Extreme thrift shop love and a prediction

Dear faithful pilgrims,

As you probably have surmised, your humble hostess has been inundated with work and these pages have been neglected. While I would like very much to be penning a proper essay, I just don't have the time right now. So your getting an acquisition update and a political prediction. So it's a grab bag. So kill me already

Now dig this:

Maybe the fine people at Keim Lumber Company had this 1,000-piece puzzle made for employee appreciation gifts or to celebrate the completion of their sprawling campus. Dunno. Don't care. All I know is that I totally dig this baby, which I purchased or FIFTY CENTS at (of course) Unique Thrift.

Only problem is, it is still sealed in the box. So, do I open it or leave it in it's pristine condition. Talk about your conflict ...

Then we have this:

That beauty--the CorningWare nine-cup stove top percolator circa 1975--brewed the Coffee of America for years. She cost me nine clams at some resale shop I came across in Burton, Ohio where I had a speaking engagement last month. Yes, I know these were recalled at one point and yes, I will be careful, but COME ON. Is this kickin' it old school or what?

Lastly my prediction: the honorable Governor John Kasich of Ohio will be the GOP's 2016 nominee and it will herald him as such right here in Cleveburg in the summer of 2016.

Guess that's all for now, pilgrims. Love,  Erin

*  *  *

Cuppa

Behold my Farberware Superfast Fully Automotic (FSFA) percolator, which was built by cavemen in the paleolithic age.

I don't know exactly when My Gram Soos purchased the FSFA, but it was surely in the 60s or 70s. It's bequest to me was like any other such transfer of goods (Erin? Do you want my Farberware Percolator? I don't use it anymore, but I don't want to throw it away. It's a perfectly good percolator!) I reluctantly accepted and relegated the FSFA to the cabinet above the stove, while my gleaming 12-cup Braun graced the counter top.

The Goat and I were married in 1992. The Braun was one of our wedding gifts. It died after a year or two and, thinking that the failure was some sort of fluke (we're talking a Braun here), we replaced it with the exact same model. After all, the carafe from our first Braun was still perfectly good and wouldn't it be nice to have an extra if the carafe on the new Braun broke?

The second Braun (of course) died after a few years with its carafe completely intact. At that point, I tossed the second crapped out Braun and both unbroken carafes.

Humble Hostess displaying
Poly Perk, circa 2006.

Next up, enter the Cuisanart drip coffee maker with the insulated carafe. We used that for a long time until a friend gave me a French Press as a gift, which I love and use every day. The French Press, however, does not accomodate a large group. So when we hosted a dinner party last fall, I pulled out the Cuisanart and readied it for brewing after dinner.

The miserable thing turned on BY ITSELF in the middle of drinks and nibbles. It sparked and dumped water all over the counter top like some sort of goddamn appliance terrorist attack.

And what was the stand-in for that event? The FSFA of course. The FSFA was the stand-in between the Brauns and the Cuisinart and a couple other models I'm probably forgetting.

Fast forward to this morning. The French press refused to press courtesy of stripped threading on the plunger (which had admittedly been deteriorating for some time). I proceeded with a predictable oath-peppered tirade and then, also predictably, I pulled out the FSFA, put in the water and the coffee, plugged it in and after a few minutes of burping (the FSFA, not me), I poured a cup of regular shitty American coffee exactly the way my Gram Soos did some 40-plus years ago and exactly the way my kid will do 40 years from now.

Hence, one ancient FSFA > two Bruans, one Cuisanart, one French press and at least one or two others I cannot remember--call it at least $400 in coffee makers.

People, behold everything that's wrong with America.

*  *  * 

For the curious, I still have the Poly Perk (pictured). Although I have not used it in some time, it presumably still works and therefore garners a Honorable Mention from Yours Truly. Click here for more information.

* * *

Curly

Maybe I should begin defining the 2013 Me by incorporating curlers. I wonder if you can still get those big plastic numbers in pastel colors. I could crank up my whole miserable head, coat it with an atrocious amount of hairspray, and cover the terrifying behemoth with one of those filmy hairnets. But I wouldn't call it a hairnet, I'd call it a scarf. Imagine me in the discount grocery with my hairnet and hulking winter coat and boots--a domestic Medusa. I'd be at once mythical and real.

