Sorry Wilbur…

So my new best friend (who shall remain nameless) gave me some jamón ibérico de bellota, (the way in which they got it shall also remain a secret). Basically it is a really, REALLY fancy prosciutto which I gobbled up on a borderline moldy mini-bagel last night. It was the only thing in my fridge after a long day of work and school, and even though I really did want to savor the experience and analyze the taste, I just couldn’t. I even gave a tiny piece to my little hot dog, Brutus, but he wasn't all that impressed! I wanted to tell you, dear reader, about this so you can casually bring it up to your friends and sound smart.

Here are a few highlights from an article called “Mere Mortals Confront the Ultimate Ham” in New York Magazine’s Grub Street:

“It's the ultimate prize, the holy grail for pork-lovers: the famed jamón ibérico de bellota, the black-footed, acorn-fed Spanish ham… it's illegal in this country.”

“It was approved for importation to America last year — but it takes three years to cure and age under the conditions dictated for its Stateside distribution. It's the ultimate pork product. And no one in America can get it until 2008. "I have waited all my life for this moment. I will have tears in my eyes," Eric Ripert told the New York Post recently.”

“Not everyone is content to wait. One august food-world figure had someone send him legal Italian prosciutto, into which a friend had shuffled the good stuff. A wine importer once kept slices of the ham, wrapped in Cryovac, rolled up inside a boot within a suitcase during a flight.”

Fresh Meat: Cooking School (or Culinary Arts School if You Want to be Fancy) in a Nutshell

THIS BLOG IS RATED R FOR ADULT LANGUAGE

The uniform is hideous. Black and white hounds tooth MC Hammer pants, an immense chef's jacket, an immense apron, the most horrific black shoes ever made (very orthopedic), dish cloths attached to my waist, oh and a snazzy little bucket cap that makes me look like a penis. The petite Asian man that sold me this terrifying creation assured me that "my husband will be so happy I can coooook!" great because that's exactly why I'm doing it! How did you know??? When I first put the outfit on I cried. When I showed my friends they laughed until they cried. I was not off to a good start.

I had a horrible pit in my stomach all day because I was so nervous - so nervous I couldn't eat! A decision that would lead to very maladroit situation...

I show up, sign in, and hope that we get to have orientation in our street clothes so that my fellow classmates can see that I really am stylish and fabulous and that the uniform does not reflect my fashion sense… But no. After I signed in and was given my books I was told to go change into my uniform and go to the classroom.

So I’m lugging all this shit around and I can't find my locker and have to keep squeezing by all these people with my two huge bags filled with supplies, books, and my hideous uniform and its just really awkward because... guess what... I was in the men’s locker room! It didn't have a door nor was it labeled so how the fuck was I supposed to know! Finally a nice little man asked me if I was having trouble finding my locker and explained to me why that was... He points me in the right direction and apparently my locker is in the women's bathroom. But the door has a code and I can't get in. To make matters worse I had abandoned my bags in the men's locker room because they were too heavy and everything was turning into a big clusterfuck.

I stand there knocking on the bathroom door awkwardly until someone lets me in. The code is 673 and my locker code is 9387 and the room number is 1937373 and my student I.D number is 5427573569 and my class number is 2938842307746 and everyone says this so nonchalantly and I have no fucking clue how to remember it all. At this point I’m really sweaty and uncomfortable and wondering what the hell I was thinking. I change into my hideous uniform and it dawns on me; the uniform is the least of my problems.

I awkwardly wait in the hallway outside of the classroom and try to introduce myself to people but I feel really short in my shoes and generally uncomfortable and heinous and insecure. The older students call us fresh meat (great pun... NOT) and I get more nervous. I make three friends in my class though; two guys both named Mike, one who used to be the food manager of all the Starbucks in New York but just quit to go to school, and the other works in a psychiatric ward in New Jersey. Seriously.

We get settled in the classroom and meet the teacher, Chef James - a very handsome guy from Alabama who was a chef at Daniel before deciding to teach. I feel really short. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and think about how that fucking hat is ruining my life. I cross my legs but the MC Hammer pants go up and I see my thick white socks sticking out of my pleather nurse shoes and feel like a Staten Island commuter (think "Working Girl").

The admissions guy comes in and talks for 2 hours about the hideous uniform, attendance, and other things I don't remember. I zone out. There is no break and I am seriously considering peeing my pants. He says nail polish is not allowed, and stares at me. He says hair must be "COM-PLE-TE-LY" under the hat and stares at me. He says jewelry is not allowed and stares at me. He says “CURSING WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!” and I stare at myself because I know this will be a problem... Oh and talking back is means for suspension - isn't that crazy? I'm going to need a muzzle.

Then Chef James gives his whole shpeal about ‘bama and we go around the table introducing ourselves. This is about when I decide to never complain again (in class that is, you guys will still hear it), because everyone has it harder - much harder - than me. The psych ward guy works 10 hours then commutes to school from Jersey, this other lady has the breakfast shift at a restaurant and works 4am-4pm in Queens then comes to school. Four of the twelve students were work-study students; this means that they had to work at the school for 3 hours for every hour of class they want to take. Four hours of class a day x four days a week x three hours of work = a shit load of working to take the class and I feel guilty. And short.

I prepare a speech in my head about how I love and respect food and want to know everything about it and then when its my turn I flub up and forget what I planned and spew out something about Creole cuisine? To be honest, I really have no idea what I said. Then I say I'm a Production Coordinator over here in food land and I feel so fucking thankful that I got that promotion on Friday because now I have a fancy sounding title. My stomach keeps growling and I look really dumb. And short.

