Behold a dish of leftover ground beef, one of spaghetti sauce and some leftover mac' and cheese.
If someone were to mix them all together and eat the resulting concoction, that would be the most non-candy ass thing of all time.
* * *
Showing posts with label candy ass. Show all posts
Showing posts with label candy ass. Show all posts
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Not candy-ass
Behold a dish of leftover ground beef, one of spaghetti sauce and some leftover mac' and cheese.
If someone were to mix them all together and eat the resulting concoction, that would be the most non-candy ass thing of all time.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Candy ass vol. three: flavored booze
I don't do your candy-ass flavored vodka, just your regular vodka that
everyone can understand; and I don't drink vodka very often. When I do, I'll have a regular vodka martini with some olives, preferably stuffed with bleu cheese or Gorgonzola. (Admittedly a bleu cheese stuffed olive, or--heaven help us--a cocktail onion, floating in an icy pool of vodka makes me positively giddy.)
After having collected the following pix over a couple of years and watching this terrifying trend, I fear I'm becoming something of a dinosaur.
Absolut Citron was probably the first flavored vodka that hit it big in the United States back in the 1980's. So okay, you want your citrus flavored vodka, have your citrus flavored vodka.
But what the hell do you mix with strawberry flavored vodka?
And is there really a difference between orange-flavored Stoli and clementine-flavored Svedka? Not when you mix it with Diet Cherry Coke, sugartits.
Behold yet another nuance, your orange whipped vodka, which is just one selection in a positively terrifying line up that makes monstrosities such as a chocolate chip pancake martini possible.
Are you kidding me?
Liqueur used to be sophisticated, people.
You chose a Tia Maria, Drambuie or Benedictine, not some goddamn dessert. I mean COME ON. Pineapple upside down cake is not an after-dinner drink. It's something your Aunt Edna brings to the Memorial Day Picnic every year.
Well well well, straight to the whipped creme and bubble gum.
Bubble gum, eh? Really? All you booze hawkers need to take a look behind your backs. That there's Joe Camel grazing in the pasture, you rat bastards.
Do you candy asses want to have a goddamn drink, or a graham cracker?
I swear I should be in charge.
This is some sort of alcohol-infused whipped crap. No comment, just this:
Apparently this darling flavor trend is sneaking into the world of beer. Say Lime-A-Rita out loud. Go ahead, do it.
Is that bullshit or what? Lie. Muh. Ree. Tuh. GAWD.
But oh would you look at that ... talk about your pure Goat love.
Enough is enough. Happy Friday. I'm off to find a bottle of this.
Love, Erin
* * *
After having collected the following pix over a couple of years and watching this terrifying trend, I fear I'm becoming something of a dinosaur.
Absolut Citron was probably the first flavored vodka that hit it big in the United States back in the 1980's. So okay, you want your citrus flavored vodka, have your citrus flavored vodka.
But what the hell do you mix with strawberry flavored vodka?
And is there really a difference between orange-flavored Stoli and clementine-flavored Svedka? Not when you mix it with Diet Cherry Coke, sugartits.
Behold yet another nuance, your orange whipped vodka, which is just one selection in a positively terrifying line up that makes monstrosities such as a chocolate chip pancake martini possible.
Are you kidding me?
Liqueur used to be sophisticated, people.
You chose a Tia Maria, Drambuie or Benedictine, not some goddamn dessert. I mean COME ON. Pineapple upside down cake is not an after-dinner drink. It's something your Aunt Edna brings to the Memorial Day Picnic every year.
Well well well, straight to the whipped creme and bubble gum.
Bubble gum, eh? Really? All you booze hawkers need to take a look behind your backs. That there's Joe Camel grazing in the pasture, you rat bastards.
Do you candy asses want to have a goddamn drink, or a graham cracker?
I swear I should be in charge.
This is some sort of alcohol-infused whipped crap. No comment, just this:
Apparently this darling flavor trend is sneaking into the world of beer. Say Lime-A-Rita out loud. Go ahead, do it.
Is that bullshit or what? Lie. Muh. Ree. Tuh. GAWD.
But oh would you look at that ... talk about your pure Goat love.
Enough is enough. Happy Friday. I'm off to find a bottle of this.
Love, Erin
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Not candy ass
"Whatcha makin' kid?" I ask.
"Chocolate pancakes," she says.
"Good on ya!" I say, then putter around with chores as she measures and sifts, melts and mixes. Cocoa, flour, milk, butter. Everything's humming along until she consults the open cookbook and her brow crinkles.
She's picks up the book and recites, "Beat until the peaks are stiff but not dry then fold into the batter: 2 large egg whites." She looks up at me, perplexed.
I exhale, think of getting out the beater and fooling around showing her how to separate the eggs and do I really want to hassle with this? Why did the kid have to pick such a pain in the ass recipe ...
Then images of prepackaged sauce mixes, boxed dinners and frozen pizzas fill my head and push away the grouch.
"Kid," I say, "that recipe is NOT candy ass. Now get two eggs and a small clean bowl."
* * *
French coffee presses are not candy ass.
Cast iron cookware is totally not candy ass.