How beautiful is that?

*  *  *

An Irish Hungarian Soundtrack

Listen to the song ("Pass the Hatchet" by Roger and the Gypsies) playing in that absolutely beautiful footage.

The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts plays out in any number of venues, including the über-suburban environs of Cleveland's Southside. Such mundane surroundings tend to dull one's edges, particularly when cruising the aisles of the discount grocery. In order to keep myself from slipping into a Stepfordian daze, I imagine this song playing in the background as I peruse the produce bins, condiment aisle or (heaven help us) the damnable closeout department. Invoking the verbal thrusts and groans à la Roger and the Gypsies straightens my spine and pumps up my swagger. Bring it on, mother effers! I think as I drop a 99 ¢ insulated tumbler festooned with daisies that I absolutely do not need into my gleaming cart.

* * *

That song and associated liner note above was the first thing that came to my mind when David Gutowski asked me to compile an Irish Hungarian soundtrack for his popular site "Largehearted Boy." Hop on over there to enjoy the entire line-up. David's got embedded YouTubes where available and a spotify link for the entire list.

For the record, Davy Jones had not yet taken that (ahem) last train to Clarksville when I submitted this on Monday, so don't go thinking I was trying to milk any dead-guy mileage out of the "Pleasant Valley Sunday" entry.

Peeps, your "likes," google+ votes, retweets and comments are sure appreciated over there.

* * *

The real can opener and sloppy erins

*  *  *

Don't get me wrong. I love the name Manwich.

Whoever came up with that name is a bona fide genius. Manwich. Talk about something you can sink your teeth into. And before we get started in earnest, let me come clean right up front and say that I've purchased my share of Manwich. I've browned the ground and poured the sauce, spooned the result onto buns and called it dinner many times.

Frankly, I probably will again. But in this perfect world that is my blog, the creation of a sloppy joe would always include the following scene and would not result in a sloppy joe, but in a sloppy erin:

You dig that? That there is your real can opener and let the world know that when I first met the Goat, it was the only can opener he would use. Yes, I have a manual clamp-and-turn can opener (that I keep in this drawer). No, I don't have an electric can opener.

Enough already. Let's go.

Finely chop one medium regular yellow cheap onion, one large rib of celery and a half a green pepper, (you could use a red pepper, or even a combination of the two).

Get a pound or so of ground beef and throw it in a skillet. I like to get about a pound and a quarter of the regular 80/20 ground beef because it has a better flavor than your very low fat ground beefs (I love that I just typed "beefs").

Now throw all those raw chopped veggies in with the raw beef. Yes, this is counter-intuitive. No, I don't care. Put them in there. I'm serious.

Start browning that unearthly combination up. Get making with the spatula proper, chopping and turning until the beef is cooked through.

Drain time. You want to put a lid over this mother and pour off the fat, that's your gig and I'm not stepping on it. Roll how you want to roll. On account of using a fattier meat, I don't make with your pour-off-the-fat method, but spoon it all into a sieve and push out the excess fat (Al the Retired Army Guy is probably calling the police right now to report me over that one). All this cooked and drained crap goes into a clean two- or three-quart sauce pan.

Now add a couple shakes of pepper, about a teaspoon of salt, a couple shakes of Worcestershire (good christ that's a queer word to type), a tablespoon of red wine vinegar (and you people know by now that if I list a measurement like that, I'm pretty serious about it [read: DO NOT PUT TOO MUCH VINEGAR IN THIS]), about a quarter cup of ketchup, a half tablespoon of sugar and one eight-ounce can of tomato sauce.

If you're like me, you don't have an eight-ounce can of tomato sauce but you do have a miserable little can of tomato paste that will not succumb to your regular clamp-and-turn can opener--a reality that undoubtedly stymies lesser housewives on a daily basis from coast to coast, but (as indicated by today's graphic) not your humble hostess (thank you, Goat).

Yes, the opening of a can of tomato paste is the only time I employ the Goat's old-time can opener. Maybe that says something about me; maybe it doesn't. Maybe you could say the same thing about the fact that I normally do not have a can of tomato sauce in my pantry. Don't complain, because those two twists of fate are what delivered this here recipe unto you. (Imagine me, seeing that can of tomato paste and that old can opener and thinking: I cannot keep this can opener and this recipe for sloppy erins to myself.)