Then we get our crap. Tons and tons and tons of beautiful supplies - bags and boxes and knife rolls of supplies. When Chef James is handing me my thingamajig-who-the-fuck-knows-what-it-is he sees my hands and says, "no nail polish!" yeah, I got that already but I can't talk back, remember? He tells us we have to label every piece of equipment with our name and that nothing stays on them except for nail polish. OK so no nail polish on my nails, but nail polish on my knives is fine. Wait isn't nail polish FLAMMABLE??? They're trying to kill me already and it’s only day one.

I don't really know what happened after that, it’s all a blur. But I know we ended the class with a tour of the other classrooms, you know, rooms 9756074650238 - 0873607865076 remember that because modules 9650765 will be held in room 87368172356... We end up in a class with students that are about to graduate and they show us this incredible array of food - really beautiful stuff. They each present what they made and even though it looks perfect to me, it goes something like this:

Cute little man student that helped me find my locker: "here we have mint parpadelle with a lamb ragu"
Mean man with big hat: "AND WHAT'S WRONG WITH IT????"
Cute little man student that helped me find my locker: "uhhh... but the carrots aren't chopped small enough..."
Mean man with big hat: "ANDDDDDD??????"
Cute little man student that helped me find my locker: "and uhhh..."
Mean man with big hat: "SPEAK UP, YOU'RE SMALL. NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU!!!!"
I feel really, really short.

Then we're all supposed to try what they made and even though I don't want to eat lamb or veal or any baby animals or intestinal weird shit like that, I give myself a big scoop of sweetbreads and the lamb because… well because I’m terrified of the man with the big hat. You're eating BRAINNNNNN and little innocent LAMBBBBBB.

I change and walk home, lugging all my shit in 4 inch heels and the fucking tool box that weighs as much as Star Jones pre-bypass keeps hitting my leg and leaves a tiny scratch on my new boots and I stand on the street cursing to myself. It’s really reassuring that it's only been a day and I have already started to go totally loco.

I stay up for an hour carefully painting my name onto 9746507456027436203 items and then look at my syllabus. Oh great! I have 20, yes 20, chapters to read by tomorrow!

Anyway, it was pretty terrifying but I know it will be a fun experience overall once I get into the grove of things. Plus I get to carry around this huge knife kit which makes me feel very important. I want someone to try to mug me. I don't think so pal! Wait a second, hold my immense bag of spoons while I open up my knife kit and take off the blade guard and then cut you up!!! Julienned of course...

"TOOT TOOT!" -My Horn

Sure, I like my little baby blog, my mom likes it (but I think she's legally required to say she likes everything I do), and my friend Mary from Maryland seems to like it (thanks for the comments Mary!). But apparently, actual real blogging celebs like it too... swoon.

My new BFF the Food Network Addict said :
"Your blog looks fun. I checked out the chipotle fan link, and I'm not convinced. It just makes me want a burrito bol even more! ;-) "

Then, about two seconds later my new buddy the Amateur Gourmet said:
"Your site looks great--I love the design."

It's only a matter of time before we're sharing one Frozen Hot Chocolate with three straws gabbing about how awesome the food bloggespher is...

Thanks guys!

Check Out This Little Diddy

My awesome cousin Evan wrote this song for me as my early Christmas gift, isn't it incredible?! I love the Rach Ray shout out...

Look at Me, I’m Sandra Lee…

I know in the song from “Grease” it’s “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee” but I don’t care – it should have been Sandra Lee because she’s flippin’ awesome. Oh Sandy… I just finished her memoir, Made From Scratch and take my word for it, it is a MUST READ!!!

I laughed, I cried, I felt very confused and uncomfortable; all of my favorite emotions tied up in just 269 pages. Poor Sandy really has been through a lot – her pill-popping mom abandoned her then when she finally came back she beat her, she raised her siblings single-handedly, she lost all her money, her grammy died, she had to make that Kurtain Kraft Krap… then she had to travel the globe, become a “lifestyle expert,” star on a Food Network show, and become a New York Times bestselling author. Let me tell you pal, it was a real rollercoaster.

A few passages in particular I will always hold near and dear to my heart; I particularly loved when Sandypoo tried to offer an explanation for the booze-cruise that is Semi-Homemade; "The cocktail segment was never intended to become a regular part of the show. During my first week of filming, I decided to demonstrate one of my favorite cocktails, Jamaican Rum Punch. I made the drink many times before so I felt comfortable with free-pouring the liquor without measuring the amount I was using… I got caught up in keeping eye contact with the camera and forgot to monitor the amount of run I poured into the pitcher (page 215)."

Sure you did Sandy…

I also felt all toasty inside when Sandy would cite her most beloved passages at the beginning of each chapter. Best of which was her Survivor quotation; “I’m back on my feet, just a man and his will to survive... I’ve got the eye of the tiger (page 217).” If you don’t think that’s funny, check your pulse.

Seriously though, it is a wonderful book and it made me like Sandra even more than before. It made me sympathize with her rough childhood enough that I didn’t feel resentful when she finally found success completely by her own merit and determination, (which I think is the response she was going for).

Sadly, there is neither an explanation as to how the two soufflés on her chest miraculously rose, nor does she offer a reason for why her “parties” are never attended by anyone except maybe her niece and nephew – maybe I’m alone on this, but I find pre-teens and pitchers of booze to be a very maladroit situation. Can’t she at least hire fake friends to come over and see her elaborate tablescapes? I’m sure Michael Chiarello knows where to rent some…

Shut Yo Pi (Phi) Hole!

I love my new fabulous post-college life here in the Big Apple, (even though I have to now wake up early, actually work, not blow through money on drive-through daiquiris, etc), but there is one thing that I really, really miss about Tulane that I never saw coming…

Every Wednesday my sorority, Pi Phi, would order lunch for the entire chapter, and every Sunday we would all have dinner together after our meetings. I got very good at running to the house in between “classes,” (in between waking up at noon and going to the levee for some fun in the sun), for a quick lunch. I became an expert on sneaking in through the back door after the meeting, shoving some grub into Tupperware and surviving off of it for the next week. I never thought that I could pine for anything as much as a bear hug from John Besh or a Chipotle burrito, but those meals at Pi Phizzle come pretty close.

