I know I know there must be a food-blogger authority staking-out behind a cyber-corner, waiting to ticket me just as soon as I violate the meter by hitting the “publish” button (just any second now…). TWO ICE-CREAM POSTS IN A ROLL?! BACK TO BACK!? God I have some thick-skinned nerve occupying a parking spot on this competitive block in Blogger-hood! Uh-hum… the official statement is that my sheer excitement after spotting a “cracker cheesecake sandwich” on Donna Hay via pinterest, has driven me to share it for the public-greater good regardless of my personal content-diversity agenda. And we know that all official statements are largely based on truth and integrity.
Drop down on a point back in time, all the way back in my 500-sqft studio in New York when I was joyfully smooching a pint of Ben’n Jerry’s which I casually grabbed from the downstair 24hr-deli, and tell me that in the not-so-distant future, anytime-access to my beloved collection of ice cream-babies would be a thing of the past… I’d cover their ears (hush hush… bad people… bad people…) then tell you nicely to go kiss your own mad arse. Hey, I was a young, naive and ignorant little shit who thought New York City wasn’t the center of the universe. Can I please get it back if I apologize?
Naaah, don’t have to thank me for this. Glad to do it. Well… don’t hate me for it either. If you are finding this angelically beautiful but appallingly offensive all at the same time, I can’t help you. Just as the curtain of the swimsuit-season is about to go up in all its rudeness and the rim of jello hanging over your jeans is being increasingly disagreeable, I’m putting this on your HD retina-display screen. I’m bad. But again, gelatinous pork belly confit under a jacket of perforated crispy skin and a lace of amber-like caramelized sugar… Pass?… Nah, you’ll have to go to the beach fat.
I’ve got a lotta nerve coming here telling you about a cocktail. Because if you ever had the pleasure of meeting me in real life, the first couple of things you’d pick up before too late is A). you didn’t really find it a pleasure at all and, B). Uh-hum… I don’t drink. Wooh-oh wait, that’s not entirely accurate. More like, I don’t drink ANYMORE. (Gaaasspp~ AA!!) Pfffff, sorry no. I wish the story was that interesting. The thing is, I was no different than any rule-abiding youngsters out there who at the height of their kick-ass erra, drank for absolutely no apparent reason just to wake up with my neck flaccidly draping over the rim of
any my toilet soiled in… well yeah (the number of shower I pulled off safely under this no-state of mind was pretty impressive in retrospect). Then at the first grasp of any level of consciousness to speak of, swore to lay off this demonic fluid for the rest of her life only to have the blur repeat itself the next Friday and, one morning… I actually did. For good.
It’s May. The wild tree-sex month. There are “organic matters” in the air carrying a vicious assault on my eyes, nose and throat, bashing my brain into a piece of stiff, over-chewed gum. Who knew that these stationary stick-figures could get so violent and nasty in bed…? Every year, trying to peddle through this merrymaking orgy-time with whatever strain of functionality left at the rear-end of it, is going to be the excuse I am using to explain the current inspiration-draught pillaging through my kitchen.
We can at least all agree that it sucks to live under someone else’s shadow right? It’s a cruel life to carry if you know that you’ll forever be on the edge of someone else’s spotlight. Does anyone aspire to be Robin who always looks comparatively ridiculous in his spandex and at least one foot shorter than Batman? Whoever marries Prince Harry… well good luck, and frankly it makes you a loser if you are dating Harry Potter’s best friend What’s-his-name. As personal experience goes, it’s quite depressing being my right face as my left-side always gets the photo-ops (shrugging my left shoulder).