Quit getting side tracked.

Mix your tomato paste with an equal amount of water. That there is your tomato sauce substitute. Add about a cup of it to your sloppy erins.

Stir everything up and taste that mother. Add more salt, sugar, vinegar (careful!), or tomato paste/sauce as needed and then bring that baby to a low simmer. Cover and and let it ride for about a half hour, then behold the finest not-sloppy-joe-sloppy-erin mixture you will ever eat.

Spoon your sloppy erin on buns (scoop out a bit of the bread from the inside of the top half of the bun to take some of the sloppy out of your sloppy erin). Scoop it up with crackers. Have it on regular bread. Put a shake of Frank's Hot Sauce on there or Tabasco if you like.

No, I didn't take any pictures of the sloppy erin. No, you didn't miss anything (they look just like sloppy joes), but in lieu of a sloppy erin pic, here is photo of a woman who just tasted her first sloppy erin.

Happy Friday.

* * *

Who do you like in the seventh?

* * *

You like people who say "great toe" instead of "big toe."

You know why you like Mrs. Robinson? You like Mrs. Robinson because she was the original cougar.

You know why you like Maggie Thatcher? You like Maggie Thatcher because she sent out the fleet.

You know why you like bunny dressage? You like bunny dressage because it's bunny dressage.

Do you like road trips ? Hell yes you like road trips.

You like guys with jumper cables and tow ropes. You like guys who drive "beaters."

You like Anderson Cooper but you don't want David Muir to know you like Anderson Cooper.

You like Charlie Sheen because ... oh yeah, you don't like Charlie Sheen.

You like birds that like goats.

You like chicks who practice Reiki and chicks who read palms. You like Wicca chicks.

You like William Shatner. You like Butterfinger Crisp bars. You don't know if William Shatner likes Butterfinger Crisp bars.

You like your adult content, but you don't want anyone to know you like your adult content.

You like Campbell's soup even though you don't like Campbell's soup.

You like alpacas. You like turtles.

Two ladies? You like two ladies. You like two ladies a lot.

You like clean sheet day but you don't like saying "clean sheet day" because it makes you sound like a reject from The Real Housewives of Dayton, Ohio.

You like guys who make a Bloody Mary with horseradish even though you don't like Bloody Marys.

You like signs.

An Irish American recipe

~~~~

Ingredients:

Boiled potato

Salt shaker

~~~~

1. Stand in front of kitchen sink.
2. Assume the expression of a cow watching a passing train.
3. Grip potato in one hand
4. Grip salt shaker in the other.
5. Sprinkle salt on potato.
6. Eat salted potato.

*  *  *

Perfection, methinks

Take some leftover sauerkraut (as in previously roasted with pork), bagged bread and a healthy squirt of Sriracha sauce. Fold it up and call it lunch.

To use I term I normally detest, that's how I roll.

* * *

An Irish Hungarian and four-potato creamed potatoes

* * *

Dear readership, your humble hostess hereby announces her forthcoming book, The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts, (Red Giant, December 2011). Your humble hostess could think of no better way to celebrate this blessed event than by posting a recipe, so here: enjoy a steaming bowl of creamed potatoes.

* * *

Get four goddamn potatoes.

Regular size, maybe a little bigger than regular. No, I have no idea how big regular is, maybe about the size of your fist. Use red potatoes for chrissake. That's your best potato. Yes, I know the price has gone through the roof. No, I don't want to hear about it.

Peel your potatoes and cube 'em into about 1/2" pieces.

This is where the beauty blooms: For one thousand years, I was making a version of this recipe with about seventeen pounds of potatoes in my huge industrial-size pan. I was grating cheese. I was slicing those spuds with surgical precision. I was layering and measuring. I was dotting with butter and sprinkling with flour.

I'd fool around making all those spuds For. Eh. Ver. in order to have a mountain of leftovers we'd be eating For. Eh. Ver.

It sucked.

You're not doing any of that. You're going to put those potatoes in a casserole, which will probably not be nearly as cool as the enameled cast iron  Descoware "Autumn Leaves" one-and-a-half-quart casserole that belonged to my Gram Soos and that you're beholding in these here pictures.