Queue the “food is about connecting with people, not just nourishment” speech now. I’ll spare you all that blah blah blah and just say that the mere anticipation of what would be served at these meals added some category 5 excitment to my day. Luckily for me, my roommate and best friend Ali was the House Manager, (also known as the "House-Wife Executive" who was in charge of getting the food on our plates), and luckily I was able to influence what restaurants she would order from.

Wraps from Roly Poly, ribs from Voo Doo BBQ, pizza from Reginelli's, Sushi from Mikimoto, pasta from Semolina... I miss you all, my darlings...

Long story short, this lame entry is dedicated to all the Pi Phi Angels of the world who paid their dues so that I could gorge bi-weekly and encourage the growth of my freshman/sophomore/junior/senior-15 pounds.

This one’s for you!

*Wanna read a neat blog about life post-college? Check out the Real World Freshman.

A Moment of Silence Please…

My cubicle neighbor Amanda just alerted me to a new website: Chipotle Fan. But do NOT let the name fool you my friend; no fan of Chipotle should ever visit this site!

There is a “Nutrition Info” section in which you can enter what kind of accoutrements you like in your Blessed Burrito and then it calculates how many calories are in it.

This is a sad, sad day my dear readers, a sad, sad day. This Shit-potle site has ruined my afternoon and quite possibly my life. Luckily, after a few tequila shots and Coronas (Corona Light of course) I will forget all about this dang site and can go back to living my sour-cream-covered life.

A Day Like This is RARE (get it?)

This has been such an exciting week for me; I am genuinely surprised that I haven’t peed my pants. First I eat the best meal of my life at Babbo and get a grand tour of the restaurant, then I eat at A Salt and Battery (of “Throwdown with Bobby Flay” fame), then I see Michael Symon the newest Iron Chef, then I talk to Duff Goldman the Ace of Cakes.

I will tell you about all the grub I’ve been shoving down my throat in a moment, but first let me address how awesome it is that I met, (ok I only saw Michael but whatever), both Chef Symon and Duffypoo. Slowly but surely the list of Food Network stars that I have “met” is getting longer than the list of stars I haven’t.

Let’s see… I ran into Ellie Krieger on the street once and chased her down the crosswalk to introduce myself and (unintentionally) really freak her out. Then I saw – and took a picture with – Colombe, the l-o-s-e-r from “The Next Food Network Star,” at Le Pain Quotidien. I accidentally burst into tears at the Fancy Food Show last year during a Dave Lieberman demonstration… sorry but I get emotional with my FN stars. I saw Marc Summers and Robert Irvine together and I directed them to a conference room – I had heart palpitations for weeks! I once saw the “Thirsty Traveler” Kevin Brauch, (aka that weird Canadian guy Alton makes fun of on “Iron Chef”), on my way to get the mail. I met Cat Cora’s sous chef – whatever still counts – at a bar in East Hampton. I saw Ina Garten, (in a luscious brown full-length fur coat) and that handsome devil Jeffery walking down Madison Ave when I was in tenth grade. And last but not least, my darling Alton Brown, who I see every night in my dreams but have seen in reality three times.

Now I can add Iron Chef Symon and my little Sugar Dumplin’ Duffy to the list! I heard Symon laughing – his awesome little cackle – and peeked into the office next door to confirm my suspicions… there was, indeed, an iron chef in the building! He was wearing jeans and a sassy little hoody with a dragon print on the back – and, FYI ladies, he is very handsome! (But married, sorry).

Less than an hour later I was in the kitchen getting a cup o’ joe when I saw Duffy “Shnoockums” Goldman. For once in my star-spotting career I played it cool and introduced myself without making that weird gasping-for-air-grunting sound. I told him that I’m getting one of his awesome cake creations and he got SO excited. Aww he is so cute I just wanted to pinch his little cheeks! He was really cool and asked me if the miraculous creation was for a groom’s cake (which now looking back I have decided to interpret as him trying to find out if I’m married, which I’m NOT, because he is in love with me). He then told me he had two daschunds! And he said it would be funny if he put the Brutus cake in a bun! And I said it would be funny! And then we laughed together and held hands and frolicked through a meadow. (Everything was true except that last part).

Anyway, we’re madly in love. But I simply don’t know how I’m going to tell my husband Alton, my boyfriend Jamie Deen, my lover Dave Liberman, and my soul mate John Besh that I now have a new suitor!

When a Contessa and a Dartmouth Boy Unite; an Ode to Ina and Jeffrey

Oh Ina, you’ve loved Jeffery since you were fifteen,
He is so much more handsome than James, (and Paula), Deen.

You like to make him fresh ice cream with vanilla bean,
You roast him chickens and cook other French cuisine.

Sometimes you two act a little obscene,
I don’t need to know that he is a love machine!

I wish he would dress in Alexander McQueen,
For my entertainment and to change the routine,
But alas, Jeffrey will only wear his blue jean.

Ina you must spend a fortune on dry clean,
Because you only wear that shirt of color marine.

Remember your trip to Paris, it was so serene,
You and Jeffery slept in a tent with a canteen.
Eating hericot verts, also known as green bean,
‘Cause in France you could not find any chow mein.

You love him enough to give him your spleen,
The love bug musta bit you, you need a vaccine!

When out in the Hamptons always wear sunscreen,
And be sure to dress up as a French maid for Halloween.

Once at the White House, Food Network was unforeseen,
But thank goodness you did it, my cooking queen!

