My Thoughts on Pretty White Taco Jesus

5 Things Alex Stupak Learned About Tacos al Pastor in Mexico

Top Ten Fruits I Would Fuck

10. An overly ripe nectarine.

9. A fistful of kumquats.

8. Sour cherries. NOT SWEET.

7. Bitter melon. Ribbed for sadness.

6. Avocados. Whole. Not mashed. Not in guac. Not on some fucking toast. Whole.

5. Durian because I so nasty.

4. Kiwi with the skin. Because my mom hates kiwi and this will make her mad. Fuck off, mom.

3. Pomegranates. This involves a lot of ass play+spanking, seeds popping, and my ass looking wrecked.

2. Acai berries because I hate myself so much it hurts.

1. Tomatoes because go fuck yourself and your gender norms. Also, tomatoes got a fine ass.

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Q

Anonymous asked:

Why is it that all of the skinny bitches make so many cakes, cookies, and pastries. Do they just throw it in the garbage?

A

I don’t know. Maybe. 

Maybe they do throw it all in the garbage. Maybe they feel completely overwhelmed with most of life and the only recognition they get affirming their existence is through their blog posts and Pinterest boards. Life is very lonely. Brutally so. And maybe their blogs offer them the only connection they get with other human beings. Maybe it takes all their energy to put themselves out there for some other person to acknowledge that they, these skinny bitches, exist. And once that’s over, maybe all the energy they had is gone. And the recogition is gone until the next post. And staring at the baked goods makes them realize they truly are alone in life. So maybe they throw it all in the garbage because to stare at all the pies missing one slice from them is too much to absorb mentally and emotionally. Maybe throwing it away is a chance to start again and hopefully not be so desperate the next time but they know they are and so it is more cakes, cookies, and pastries to be made and photographed and written about and into the trash to begin again.

Or maybe they have an eating disorder. Is that still an ok term to use? Maybe they have great metabolisms. Maybe they understand portion control. Maybe they take everything into work and share it with coworkers.

Or maybe they have friends and family who love them and enjoy eating the things they make and all of the skinny bitches are happier than we ever imagined not because they are skinny and not because they are bitches but because they aren’t sitting around worried about what other people do with their goddamn lives and their goddamn cookies.

Fuck this shit.

You are Kissing!
he is pooping!
I am Farting on a girl!
and YOU stink!

Q

Anonymous asked:

You are so hot and snarky. I love you.

A

I don’t intend to be snarky. I know I am sometimes, but I’m not aiming for it. I’m usually going for absurdity. Or silliness. Or vulgarity.

But I am so fucking hot.

This is a #fact.

Q

Anonymous asked:

:Hi! My husband likes shrimp but, says that it doesn't seem worth it because it rarely "tastes like shrimp unless it's shrimp cocktail." I'd LOVE shrimp recipes (some for the grill and some for indoors) that will help him fall back in love with shrimp and other seafoods. THANK YOU!:)

A

Hi.

Thank you for this important question. I appreciate you reaching out to me. I have some thoughts.

Most proteins don’t end up tasting like themselves when served. That’s for several reasons, the least of which is not the fact that most of us can afford to buy only the cheap stuff. Affordability always tastes like nothing or like death. This is why we have sauces. All of French cooking was built on this premise. Chimichurri was invented by Argentinians after a bad shipment of Brazilian beef. All tacos. These are facts.

Unless you’re buying the good shrimp, I don’t think it’s a great idea to want to feature their flavor. I can’t afford good shrimp. My fake daughter, Lemonaise, who died because I became bored with her but then I decided I needed someone to keep me company during the summer and we would take a road trip together but I don’t have time or money for that so she’s sitting in the corner watching season 1 of Daniel Tiger on Netflix over and over and over, has learned how to carefully defrost the bags of frozen shrimp from Trader Joe’s. Those are the best and cheapest I’ve found. Never buy shrimp at the regular grocery store. It is always overpriced and has freezer burn because most people who work in grocery stores are not paid a living wage and what do they care about your frozen shrimp? They don’t. Fuck your shrimp.