You know what? You use an old-school Anchor-Hocking covered dish glass casserole that was made in Lancaster, Ohio, and not only I will respect the hell out of that, I'll confess that I've been known to make those god-awful boxed scalloped potatoes in my own one-and-a-half-quart Anchor-Hocking casserole that I've had since time began. Yes, I would make my four-potato creamed potatoes in the Anchor-Hocking. No, I wouldn't make god-awful boxed scalloped potatoes in my Descoware.

Are you people following me?

You can add the following ingredients in any order. No one cares.

Salt,* about two tablespoons Parmesan (dry, straight from the green plastic shaker), about two-and-a-half tablespoons flour, two tablespoons butter, and a few shakes of dry parsley.

Yes, that is Penzey's parsley in a shaker that originally housed shitty discount grocery parsley. This, people, is called re-purposing and it makes me modern. It makes me enlightened. It makes me youthful. Kiss my ass.

*Yes, per the photo I use Lawry's seasoned salt. The sad fact is I use it all the time. Lawry's is my go-to seasoning. I use it in soups and stews. I sprinkle it on a chicken before roasting. I throw a few shakes into my marinades. There. Now you know.

I have no idea how much Lawry's I use in four-potato creamed potatoes. What? Maybe a half teaspoon to start? You want exact science, call Bill Nye.

Stir everything up and add some milk, enough so it starts to pool up. I don't know how much, which is why you get this picture.

Give it a stir and put it into the oven, 350 degrees, uncovered.

Check those spuds every 15 minutes. Give them a stir each time. You might need another shake of salt. Start checking for doneness* at at about the 40 or 45 minute mark.

*Doneness is doneness. It depends on the spud's moisture and starch content. It depends on how old those spuds are and how big your cubes are. All of this is part of the advanced class, but don't worry about it. Just take a cube out of there and test/taste it yourself for chrissake. These can take up to an hour to cook

You might need to add a bit more milk if it gets too thick. GO EASY. You can always add more milk but you can't take it out of there (not that I know from personal experience or anything like that about putting too much milk in and trying to correct the situation by using a shallow spoon to scoop some out from between the spud cubes to no avail and negating the "creamed" assertion all together but serving them anyway).

These glorious creamed potatoes will rock your face off. They are superfine on their own or next to a grilled steak or pork chop or barbecued chicken.

If a serving of spuds survives the meal, you can be sure your Goat will spy them in the fridge the next day and offer to "Eat down the leftovers," like he's doing you some sort of selfless favor when in fact he's thrilling over the prospect of those day-old spuds.

Okay, so maybe for him, you start with five potatoes.

* * *

The Recipe Poem

Or How To Bake A Poem In Eight Easy Steps

1. Select one extra large love with supple skin. Look for a love that is firm, but with flesh that gives slightly beneath your fingertips.

2. Peel love. Pluck out bitter seeds and swallow each whole.

3. Whisk love's soft insides with one epiphany and three shakes of muse. Add modifiers and line breaks sparingly until pulp forms. Season with time and cursor.

4. Make a flower dough by thoroughly needing quince honey into extra fine longing.

5. Roll dough into a circle, approximately sorrow in diameter.

6. Spoon love pulp upon the sorrow. Trifold dough over love, pinching up sides to form a purse the shape of a sow's ear. Leave a hole at the top so the poem can breathe.

7. Bake at 350 teardrops for one falling star.

8. Cool poem.

Serve poem beneath a cloud of Dream Whip.

~~recipe composed expressly for Nin Andrews~~

*  *  *

Lightbulb schmightbulb

Although the following assertion is going to rile certain portions of the readership, I'm putting it out there anyway:

Bellyaching about having to use energy-efficient light bulbs is pure candy-ass.

CODE ORANGE NEWS ALERT: Using your incandescent light bulbs to heat your house is dumb dumb dumb. You go to touch a light bulb that's been on a few minutes? You burn your candy-ass fingertips? You just proved my point.

Yes, I know the curly bulbs aren't the most aesthetically appealing. Yes, I'm pretty sure you can buy good-looking energy efficient bulbs. No, I haven't researched said topic. Yes, we still have some hotbulbs* in our house, including five above the kitchen table on a dimmer and four in my bathroom, also on a dimmer. Yes, my family eats in low light. No, I don't put my makeup on in low light (I'm 46 years old for chrissake). Yes, the heat from the bathroom bulbs makes me crazy in the summer (no AC) and guiltily indulgent in the winter (the thermostat is set to 64 [day] and 60 [night]). Yes, I have to find energy efficient replacements for these fixtures. Yes, I realize this yes/no format is cloying. No, that is not me featured in today's graphic.