I’ll watch you forever, don’t fret, your show will be seen,
Just please don’t ever jump on a trampoline.

Gobble Gobble

Alton, Giada, Ina, and MEEEEEEEE!!!

My name is now mingling with the stars in cyber world! My writing can be found on FoodNetwork.com - check it out!

Bird is the Word.

I Wanna Drink My Hurricanes, Not Be In ‘Em!

With Thanksgiving fast approaching it is time for us all to think about the many things we have to be thankful for; loving family, faithful friends, good health, loyal pets, heaven-sent Jamie Deen, and of course, the food on our plates. Sadly, not everyone can experience the gorge-fest that is Thanksgiving. My sister recently sent me this link and I ask everyone to please, please donate if you can. I wouldn’t solicit money from you, my dear reader, but this is for a really good cause, (OK fine, if I desperately need some change for Chipotle I might ask again, but I’ll try not to…)

Please visit BR Food Bank and donate a Thanksgiving turkey to families displaced by hurricane Katrina, that bitch. It is only $25 to give a family in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, (thousands of Katrina evacuees live there now), a turkey and something to be thankful for.

Please remember all of the victims of Katrina, that bitch, when you are loading up your plates with food and your hearts with thankfulness. Do it for me, do it for John Besh the Next Iron Chef (fingers crossed), hell, do it for Emeril.

Thanks Friends!

RR-iddle Me This:

Who killed JFK, Oprah’s daily weight fluctuation, what happens after death, the great pyramids of Giza, why sheep don’t shrink in the rain if wool sweaters do in the wash, Tori Spelling’s breasts, the Loch Ness Monster… and “30 Minuet Meals” – these are life’s greatest mysteries.

If anyone is capable of explaining the following to me, I, and the rest of man kind, will be forever indebted to you:

1. Why does Rachael Ray insist on only wearing VERY tight long-sleeved shirts, awkwardly tucked into high-waisted jeans?
2. How could her set have possibly gotten even oranger and more hideous in the past few months?
3. Similarly, who was capable of creating such a design? (Ray Charles?)
4. Why does RR’s hair goes from extra dirty blonde to black?
5. Why does RR say “EVOO, extra virgin olive oil” instead of just EVOO or extra virgin olive oil?
6. Why does RR’s faucet has the smallest stream of water known to man kind?
7. How is RR capable of mentioning “Godfellas” and their damn garlic slicing in every episode?
8. Why did RR go from serving dinner on the right to the left side of the table, (what’s next, Rach? Are you gonna put the “G.B” on the BACK counter????)
9. Why does RR constantly giggles to herself?… it makes me feel funny inside
10. Why does RR insist on talking to her honey jar and screaming that she is going to “SQUEEZE MR. HONEY BEAR’S BELLY!!!!” ?
11. How can anyone have so many flipping movie theme nights?
12. The camera angles through the sliding pantry – huhhhhh????
13. Why does RR insist on bringing crappy food to her neighbors to “thank” them for checking her mail?
14. Why does RR call her hubby her “sweetie”? (It weirds me out big time)
15. What would possess someone to say “choup” and “stoop”?

16. Why does she always say that she is notorious for burning the stuff in the broiler, when she never, ever does?
17. Why would anyone want to invite their friends over for macaroni and cheese with cut up hot dogs? (no Rach, you can NOT serve this at a dinner party)
And finally,
18. Why does RR always say “it will make them say, ‘hmmmm what is thatttttt???’” when everyone already knows its NUTMEG ?????

I am offering a particularly large reward to anyone who can explain #13 – maybe her neighbors would like to clarify exactly what part of eating “Chili Dog Nachos Mac & Cheese” it is that they enjoy. Does she pay for your Nexium prescription? Why do you keep offering to check her mail and water her plants if this is your “reward”???? I am SO, SO sorry. I know a great realtor if you want to move…

*Above photo is of Rachypoo and her wax twin - double the fun!

Oh My Gosh, Oh My Gosh, Oh My Gosh!!!!!!

I’m sure by now you’ve heard the news, (and if you haven’t, get your head out of your bum)…

GIADA IS PREGGERS!!!

And guess what else, IT’S A GIRL due in April!!! That means that if I can figure out a way to turn back time and somehow artificially inseminate myself into Giada, (I’ll figure out the logistics of that later), that Giada can be my mom!!! And her Anthropologie-designer-hubby will be my dad!!! And I will have the de Laurentiis metabolism and my mama will make me sp-a-gh-e-tt-iii and pan-chhh-et-ta all day long! And my name will be Lauren de Laurentiis! How cool is that? (I’m assuming Giada will be nice enough to give her baby/me her last name, not her hubbys, because Thompson is not nearly as exciting as de-Lau-rren-tiiiiiiiis!)

The only question left is: exactly how big will her boobs get?

Tonight I am going to invent a way to transport food over the internet and television (I’ll make kazillions), then I will plan a way to make myself Giada’s baby, and thennnnn I will invent a camera lens that will be wide enough to get both of her pregnant boobs into one frame – this, of course, will be my hardest invention of all.

LESS THAN A MONTH UNTIL THANKSGIVING!!!!!

WARNING! Those of you, like me, who await Thanksgiving like an upper east-sider awaits the once-yearly-barneys-mega-sale, beware because this is a heart-breaking true story…
It wasn’t until college that I had the following enlightening realization: Thanksgiving is the best day of the year.

If you ask me, it is the holiest of holidays because it is based purely around my one true love: food. You simply can’t have Thanksgiving without a feast! What a fabulous idea. I’m sure you’re asking yourself, why did this thought come about so late in her life? How could she not have seen the glory that is Bird Day from her first taste of mashed potatoes? How could the alluring smell of gravy not have stirred her soul before?

