choice.  Even after two years I don't think these designs are finished considering the image above is from Architectural Digest but this one from the NYTimes is a different design.  Hhmmm...??  

*Cause it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not...*

Also included in the line is this curvy white chair that I actually kinda dig in a monolithic sort of way.

Until I looked at it from the front and realized it was made of white patent leather and those two inserts sewn into the arms remind me of maxi pads.  No prices were given but Pollaro says some pieces may be significantly upwards of $45,000 but if they went into regular production they'd be much cheaper.

Oh thank gawd.  Because pleather - while easy to Swiffer and great for making my thighs make gross noises when I try to stand up - is really out of my price range.

Other possibly-$45,000 items include a side table that Chiasso probably introduced six years ago.

Or maybe this side table finished in 24-karat gold is more your bag, baby.  I do like shiny.

It's kinda cool except for its 24-KARAT GOLD existence is an assault on my humanity.  I feel like if this table is actually purchased by another human being then we are about 6 months away from the Hunger Games.  I can only shoot a gun, not a bow and arrow, so I'm fucked.

I'm not hating on this table below either even though I have a phobia about glass tops and this whole paperclip thing really isn't my personal taste.  Trying to be generous.  It's Thanksgiving and all.

The NY Times interviewed four designers for their take on Brad's line and they could barely mask their disdain and it is worth a read.  When asked if anyone would have one of the pieces in their home, Kurt Anderson answered "Possibly [this] oval table - in a guest room of a second home, if I owned a second home."   Ooh, burn. 

Kurt - my new best friend - also described Brad's line as " 'Swanky.  Which is the word I've used for many years to describe expensive, curvy, shiny modern things meant to look stylish.' "  

Come sit by me, Kurt.

When responding to all of the designers' comments, Pollaro said after working with Pitt for thousands of hours he's "impressed by his commitment to express his own artistic vision."  Maybe that's code for ole Frankie wanted to jump on the Jolie-Pitt gravy train but instead was trapped in a French basement with a drunk goat herder for two years talking wood veneers and bullshit beds and now he just wants to die alone.  In America. 

Say no more, Frankie.  We've all seen the crazy Brad before.  Just blink twice if you need us to call the police.

Things could have been good.  This tiny maquette of wire makes me exceedingly happy and seems nicer than the oval table above.  Surely it wasn't all design masturbation, was it?

*Take my hand and we'll make it I swear...*

I'd eat some pizza rolls off that.

Brad Pitt seems to have Multiple Designer Personality Disorder.  He also seems to have highlighted the fact that while you and I are worried about whether or not people will notice we replaced half of the cornbread dressing with dryer lint because food prices are getting jacked up, some people are manufacturing gold-plated tables and beds so complex and rare of material that only nine are being made.  Nine.

But don't worry, designers!  The NYT agrees that product designers have a thankless job so you're probably encouraged to see that Brad Pitt "respects" what you do but also "takes pains" to be one of you.  

That's the sweet, sweet smell of validation wafting through the air right now.

So fuck your education, your student loan debt, your possibly unpaid internship, your thankless 60 hour work weeks, your shitty pay, your lack of a social life and the swallowing of your own ego.  None of that is even necessary to be successful.  

In fact, you should feel grateful that someone is finally taking pains to shine a light on all the hard work that you do by spending two years jacking off to the splendor of their own ideas with an unlimited budget, the finest materials on the planet and no regard for potential customers.  

Make sure to include Brad Pitt when you say grace this Thursday.

*You live for the fight when it's all that you've got...*

Your move, Channing Tatum.

It's hard to artfully style boxes of pizza rolls

After three fun-filled Food Pornologist celebrations this weekend I can assure you that the Brussels sprouts did make me cream my sweat pants and my tummy and fridge are delightfully bursting at the seams.  For Marthia.  And America.

I figured this would be a perfect time to talk about this series of photographs about refrigerator portraits by Mark Menjivar called You Are What You Eat.  I'm really subtle with the segues, huh?  Almost as subtle as my lust for Thanksgiving food.

Community volunteer, completely blind and lives alone

Mark spent three years photographing the insides of people's refrigerators which sounds awesome and horrible.  He wanted people to think about "How we care for our bodies. How we care for others.  How we care for the land." 

Deli attendant, disowned by parents for marrying a black man

Each photograph has a little factual tidbit about the owner which I find infinitely fascinating.  But not as fascinating as Dr. Thunder - the best brand name of anything ever invented of all time ever.  It's like Dr. Feelgood but BETTER!

Retired train conductor, started Meals on Wheels in his community

I have spent an unhealthy amount of time going though every photo and recreating the meals and lives of each person.  What's under that paper towel?  What's he gonna do with the lettuce?  

Street advertiser, lives on $432 monthly fixed income

WHAT IS IN THE BLACK BAG?  How can this person afford to eat at all?

College student, drummer for death metal band

Midwife/middle school science teacher, 1st week after deciding to eat all local produce

The caption for this one is fantastic. 

So naturally I decided to participate so everyone can judge me by the contents of my fridge.  

Designer/blogger, Believes glitter holds magical powers

I took this picture three months ago but didn't post it because #1 - it feels really really personal sharing the contents of your fridge.  Easy to extrapolate someone's life based on their Dr. Thunder habit, but harder to share your food decisions with the world.  #2 - Although I'm fascinated by the larger themes by the photographs and being a voyeur is always super fun, does anyone really give a shit about what I have in my fridge?  