Our electric bill averaged $73 over the past 12 months. Kiss my ass.

And it doesn't end there. We** used to replace the bulbs over kitchen sink about every three months. Now it's every three or four years. How beautiful is that you silly candy-ass righties?

That said, even I have my limits when it comes to conservation.

The Goat (from behind the newspaper last night): They've got a light bulb that costs forty bucks and supposed to last 25 years.

Me ( hovering over my jigsaw puzzle): Really? (long pause) Dunno, though, hon.

The Goat: What?

Me: We might not live that long.

The Goat (he's nine years older than me): We're pushing it, huh?

Me: Yup.

##

*Hotbulbs? Dear Lord, please tell me I've just coined a new word.

**The readership will note the Goat's objection to the authoress's pronoun selection in this sentence.

##

My little corner of the world

The Goat circa 1971

Sometimes when I'm ranting and bellyaching about something over which I have absolutely no control (I've had a lot of opportunity lately), the Goat will say (usually from behind the newspaper):

"All I can do is take care of my little corner of the world."

Genius, that.

If we all just took care of our little corner of the world, methinks the whole juggernaut would chug along a lot more smoothly. Hence in the interest of the Goat's subtle directive and because today seems like a good day to think about such things: I offer these suggestions:

-If you only take what you need, you'll always have enough.

-Failing to respect the convictions of others only diminishes the strength of your own.

-People have the right to free speech even when you don't like what they're saying.

-If you don't need it, don't buy it on credit.

-An American should support all his fellow Americans, including the ones with whom they disagree with most vehemently.

-If you really believe in your cross, flag or gun, you don't need to wave it around.

-The good guys win even when they lose.

Now I'm off to make pan zucchini (I should give you the recipe sometime), creamed potatoes and bread (the Goat's grilling the chicken).

To the esteemed readership, I bid a lovely Sunday afternoon.

* * *

Refrigerator round-up

* * *

Family, meet refrigerator.

Refrigerator, meet Family.

Leftover ham: check

Leftover baked beans: check

Leftover potato salad: sorry, I ate it

Eggs: oops, fresh out

Leftover chicken pot pie soup: check

Various dairy products (cream cheese, yogurt, cottage cheese): check

A bunch of other crap (beverages, condiments, whatever): check

Vegetable/fruits: probably

Combine items listed above with other kitchen/pantry ingredients for today's sustenance. Check the freezer before totally freaking out (Mr. Stouffer might be hanging out in there). 

The housewife has left the building.

* * *

Nutmeg cream pops will rock your face off

I am a goddess of unparalleled genius and I command you to cease your meaningless diversions and do this right now.

-Combine a 14-ounce can of condensed sweetened milk, a pint of half-n-half, one tablespoon of vanilla and a quarter teaspoon of finely ground nutmeg.

-Mix the living shit out of it until the living shit is mixed out of it. (I suppose you could whisk it or use a blender, but I use an empty one-liter plastic bottle and shake-shake-shake it [yes, Sherlock you may need to employ a funnel and yes, you will probably need to find a way to prop up the condensed sweetened milk can, the funnel and the bottle like some half-ass housewife Jenga sculpture because it takes for-fucking-ever to ooze out of there and no, I have zero experience with the can and bottle and funnel {that you thought you propped up securely} falling over and getting all the hell over the place while you were changing the laundry.])

-Get out the popsicle molds. (I'm not even saying one word.)

-Fill the molds with the cream mixture and freeze those pops until they're frozen.

-Loosen the pops by quickly running them under warm water.

-Bite into one of those mothers and crumple before my superlative greatness.

These cream pops are good in winter. They are good in summer. They are good after conjugal relations. They are good before conjugal relations. They are good all of the time and making them will be the best thing that happens to you all weekend if not all month.

I swear you people do not deserve me. This post is done.