I’ll tell you why. This, like everything in life, is all my mother’s fault. She would create magnificent meals everyday: BBQ pulled pork on brioche rolls… beef stew made from scratch… homemade ravioli… chocolate chip pancakes shaped like animals… the woman is a true genius. She made us fell like everyday was a holiday. Fast forward to college; ramen noodles, cafeteria mystery meat, buffalo wings from bars without kitchens (where did they come from?). I decided that in order to fully appreciate the glory that is Thanksgiving I needed to go into training. I began a vigorous physical routine that demanded such willpower and strength of character that even Lance Armstrong couldn’t have completed it… I was going to stretch my stomach to its full capacity.

It began slowly, but surely. I started to add snacks in between my meals, then full meals in between my meals, (if brunch exists so does lunner), and then finally I began condensing the multiple meals into three large meals per day. I had been reaching every goal I set for myself so I decided to up the ante. Living in New Orleans at the time, I knew exactly where to go, a restaurant known for its half pound burgers and fully, and I mean fully, loaded baked potatoes: Port of Call.

I ordered a burger with everything and a tater with everything and finished them both with ease. It was two days before I was set to go home for Thanksgiving, so I knew it was crunch time. Everything was going according to plan; all I had to do now was stretch my stomach to its maximum capacity and then fast the day before Thanksgiving to allow for a full tummy tank of Thanksgiving delicacies. I ordered another burger. “That’s right,” I said to the waitress with a prideful smirk on my face, “I’ll take another.” The burger came. I took a bite. Then another. And another. It wasn’t until halfway through that “the incident” occurred.

I was raising the burger to my face with both hands gripping the bun tightly, eager to get every last drop of ketchup into my mouth, when suddenly I froze. It was as if every muscle in my body had cramped up. I tried to get one last bite down but I couldn’t swallow, I couldn’t even move! I began to panic. I had heard about this before; competitive eaters who over-exert themselves and go into what every foodie fears,

a food coma.

Terror ran through my body and chills climbed down my back. Could this really be happening to me? After all my training? All my hard work? I finally understood how Nancy Kerrigan must have felt.

The coma lasted three days, just long enough to ruin the blessed event. I tried not to let it get me down; I loaded up my Thanksgiving plate just like everyone else with a hopeful determination I had never felt before. I raised a forkful of stuffing to my face. My stomach cramped up just from the idea. Come on you can do this. I chewed. I swallowed. I clenched my stomach in agony – I was experiencing a pain I had never felt before. I evicted my young cousin who was sitting next to me, pulled her chair next to mine and lied down. And that, my friend, is where I stayed for the next three hours.

Drop the Zero and Get with the Hero, Baby!

I find diet coke to be soul stirring. There is absolutely nothing like the sound of cans popping in the morning. I imagine that the “phissstttt” of the bubbles is the same sound angles make while singing hymns to the Big Man Himself. Call me a Diet-Coke-Head and I’ll wear the title with pride.

I do not find it odd to order a double bacon burger smothered in cheese with a side of lard and a diet coke to drink. I would never look twice at a grocery cart filled with boxes of diet coke and one lonely bag of frozen chicken poppers and an extra large jar of mayonnaise. I do however find it very odd that anyone would abandon this ol’ faithful friend for “Coke Zero.” This is very, very upsetting to me but like my mother always taught me, the best way to deal with a problem is by being mature and facing it head on, so that is what I will do:

Dear Coke Zero,
Who exactly do you think you are? It is sickening to me that you would walk into my vending machine and try to shove out my beloved DC who has been a member of our community for years. DC has stood by me through thick and thin – literally – and now you want to stroll right into my grocery store and try to take over? Do you think I can be wooed by your promise of providing me with nutrients and vitamins? Well, I will not be swayed. You should be ashamed of yourself. Your name is so fitting, Mr. ZERO, because that is what you are – a BIG, FAT, ZERO. Kindly remove yourself from my presence at once.

Thank you,
Lauren-Torie Niosi

An Apology…

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to the owners, managers, chefs, and wait staff of buffet restaurants. It is wrong to pile one plate so high that the person carrying it can no long be identified. It is wrong to claim to be pregnant with triplets and “eating for four.” It is wrong to fast beforehand and eat seven meals at once. But isn’t that what storing up is all about? It would be criminal to be wasteful with food and take more than one can consume, but I assure you, my eyes are not bigger than my stomach and I will eat every last morsel. Regardless, I am very sorry for the embarrassment and fiscal losses you have faced by letting me patron your fine establishments. It will not happen again.

(Maybe).

*The above photo is of me and my best bud, Erin, and was taken on a little road trip to the glorious island of Hilton Head, SC. Sorry Golden Corral – you should have known better than to let me in!

Chain, Chain, Chain, Chain of Fooooooood:

I believe the major injustice in my life has been growing up in a neighborhood with very few chain restaurants – zero to be exact. Mine eyes had not seen the glory of a drive through window, an onion blossom, or a never ending pasta bowl until I went away to college. Since the big move, I have had the pleasure of testing the creations of every chain restaurant. As long as I could squeeze my fat ass through the doorway, a pleasurable experience was bound to follow.

(Hey, I'm not alone! Actual food experts at Grub Street agree with me that "Chain Restaurants Are Where it's At!")

In the past five years I have gained not only a few extra pounds, but also the knowledge of a true chain restaurant coinsurer. Some favorites include Houston’s, TGI Fridays, Cheesecake Factory, Panera, and the 8th Wonder of the World – CHIPOTLE.