Anything that starts with a roux? Not candy ass.
My K4-B KitchenAid mixer, which was manufactured in Troy, Ohio by Hobart in the late 1940s and weighs 23 pounds, is so not candy ass, it redefines not candy ass.
Pasta made from scratch is not candy ass, then it's more not candy ass.
Mortar and pestle: you make an aioli with a mortar and pestle? You just made an emulsion by hand. That is not candy ass.
A Chinois is not candy ass and a mandoline is not candy ass.
Making your own stock from bones, carcasses and shit like bay leaves is not candy ass.
Sriracha sauce is not candy ass.
Souffles are probably not candy ass, but I'm not sure because I never made one.
A jar of rendered bacon fat in the fridge Is. Not. Candy. Ass.
Knowing what is and what is not candy ass in the kitchen is not candy ass.
* * *
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Candy-ass vol. two: Torani sugar free flavored syrups
Artificially flavored sugar free coffee syrup is the zenith of candy-ass. I think we can all agree on that.
If one confined one's consumption of said syrups, however, to marginally acceptable flavors such as chocolate and hazelnut, one might expect a get-out-of-jail free card for one's candy-ass indiscretions. But pumpkin pie? Gingerbread for chrissake?
I don't have one alibi.
If you stop associating with me on account of this, I'll understand. A person can only ask so much from another person.
That said, I am not trying to take you down with me. I shall stand stoically alone before my sins. But--and not that I'm suggesting anything unseemly here--if you are in, say, World Market or some other candy-ass place (not like you would be or anything) and you see a bottle of Torani Sugar Free Gingerbread Syrup and you accidentally buy it, and you go home and accidentally pour some in your coffee and take a sip, you will find it tastes sort of like Christmas in a sparkle spice* way you can't really put your finger on.
In the process of trying to put your finger on that elusive something, you might be reminded of a Dagoba Chai chocolate bar, which has the same subtle spicy thing going on (with itty bitty flecks of crystallized ginger to boot), and might be the most perfect goddamn thing you could slide into the stocking of your Goat or Goatess. (But not that I'm trying to take you down with me by suggesting you buy a chocolate bar that, as of the penning of this post, is indelibly tethered to a candy-ass sugar free coffee syrup or anything like that. And to the person out there who's about to contrast the non-sugar-freeness of a Dagoba Chai bar to the sugar-freeness of the candy-ass syrup, please don't and instead go to hell).
The O'Brien hasn't tried the Torani Sugar Free Pumpkin Pie flavored syrup yet, so don't ask for some cosmic chocolate connection for that. Can't you people do anything for yourselves?
Christ, this is exhausting.
You see that neon yellow pour spout in the chocolate? I put those in my candy-ass Torani Sugar Free Flavoring Syrup bottles and when someone who is not yet down with the entire Erin O'Brien experience comes over for a cuppa, I get totally jacked when they see me upend one of these mothers into my coffee cup at 9:00 in the morning and think for a split second: is she pouring whiskey into that cup?
(tee-hee!)
About the only non-candy ass element to this entire orchestration is the can of Hills Bros. coffee lurking behind all those Torani bottles. Your Hills Bros. is one of the few shitty old-time coffees you can actually understand on account it still comes in an actual can you can use for cleaning paint brushes after the coffee is gone. (Don't try and find a coffee can that requires the employ of a can opener--they all have these space-age tinfoil seals you peel off, which is satisfying in it's own way but no where near as good as piercing through the tin with the can opener like with your authentic old-time coffee cans, and hearing that pffft noise as the fresh coffee smell wafts up.)
People, this is what my life is like all of the time.
*please don't tell anyone I said, "sparkle spice."
If one confined one's consumption of said syrups, however, to marginally acceptable flavors such as chocolate and hazelnut, one might expect a get-out-of-jail free card for one's candy-ass indiscretions. But pumpkin pie? Gingerbread for chrissake?
I don't have one alibi.
If you stop associating with me on account of this, I'll understand. A person can only ask so much from another person.
That said, I am not trying to take you down with me. I shall stand stoically alone before my sins. But--and not that I'm suggesting anything unseemly here--if you are in, say, World Market or some other candy-ass place (not like you would be or anything) and you see a bottle of Torani Sugar Free Gingerbread Syrup and you accidentally buy it, and you go home and accidentally pour some in your coffee and take a sip, you will find it tastes sort of like Christmas in a sparkle spice* way you can't really put your finger on.
The O'Brien hasn't tried the Torani Sugar Free Pumpkin Pie flavored syrup yet, so don't ask for some cosmic chocolate connection for that. Can't you people do anything for yourselves?
Christ, this is exhausting.
You see that neon yellow pour spout in the chocolate? I put those in my candy-ass Torani Sugar Free Flavoring Syrup bottles and when someone who is not yet down with the entire Erin O'Brien experience comes over for a cuppa, I get totally jacked when they see me upend one of these mothers into my coffee cup at 9:00 in the morning and think for a split second: is she pouring whiskey into that cup?
(tee-hee!)