Yes, I’ve learned that the shrimp I’ve purchased at some of the giant warehouse stores is probably produced using slave labor. And not like “12 Years a Slave” slave labor where you realize that this is horrible and excruciating to watch but he goes home at the end of two hours and you feel you watched something important and you did but it was a movie and there are people right now in slave labor camps gathered near the water and they don’t play the violin and they won’t go home at the end of twelve years compressed into two hours. They will probably die. They are already dead. And their only dreams all center on not feeling pain today. They’re raising my delicious little affordable shrimp, and they will die for them. For me.

I’m taking a break from buying the frozen shrimp at the warehouse store for another 4-6 weeks while somebody sorts out the whole thing.

Which leads me to your husband. Who apparently wants to eat death shrimp OR he has a lot of money.

Or you have a lot of money.

I think you do. It’s your money. And you let your husband live off of your wealth. Which I get. You love him. You make choices. And life goes on. Not for the shrimp slaves. But your love, the commitment you have to each other, it goes on.

I don’t know your gender. You might be a woman. You might be a man. You might find that traditional gender roles are confining. You are you.

You.

And I am now talking right to You.

You matter.

You are precious.

You are loved.

By your husband.

By me.

By You.

And I love this shrimp and grits recipe. The lemon plays off the sweetness of the shrimp, and the whole thing really sings.

It’s shrimp at its very best.

10 Things Ina Garten Thinks When It Rains in the Hamptons

  1. God, I fucking hate pudding.

  2. I’m going to organize the new Chinese takeout boxes in the basement by size. No, by color. 

  3. By size *and* color.

  4. I hate Charlotte. She can’t tell the difference between really good olive oil and just good olive oil and if she bring this up one more time, I’m going to tell her just how big of a cunt she really is. You wouldn’t know quality if it fucked you in the ass. And get the fuck out of my flowers, Charlotte. I know you steal them when I’m not here. You think I don’t fucking know? I have cameras, you idiot. Cameras.

  5. I have to return Paula Deen’s email. It’s been two days. Tick tock, Ina. Tick fucking tock. God, that online network she’s creating is going to crash and burn. Burn like a motherfucker. I’ll tell her that I will do her premiere episode. Get a little buzz for me. A little for her. Maybe I could do it via video. Record her a welcome back message. As a friend. I could endorse her as a friend and not her food. No, no, no, I’ll endorse her food, but I won’t say anything about her as a person. “I love butter, too, Paula! Love it! We both love really good butter. And I love black people, too.” Something like that. Maybe. 

  6. Jesus, Jeffrey. Stop texting while driving. “Yes, ill peg ur ass 2nite and i made rst chckn.” I know he’s going to hit traffic. So at least we’ll have the chicken. And a salad. A nice salad. He’ll say, “Maybe you could toss my salad.” And I’ll laugh and he’ll touch my knee. And then he’ll fall asleep on the couch while I watch Gillian Anderson in The Fall. Love her. That’s how to treat men. No regret. Just put it out there. Say exactly what you want. “I want you to get off of my side of the couch, Jeffrey. And wash your goddamn feet you smell like death.” That’s what I would say.

  7. The chicken was really good tonight. Moist.

  8. Maybe I could belt the shirts. With a cute chunky belt buckle.

  9. Daddy always taught me not to cry. “It’ll make you look weak, Ina. Laugh instead. Laugh whenever you want to cry. Laugh fiercely.”