Yes, I once drove and hour and a half to go to TGI Fridays for potato skins. Yes, I originally thought Panera was a mom and pop restaurant with only one location, (my first bread-bowl miracle occurred in Columbus, Ohio and when I met someone who was also from Columbus I asked if they had ever been to “this really cute little sandwich place…”). Yes I started crying on a Tuesday night at Houston’s when the waitress told me chili was only served on Wednesdays. I admit, I once cut a little kid in line to get the last counter seat at Waffle House. And fine, twist my arm, I lied and pretended to be from Alabama while digesting on a rocking chair and talking to an old lady outside of a Cracker Barrel (I wanted to fit in, so sue me). My addiction has lead me to commit many sins but none as bad as what I did yesterday…

Is it so wrong to take a cab three blocks to Chipotle? Is it so horrible to have the cab wait outside while one gets a burrito and then drive the three blocks back? Is it offensive to shove the glorious burrito down my throat while sitting in my underwear on the couch, salsa verde dripping down my forearms? Is it unethical to tell my friends that the black bean stains on my couch are from a horrific making-brownies-for-orphans-and-the-pan-flew-across-my-kitchen-into-the-livingroom accident? I ask you this, my friend, is that a crime?

Shame on them, not me! I was not the one to create the irresistible combination of succulent chicken, moist black beans, spicy salsa, cooling sour cream, ooey-gooey melty cheese, and creamy guacamole all wrapped up in a warm tortia. I was not the one to supply this drug to the masses! I employ you - blame the dealer, not the addict! I simply can not be responsible for my actions when faced with a burrito lovingly made to my specifications by a blessed Chipotle employee, so if you see me coming, look out.

*There are nine, yes NINE Chipotles within a mile of my apartment… DAMN YOU CHIPOTLE!!!!!

And Now It’s Time For Your LAST MEAL!!!!!:

My Bestest Friend Ever Davis says: Im currently thinking of what my last meal would be and I can't decide. I think everything… I would just eat myself to death and my last word would be "haha suckas, looks like you can't kill me now!" We’ll that’s a few words so maybe I would just say "suckas." They would know what I was referring to, and if they didn’t I would kindly ask you to explain the true sentiment I was expressing when I said it.

Don't you just love that?!

What Has the World Come to?

I found this "restaurant" in the Chicago airport and it prompted me to say:
“HUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH????????”

Fine dining meets cafeteria trays? And not in that chic-cafeteria-kind-of-way. I just don't understand...

As if that isn’t bad enough, I then had to look at this horribly unflattering photo online. Talk about a terrifying Halloween...

AHHHHHHHH.

So THAT'S What Friends are For: Even Frozen Feasts are Made with Love

I love frozen food as much as the next gal - if you say you don't then you're lying - but my appreciation for the convenience and fun packaging, (I get such satisfaction from stabbing the plastic wrap to allow the steam to come out, don’t you?), pales in comparison to the adoration my best friend Ali bestows upon Lean Cuisines. For the three years we lived together, every grocery list consisted of the same things: cheese, beer, turkey, and Lean Cuisines. After the first couple of trips we developed a great route to navigate the store – she would go to the deli and get the turkey and cheese while I grabbed the booze, and we would meet in the beloved freezer section to make our choices for the week. Beef stroganoff? Asian chicken? Penne pomodoro? The possibilities were endless! And, after a few of those beers, the Lean Cuisines were just as satisfying as eating a crepe out of Fabio’s hands on the Champs Elysees (actually, that sounds really disgusting but you get my point). I thought the best part about Lean Cuisines was the fact they are relatively low in calories, so they cancel out any of the liquid calories one may gain from the brewskies, but no, they are so much better than that…

When Ali and I first heard about the next theme party – “Anything but Clothes” – we knew immediately what we would wear. While the other girls would be in saran wrap and tin foil, we decided to think outside of the box. Literally. We saved up our Lean Cuisine boxes until we had enough to make an outfit, (which only took about three days), and I went to work. Like a little elf on Christmas Eve, I sat awake in my room crafting the creation. Have you heard of the wearable chocolate shows in New York? Well I was determined to make our ensembles a thousand times more glorious!

Did I succeed? You be the judge! And remember, don’t be a food snob! Even foodies can appreciate over priced and under portioned frozen meals – even if it’s only as a fashion statement.

Side note: after many, many, frozen meal taste tests I can assure you that the pizza, (plan NOT sausage), is by far superior to any other options. The macaroni and cheese can also be perfectly scrumptious, but only when doused with salt and pepper, (and Ali would even add chopped up carrots and celery for a little crunch – quite lovely indeed!)

*The above photo is of Ali in her Lean Cuisine haute couture

Ruh Row… Candy + Chicken + Hot Dog + Calamari = Trouble

Being a city kid who grew up in a town house I never, EVER, got to give out candy to trick or treaters, and when I lived in New Orleans I knew better than to open my door to strangers. Now that I live in a real apartment building with actual children I got so excited to finally give back to society in some small way – by fattening up the youth of America – that I ran to the grocery store and stocked up of treats. Eleven pounds of treats to be exact (so that’s what bathroom scales are for…) Darling reader, imagine my dismay when I discovered that my building does not allow trick or treating!!!!! Is that not the most disheartening thing you have ever heard? Luckily Brutus, my trusty dachshund (a “hot dog”) sidekick, and I had a back-up plan. We packed up our treats and costumes and headed over to my sister’s apartment building, who like the rest of the country and anyone with a soul, allows trick or treating.

My sister was kind enough to roast us a big ol’ chicken for dinner, Ina Garten style, complete with croutons and sautéed baby carrots. Free dinners are always awesome, but the downside of this equation is that she lives in a New York City apartment, (a.k.a very small), so her coffee table doubles as a dining room table. Brutus, dressed as a zebra, (see above), was sitting on the couch when our first trick or treaters arrived. My sister and I jumped up to answer the door and (can you guess where this is going?) when I turned around I saw Mr. Zebra gobbling down the chicken like Takeru Kobayashi at an all you can eat buffet. So immediately I shove my hand down his throat and try to pull out the chicken, but he starts to choke on a bone! As I’m sure you can imagine, it was really a terrifying experience, and not in that spooky Halloween kind of way. I grabbed him and ran over to the emergency vet clinic on 15th, nearly flattening a kid dressed as an octopus on my way out. I think I heard him scream “LOOK AT THE BABY ZEBRA!” but I could have totally imagined that.