About the only non-candy ass element to this entire orchestration is the can of Hills Bros. coffee lurking behind all those Torani bottles. Your Hills Bros. is one of the few shitty old-time coffees you can actually understand on account it still comes in an actual can you can use for cleaning paint brushes after the coffee is gone. (Don't try and find a coffee can that requires the employ of a can opener--they all have these space-age tinfoil seals you peel off, which is satisfying in it's own way but no where near as good as piercing through the tin with the can opener like with your authentic old-time coffee cans, and hearing that pffft noise as the fresh coffee smell wafts up.)
People, this is what my life is like all of the time.
# # #
*please don't tell anyone I said, "sparkle spice."
# # #
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Candy ass vol. one: automatic transmissions*
Your automatic transmission is candy ass.
How can you stand driving around like that knowing some cheese-head engineer decided what gear you should be in? What do you do if you need extra power on the highway to pass some cheese head in their automatic transmission Ford Focus as they putter along doing 73 in the left lane? What do you do in the snow?
Yes, I know manual transmissions aren't available on most models. No, I don't care.
My first VW Bug was a manual (purchased for $200 from the proceeds from the sale of my Pacer moped, which I purchased with baby sitting money and which was COOL AS ALL HELL and which I NEVER SHOULD HAVE SOLD). That first Bug (pictured circa 1981) ran for two weeks before throwing a rod and dying an indignant death that was not necessarily unwelcome (the heater was stuck on high and blew its blistering acrid air over some animal carcass that was hidden in the works, hence the car was not only sweat-popping hot, it stunk like hell). My second VW Bug was a manual, both Hondas were manual (the CRX and the Prelude--both SI models) and the Mini Cooper is (of course) a manual. (No, my Mini is not a Cooper S, and no, I don't need to hear any shit about that.)
"Three on the tree."
You don't get too many guys saying that anymore. I love that three-on-the-tree shit.
Me to my kid: "Kid, do not date anyone who doesn't know how to drive a stick shift. They're probably a candy ass."
How many people out there know what a goddamn double clutch is? You had to double clutch Dad's Willys. Try that shit while you're smoking and drinking a beer. One time the steering wheel came off in my hands while I was driving 40 MPH down Clifton Boulevard, which some might consider a safety hazard considering there were no doors or roof. Seat belts? Very funny.
"Dad," I said to him when I got home, "the steering wheel on the Jeep is a little loose."
"Yeah," he said indifferently, "I know."
Dad was like that. Dad was not candy ass. Dad was not candy ass even when he was driving the baby blue Pinto ('73?) or the Olds Vista Cruiser ('76?), both of which were candy ass (if Dad were here, he'd have said so himself [sometimes I think I use too many parentheticals]).
Dad was one of your original Beer Guys, the contingent of which is pretty much the antithesis of candy ass.
* I was going to do a simple list of candy ass items, but decided each entry requires its own post, complete with pontification from your humble hostess, so you can look forward to more of these beauties in the future.
How can you stand driving around like that knowing some cheese-head engineer decided what gear you should be in? What do you do if you need extra power on the highway to pass some cheese head in their automatic transmission Ford Focus as they putter along doing 73 in the left lane? What do you do in the snow?
Yes, I know manual transmissions aren't available on most models. No, I don't care.
My first VW Bug was a manual (purchased for $200 from the proceeds from the sale of my Pacer moped, which I purchased with baby sitting money and which was COOL AS ALL HELL and which I NEVER SHOULD HAVE SOLD). That first Bug (pictured circa 1981) ran for two weeks before throwing a rod and dying an indignant death that was not necessarily unwelcome (the heater was stuck on high and blew its blistering acrid air over some animal carcass that was hidden in the works, hence the car was not only sweat-popping hot, it stunk like hell). My second VW Bug was a manual, both Hondas were manual (the CRX and the Prelude--both SI models) and the Mini Cooper is (of course) a manual. (No, my Mini is not a Cooper S, and no, I don't need to hear any shit about that.)
"Three on the tree."
You don't get too many guys saying that anymore. I love that three-on-the-tree shit.
Me to my kid: "Kid, do not date anyone who doesn't know how to drive a stick shift. They're probably a candy ass."
How many people out there know what a goddamn double clutch is? You had to double clutch Dad's Willys. Try that shit while you're smoking and drinking a beer. One time the steering wheel came off in my hands while I was driving 40 MPH down Clifton Boulevard, which some might consider a safety hazard considering there were no doors or roof. Seat belts? Very funny.
"Dad," I said to him when I got home, "the steering wheel on the Jeep is a little loose."
"Yeah," he said indifferently, "I know."
Dad was like that. Dad was not candy ass. Dad was not candy ass even when he was driving the baby blue Pinto ('73?) or the Olds Vista Cruiser ('76?), both of which were candy ass (if Dad were here, he'd have said so himself [sometimes I think I use too many parentheticals]).
Dad was one of your original Beer Guys, the contingent of which is pretty much the antithesis of candy ass.
* * *
* I was going to do a simple list of candy ass items, but decided each entry requires its own post, complete with pontification from your humble hostess, so you can look forward to more of these beauties in the future.
* * *
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