So it lingered in my drafts folder like that about that peach I forgot about in the back of the fridge.

I decided it was time to share after my blog daddy Paul Anater of Kitchen and Residential Design sent me a link to a blogger who styles - yes STYLES - her fridge. 

here

She suggests placing a small vase of flowers in the fridge, keeping leftovers in French canning jars and tying up cheese and meats in parchment paper and string to make a prettier fridge.  

I eyerolled so hard my eyes literally popped out of my head and rolled across the floor and it sounds like Charlemagne is nibbling on them but I can't really tell because I HAVE NO EYES.

I applaud her attention to detail about things I could give a shit about but damn, y'all.  Is no place safe from the precious fingers of design bloggers?  If looking at cold flowers every time you open the fridge to grab a beer makes your heart soar with delight then happily I support your compulsion and future appearance on Strange Addiction.  

But in a culture where every one is Photoshopped and every thing is styled like Marthia, gawddess of hearth and French canning jars, is knocking on your door, can't I have one area where it's okay to be apathetic about pretty?  Possibly even *gasp* ugly?

I'm not really waffling on this issue - it's a rhetorical question.  I'm completely apathetic and ugly about many areas of my life including but not limited to the state of my fridge, my sock drawer, my pedicure in winter and my entire guest room.  

Call me a judgmental asshole because I have no problem making negative assumptions about the sanity motivations of someone who wants to style their produce but pretend I don't make negative assumptions about the type of person who leaves pots of food uncovered in a fridge like in the photos above.  That is so gross to me.  Maybe they're grossed out by the current state of my toenail cuticles so I guess we're even.

But I would happily be friends with someone who enjoys Dr. Thunder but if I saw they had gift-wrapped their raw chicken I might have to reevaluate our friendship.  

By reevaluate I mean get the hell out of their house as fast as I can.

But I'd totally steal some fancy butter as I self-righteously run away.

You can judge me for that too.

Honoring America's greatest treasure: National Food Pornologist Day

Thanksgiving is a day to recognize the what really makes our country great - the food pornologists.  Put away your shirts with buttons, adorn yourself in your dressiest sweat pants, let that muffin top loose and prepare your reserve stash of napkins because the gravy is about to runneth over, motherfuckers! 

Onto your pants.

[Insert timely Monica Lewinsky joke]

You holiday food whore, you.

I love Thanksgiving not only because it is the gateway drug to Christmas - my favoritest time of the year - but because it is an exercise in logistics.  Fuck portion control and the 'no thanks, I've had enough" attitude of quitters and fascist assholes, there is a science to properly forcing Gastronomic Olympic-sized amounts of food into your body in a way that will allow you to do it over and over again.  

For a day every November, I'm like a binge eating scientist for the ole US of A.  A Six Sigma black belt of food-to-stomach engineering.  It takes a master's degree in physics to figure out exactly how much food I can shove in my face hole to maximize repeated deliciousity.  Fortunately I have all of those qualifications because this is America gawddamit!   A magic land of opportunity where I can be a whore for casseroles AND a super smart scientist of food things because of feminism and all.  It's called progress.   

And according to manifest destiny I WILL look yonder to the end of that table and annihilate every casserole in my path towards total and utter gluttonous success.  I will shed my horribly restrictive shackles (pants) and crawl along the table righteously and gloriously over the hillbilly mountains of squash casserole, past the ashes of Sherman's destruction and the shallow remnants of gluey mashed potatoes while I hum the Battle Hymn of the Republic and salute thee, oh gravy.  

Past the carcasses of our fallen brethren and a deep-fried fowl and onward through the plundered fields of green bean casserole I will stake my claim just like Tom Cruise in Far and Away - that documentary about American pioneer Scientologists.

On a covered wagon through the western desserts of crumbly cornbread dressing washed down with cranberry sauce, I will dry hump that empty casserole dish hard enough enough to give it smallpox because I'm also a medical doctor for the day and that's exactly how that works according to the time I spent in 8th grade playing Oregon Trail.

Finally, to the far reaches of our golden coast of the dining table where Paula Deen awaits me with ooey gooey pumpkin cakes and a stick of butter she will annoint our naked bodies with while we writhe ceremoniously to the beat of Native American drums and gourds filled with dried beans played by Taylor Swift.  A bald eagle will drop bits of pie into our upturned mouths.  Mouths hungry for tradition and sticky sweet goodness - desires born of a world built upon cans of sweetened condensed milk and cheese logs.  

We will not stop with the ceremonious writhing until all of the offerings have been consumed to honor Marthia, the gawdess of hearth and insulin production and Amazonitus, the gawd of Black Friday deals.  Our frenzied ritual will end in the greatest orgasmisplosion of fireworks that our founding fathers Abraham Lincoln and the baby jeezus have ever seen.  

With Reddi Wip on top.

What I'm saying is, I am rather partial to Thanksgiving fare and can't wait to finally cook some holiday meals in my new kitchen.  

Here is one thing I will cook in it for National Ford Pornologist Day:

I almost creamed my sweat pants when I saw this recipe for cream-braised Brussels sprouts via the always delicious Orangette.

It's better if the cream comes from the teat of Marthia but sometimes it's hard to find.  

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.  Hug a food pornologist this week.  For America.  

But not too tight - they might explode and then that would be a waste of science.

Today, everyone from the Let's Blog Off gang - that rag tag group of bloggers that convene every two weeks - is talking about Thanksgiving.  Go here to be a voyeur on everyone else's thoughts about National Food Pornologist Day.