Luckily Brutus is going to be totally fine but the moral of the story is: candy can not only lead to childhood obesity, but it can also try to kill your dog. Kids, if there was one thing I could teach you, it would be to not mix candy, chicken, and hot dogs.

(Does anyone else hear the “Debbie Downer” music playing in the background?)

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!

I'M FAMOUS!!!

NY MIEG Blog

Jamie and Bobby XOXOXOXOXOXO

Are you ready brotha’?

Oh I’m ready brotha’!








I just wanted to tell you boys that I love you, despite yo mama's book.

It Ain’t All About the Cookin, That’s For Sure

I read my darling Paula Deen’s book It Ain’t All About the Cookin’ this past summer and all I can say is WOW. The poor lady was agoraphobic and when she was finally forced out of her home to get a job to support those handsome little sons of hers, she was held up at gunpoint. Obviously I already knew this about Paula (doesn’t everybody?) from watching “Chefography,” but it was neat to read it from the professional paid writer, err I mean her perspective. All in all it was a fun read, but sadly Paula did not talk about her sons enough.

She basically paints a picture of them as been moochers who saw her success growing and grabbed on to her apron tails for dear life, (I can’t argue with that). Even though they are huge mama’s boys and will ride her fame wave up and down the Mississippi, I still love them both. I wish she had written about their love lives instead of her own. Yes my friend, that’s right, Paula gives a detailed story about sleeping with her husband – the big, jolly, white-haired, Santa’s doppelganger, boatin’ man.

Much like when JAG was eliminated from “Next Food Network Star,” this was a hard time in m life to get through. I love Paula, but do I really need to know about her sexual escapades? Luckily she did not mention anything about smothering each other in butter, which is quite a relief because after the bathrobe scene (PLEASE don’t make me describe it) in “Paula goes to Paris,” or whatever that special was called, that is pretty much what I pictured them doing…. Gross.

Back to those manly men of hers – It angers me deeply that “Road Tasted” does not feature the boys in their swim trunks. I saw Rachael in a bikini (no comment) on “40 Dollars a Day” and Giada surfing with Laird Hamilton, so why not the Deen boys? They could do a special called “BUTTA ME UP!” where they travel to great beaches around the country and see how long it takes for their skin to turn into pork cracklins’ when they use butter instead of sunscreen.

While I’m on the subject of Paula and her (cringe) sex life, take a look at this clip I found on Food Network Addict. She says she is “AS EXCITED AS A VIRGIN ON HER WEDDIN’ NIGHT… EXPECTIN’ BIG THANGS!” See for yourself.

Thank goodness for therapists.

*The above photo is of my standing outside of Paula's glorious restaurant The Lady and Sons in Savannah, GA. It’s blurry because I was so excited I could not stand still. Tee hee.

Are You Gonna Eat That??

I’m quite sure that if you love food like I do, the above photo makes you want to ask: “are you gonna eat that?” After you realize that technology has not figured out a way to transport food through the internet (NASA should get to work on that), your second question may be, “is that you, my dear L.T, in the picture?” For the record,

THE ABOVE PHOTO IS NOT OF ME!!!!

It is of my dear old dad and was taken in Memphis when we stopped on the drive home from New Orleans to New York for a light snack. We wanted to try a little bit of everything Memphis BBQ had to offer so we ordered the assorted plate, (meant for 8 people). Needless to say we ate every morsel. So yes, I am gonna eat that.

And Now It’s Time For Your LAST MEAL!!!!!:

My Uncle T.C says: Spaghetti and meatballs.
Totally.

Is There Something in My Teeth?

If you have ever had the pleasure of dining with me, I’m sure this question has become very familiar to you. I must say it at least a baker’s dozen (Baker? Get it? I couldn’t resist) times a day and have taken to carrying small mirrors around with me everywhere I go for post-meal-tooth-checks. I have even left one at work so that I don’t have to harass my coworkers into starring at my chompers. I look forward to getting a new glistening knife set so that I can casually lift the knife to my face and take a peek in the reflection. This however could turn out to be problematic; most people become alarmed when you raise butcher knives above your waist. Do you think they will be fooled if I tell them I have a gig as an old time carnival knife thrower? “I’m just practicing!! Go stand up against that wall and put an apple on your head…”

Dubious that this will work I am left with a few options: either stop eating to avoid food-in-teeth-embarrassment (impossible), suck it up and ask whoever I’m with to take a look (if they say yes I’ll be forced into that awkward picking at your teeth situation, and if they say no I look paranoid), or I can make food in teeth the new fashion trend. If rappers can wear diamond grills foodies should be able to have stuff in their teeth – it should be a sign of status! Yes, I did have a spinach salad for lunch today. Jealous? I have some friends in the fashion world and I pledge to you, dear reader, that I will work on getting a ten page spread in Vogue dedicated to the new tooth fashions (I could even get my dentist to pay for the shoot!) and the problem will be solved.

And Now It’s Time For Your LAST MEAL!!!!!:

My cousin Tommy says: It would be dependent upon the season. I asked what would he have in winter and he replied, "I'm not dying in the winter.”
Some help he is!