* * *

Daily vocabulary and other notes

brazoobie |brə'zu'bē|: a party at which all attendees (including the men) wear nothing but brassieres, although a tasteful strand of pearls is acceptable. Alcohol and light hors d'oeuvres are usually served.

-To freshen sponges, run them through the dishwasher along with the soiled plates and flatware.

-I just said "soiled." I just said "flatware."

-I use "shampoo" as a verb. It is this sort of subtlety that sophisticates me.

Not now. I just shampooed my hair!

Okay, baby, but first let me shampoo my hair.

-I also use the verb "launder." Laundering the bedding produces the happy result of Clean Sheet Day, which has its own implications.

You miserable Goat! I just laundered the bedding!

-I am proud of myself for not drawing attention to using the word bedding in the previous entry and I realize that I have diminished said accomplishment by noting my pride in this entry.

-My 27-ounce Klean Kanteen stainless steel classic with the sport cap in "Prevention Purple" squeaks when I drink from it.

-Sometimes I scoop Pierre's Premium Ice Cream (peanut butter cup) directly from the carton (with a spoon) and place a single Dan Dee extra dark/extra salty pretzel ring upon it and eat the two together. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I employ a marital aid.

-My long gray hairs imbue me with a certain regality.

-Use newspaper and a spray bottle of vinegar and water to clean windows. Let me know how it works out. I've never tried it.

*  *  *

Sure, I'll take the $120K

Your humble hostess is full up with housewifely duties, hence an appropriate housewifely repost from 2008 with the original comments intact. Enjoy.

* * *

According to this, stay-at-home moms are worth nearly $120,000 a year.

Really?

Dunno, but here's the real skinny on the stay-at-home thing:

This is the best gig around. Believe me--I know what I'm talking about. The other day, for instance, I screwed the Goat silly (what other job lets you do that on the clock?), then changed the sheets and pranced around the house in my undies while doing the laundry. I was laughing my head off the whole time.

The attire seemed so perfect that I got a cup of coffee and sat down at my computer. The morning light was streaming through the window and I turned around for some reason and saw that, at the right angle, my boob was perfectly outlined in shadow on the floor. Since my camera was on my desk, I took a picture of that.

Then I thought maybe I could come up with lyrics to "Boob Shadow" that could be sung along to the tune of Cat Steven's marshmallowy classic Moonshadow:


That was boring, but got me thinking music so I synced my iPod in preparation for a five mile walk, which I took while listening to music and Dan Savage. I didn't feel like cooking I asked the Goat to take me out to dinner. He did.

That's a typical day. Different days mean different stuff, but lunch is always totally effing great. Sometimes I have leftovers, which is fine, but usually I make myself a sandwich. I don't eff around, either. I'm talking mayo/lettuce/fresh lunch meat and chips on the side. I always cut the sandwich and pull the two halves apart so it looks attractive. I set a dill pickle on the side of the plate. I have a Diet Pepsi or better yet, a club soda with a slice of lime.

This shit totally rocks.

Sometimes I don't feel like doing anything and I just lie in the middle of the floor, blinking at the ceiling. Naps are good too. If it's hot, I nap in the front room on the leather couch, which feels cool. If it's cold, I make a nice pillow/blankie nest on the big couch in the family room. Sometimes I snore when I nap. Sometimes I diddle myself and then fall asleep.

So that's what it's really like. But hey, if someone wants to pay me $120K for this, I am totally down with it.

* * *

Repast

 

Sometimes I surprise myself with my flair for presentation.

Why, exactly, do Ballpark franks plump when you cook 'em?

In the interest of full disclosure, I drizzled this dog with French's Spicy Brown mustard. (The readership will refrain from castigating the authoress for breaking the law and not using Stadium Mustard since the authoress duly recognizes her wrongful ways--call it a form of early parole on account of good behavior.)

The Goat dressed his with (ahem) ketchup.

This lunch was simultaneously crappy and fantastic. This lunch was craptastic.

This post is done.

* * *

Getting religion

Behold one 7.25-quart Le Creuset enamel-clad cast iron French oven.

With tax, this baby cost over $300. I was going to buy it over at Amazon and save a few bills, but when I went to Williams Sonoma to check it out in person first, the sales chick told me that the Le Creuset Williams Sonoma "Signature" line has extra enamel on the inside for extended wear. The chick was fly and I believed her.