  10. *Laughs* *Covers Jeffrey up with a cotton throw.* *Pads off to bed.*

This Is All I See When I Skim Food News Sites

  • A New Take On Comfort Food
  • My Three Burgers (And Some Pickles)
  • These Are The Most Authentic Tacos Ever But Made By A Cute Caucasian Pastry Chef
  • Truffle Oil Is For Midwesterners
  • The Best Ice Cream in Union County, NJ
  • Food Trucks Are Dead Or Are They?
  • That One Restaurant In The West Village Closed
  • White Chef Opens Midtown Restaurant, Is Brave
  • A Thing About Paula Deen
  • Aggressively Positive Article About Andrew Carmellini Who Is Super Cool But This Article Makes It Very Clear That This Website Would Suck Your Dick If You’re Down With That, Chef
  • Freshen Up Your Kitchen With A Can Of Paint And Pretend You’re Not Poor It Looks So Nice Really Cute Seriously
  • Twelve Condensed Soups You Never Knew You Could Drink [Sponsored]
  • Cupcakes Are Back, Bitches
  • A Brand New Take On Comfort Food Revisited
  • Pizza Or Something Jesus Who Cares

I have a fake daughter who was dead, and I’m taking her on vacation.

I have a fake daughter.
Her name is Lemonaise.

She’s the prettiest, smartest
most talented girl I could ever imagine.
Because I did imagine her.

I dress her up.
Make her up.
I can make her whatever I want to be.

Smart.
Sassy.
A hard worker.
She tries.
She gives it her all.
Goes the extra mile.
Above and beyond.

She struggles.
She strives.
She runs into obstacles.
She can’t seem to find her bearings.

She overcomes.

Lemonaise died earlier this year.
Or late last year.
I forget.

She died because I forgot about her.
I was busy.
I had things to do.
Work got in the way.
Life happened.
And I forgot about her.

And she died.

But.
I am bored.
I’m not feeling great about myself.
I’m flailing.
Failing.
I’ve lost my confidence.
My velocity.
Slow.
Slowed.
Slown.

So she is back.
My daughter.
My fake daughter.
She is alive.
And well.

She never knew she died.
This little Laz.
My beloved.
She is my son.
My sun.
My joy.
Hope.
My whatever I am lacking.

Having a daughter
a fake one
is the best thing that ever
happened to her.

Move That Bam!

TNT announced that Emeril and Ty Pennington are co-hosting a show where “chefs” or “cooks” or “breasts and biceps” models compete to make a dish that will end up on the menu at a nondescript strip mall restaurant in the town where your mom lives now since she downsized and moved into that all-inclusive retirement bungalow community where her friends live and they play card games and drive around in golf carts and they probably are getting STDs because they don’t care anymore and you can talk all you want about teens thinking they are indestructible but really the sexually filthy are the olds and your mom. Especially your clap-ridden mom.

So this is a TV show we deserve. Watching people with poor knife skills be mentored by a chef who is better known for the line of pans with his face emblazoned on the side of the box sitting alongside a guy who moves buses and has hair and then you can go to Applebee’s and eat the food of someone who you don’t remember and you lost yourself on the way to the strip mall.

This is why we fight.

“Southern food seems caught in an existential quandary — it can’t let go of its beloved lemon layer cakes and pan gravies, but it can’t live in the past like an old crone yakking on about her girlhood. It at first tried simply to clean or class up dishes never meant to be served on pristine plates. Sometimes it even emasculated them by lightening their lard load, or putting them in Basque drag.”

Old crone yakking. Girlhood. Emasculated. Drag.

Why does this read as “straight white male food writer panic” instead of the struggle for the soul of Southern food?

On Julia

My Mom Called

Today, my mom called.

We haven’t talked in months.

My phone rang this morning at 7:02 a.m.

When I added her to my contacts, I gave her a special name.

Death is calling.

I almost let her go on ringing. Let her end up in my voicemail where I can delete her in one flick of my thumb. Gone, like she never happened.

But for no reason at all, I answered. Because maybe it was someone calling from her phone to tell me she was dead. There are some calls that you don’t want to miss.

I could hear her take a breath. A struggling gulp of air.

I didn’t say anything.

She cleared her throat.

And we both waited for something that wouldn’t come. Blame and hate and a spewing of slights and falling short.

Silence. A breath. And a long exhale through her nose. She was getting over a cold, I could tell.

"I hope you have a good day."

"OK."

A breath.

"Happy birthday, dear."

"OK."

And then I pressed End.