When I got this beauty home, I turned it upside down on the floor, took my pants off and sat on it.

The Williams Sonoma chick might have been stringing me along, but there is some secret connection between Le Creuset and your Billy Sonoma stores, because you can't by this next fierce sonuvabitch anywhere but over at ol' Billy's place:

Are you diggin' on that? That right there is a 3.75-quart sauce pan with a 10-inch fry pan that doubles as the fucking lid! How beautiful is that? They call it a Multi-Function and it is worth every nickel of $200. Go to hell.

No, I did not buy the Multi-Function. I figured I'd start out classic and simple with the French oven--move to the sexy stuff later. Plus, shelling out three C-notes for one pot in one day is enough, but don't think I didn't hover over the 4.5-quart saute pan as well. I did. Big time.

Do you people realize that I've been cooking all this slop in shit-ass Revere Ware for 18 years? Jesus christ awmighty. Not that I don't have a damn nice 10-quart Calphalon Stock pot. I do. But that's only for your large duty. For the most part, I've been making with the middle class pots and pans ever since I got the Goat.

That miserable shrew Martha Stewart has a line of enamel coated cast iron as well--total made-in-China crap. No surprise there.

Hey Martha, you got your ears on out there? I didn't buy any of your for-shit cookware you miserable shrew. Ha! Kiss my ass.

I haven't broken the cherry on the Le Creuset. I'm thinking potato soup ... or coq au vin ... or beef bourguignon ...

All of this and I'm pretty good in the sack too.

I am completely fabulous.

*  *  *

Dig you some Jack LaLanne

I cannot afford to die, it will ruin my image.

That's the sort of thing Jack LaLanne says. You ever say anything that cool? Hell no. You're not Jack LaLanne.

Jack LaLanne was the first guy to do exercises on the idiot box for your 1950's housewives. Imagine how those broads swooned over that jumpsuit. Look at the belt on that thing for chrissake!

You have all this crap today, your "Biggest Loser," your Fit TV, your infomercials. What is that crap? It's crap. Jack LaLanne wasn't crap. Jack LaLanne was the genuine article. You can bet Jack LaLanne got his share of trim back in the day. And Jack LaLanne earned every sweet slice of pure-butterscotch-bleeding American ass that was served up to him.

Dig some original Jack LaLanne:



(Your humble hostess does not expect you to watch all eight minutes of the posted vid [although your humble hostess did watch the entire eight minutes and 23 seconds, along with too many other Jack LaLanne YouTube clips to enumerate], but your humble hostess does recommend schlepping through at least the first minute in order to view the opening graphic with the darling little cartoon Jack LaLanne.)

Your 1950's housewife chicks would watch ol' Jack LaLanne. They'd be holding the chair back, doing their leg lifts. Then they'd start thinking about reaching over and unfastening ol' Jack LaLanne's jumpsuit belt with one hand and (ahem) reaching for something else.

Pretty soon, your 1950's housewife chicks were rubbing one out in honor of ol' Jack LaLanne.

(Say "Jack LaLanne" out loud three times, just to see if anything happens. Go on, do it for your humble hostess.)

If you're going to the land of Jack LaLanne, you've got certain obligations, like dropping in on the Power Juicer square, where you'll find ol' Jack hanging out these days.

You go to the organic market? You'll see your stacks of 25-pound bag juice carrots. Jack LaLanne might be 173 years old, but he's down with the contingent that's piling those mothers into their Prius's. (Your humble hostess once had a juicer. The juicer of your humble hostess mystified your humble hostess. Your humble hostess no longer has the juicer, but your humble hostess does not allow her negative juicer experience to deter her from writing an obscure post about Jack LaLanne that is full on nonsensical parentheticals.)

You dig Jack LaLanne because Jack LaLanne is Jack LaLanne. If you had to choose between bedding Jack LaLanne and Hugh Hefner? You'd be down with the Power Juice; and that is what your humble hostess calls justice.

You can pass the carrots anytime now, baby.

Divinity

Featured in today's photo, we have your humble hostess's hairbrushes soaking in a bath of water, 20 Mule Team Borax, and a dash of lemon-fresh Joy. 

Your humble hostess constructed the brilliantly recycled vessel specifically for this purpose.

Your humble hostess believes every aspect of this practice moves her closer to holiness.

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