And Now It’s Time For Your LAST MEAL!!!!!:

Robbie from Kansas says: His mom’s enchiladas.
Mamas boy…

There is a God: I Am Getting a Cake From the Ace Himself

Ok, Ok, there really is no way to tell if Duff Golman himself will be making the cake I ordered, but it is still so exciting that I, yes ME!, will have a creation from Charm City Cakes for my golden birthday! Turning 23 years old on the 23rd of May is a big deal and I simply can not think of a better way to celebrate than by eating my best friend. If that sounds weird to you, allow me to explain. Duff and his team of incredible cake makers are famous for their absurd cake creations. You want an edible replica of the Taj Mahal? No problem! A tea party with Alice, the Mad Hatter, and the rest of the gang? Sure! What about a big rat? Or a bottle of tequila with a drunken, puking worm sleeping on top? Of course! Of course!

Take my word for it, these guys and gals are beyond talented. So when I got through to them I knew I only wanted one thing; a cake version of my dachshund Brutus. I sent in pictures and it will be so incredible to see what they come up with! I even got to talk to Mary Alice on the phone! (If you don’t know what I’m talking about get off my damn blog until you watch the show Ace of Cakes).

Alas my friends, (sighhhh), much like waiting for Babbo Day to finally come, we will have to wait until May 23nd when I make the drive from New York to Baltimore and pick up the glorious creation. I’ll bring it to the party, but no one better try to eat it.

*Charm City Cakes sent MEEEEEEE a letter!!!!!!!!!!! Jealous? Mwah ha ha ha! Mwah ha ha ha! (evil laugh)

Mario Batali, You’re My Hero: I’m Gonna Eat My Way Through BABBO

Oh Mario, how I love thee. I would proudly rub your rotund belly with sunscreen to protect your fair skin while we lay on a yacht in Portofino feeding each other white truffles. I have loved you since “Ciao America” even though it was a horrible show. I dutifully watched you explain that sauce is a condiment, the pasta is the star, on “Molto Mario.” I am so covetous of Gwenyth Paltrow – why would anyone want to go on a food tour of Spain with her? Isn’t she vegan? That’s no fun. Despite my anger over you picking her instead of me, I still beamed with glee when I watched you shake your booty to U2 with Michael Stipe. My admiration for you grew after reading Bill Buford’s Heat. My darling Mario, clearly you can party, really party, and that makes me love you even more!

Reading the book made me so envious of those diners at Babbo, I simply must go. I tried for two days in a row to get a reservation. The earliest one can make a reservation is a month in advance, so I meticulously called the reservation line a month before I hoped to go. I called for four hours before the busy tone finally stopped. Alas, their reservation book was full already. I tried again the next day; four and a half hours later I got through and secured the last space they had left… dinner for two at 11:15pm. “I’LL TAKE IT!!” Unfortunately, just like me, you will have to wait until November 10th to hear about it.

In the mean time, Halloween is fast approaching and what could be better than being the big orange man himself! You only need a few simple things.

The Do It Yourself Mario Batali Costume:
1. orange crocks
2. a long yet balding red wig
3. khaki shorts (no matter what the weather)
4. a pillow stuffed under your shirt
5. a bottle of wine in your hand
6. an apron with some tomato sauce rubbed on it
TA DA!!!! It’s that simple.

*Photo courtesy of FoodNetwork.com

And Now It’s Time For Your LAST MEAL!!!!!:

What would your last meal be? Having to pick only one food would be like “Sophie’s Choice” for me, but I ask everyone else this question so it’s only fair that I answer it myself. If I were being put to death tomorrow for torturing my friends and family with endless dull food stories, and had one final night here on God’s green earth, I would ask for a serious carbo-load with a few old favorites thrown in. The following, in no particular order, is the short version of my answer:

1. Spicy jerk chicken burrito from Juan’s Flying Burrito (New Orleans)
2. Pulled pork and coleslaw sandwich from The Shed (Somewhere on the highway between NOLA and Florida)
3. Spicy tuna roll drenched in soy sauce from Nobu (the one in Milan, of course)
4. Cheese burger and fully loaded baked potato from Port of Call (New Orleans)
5. Curly fries (must be from a drive through)
6. Chicken parmesan from my high school cafeteria, ah, memories... (NYC)
7. A big meatball sub from somewhere with construction workers loitering outside
8. A loaded Italian sub from Oasis Grill (LBI, NJ)
9. Philly cheese steak from Johnnies Roast Pork (Philly)
10. Beef stew with egg noodles from Ottomanelli’s (NYC)
11. My mama’s chicken noodle soup and salami sandwich (I ate this everyday in kindergarten), her spaghetti and meatballs, “favorite noodles,” and her mashed potatoes even though they suck
12. Vietnamese noodle soup from Wagamama (London)
13. Fried green tomatoes from Upperline (New Orleans)
14. Fried chicken from The Lady and Sons (Savannah, GA)
15. White chocolate bread pudding from The Pelican Club (New Orleans)
16. B.L.T from Silver’s (Southampton)
17. Lobster roll from Lunch (Montauk)
18. A prosciutto, lettuce, and tomato sandwich: the P.L.T, from E.A.T (NYC)
19. A shrimp po’boy from Mother’s (New Orleans)
20. Stove Top stuffing

21. Paella by that "Top Chef" cutie Ilan
22. And finally my own eggs, toast, sausage, and hash browns

Clearly part of my plan is to draw out the meal long enough to get a pardon… If you want to read what real-life criminals asked for, check out Dead Man Eating, or to see what the world’s best chefs would have picked, go buy My Last Supper: 50 Great Chefs and Their Final Meals by Melanie Dunia – it’s incredible! Review to follow soon.

*The above photo is of #17, heaven on earth

The Alton Chronicles: AKA How Alton Brown Became My Boyfriend

On August 22, 2007 I went to lunch with my sister Blaise and told her, (and you can ask her if you don’t believe me), that I could die happy if I met Alton Brown. I find him so charismatic, hilarious, and handsome; and I’m not alone. AB has a full website dedicated to him. Little did I know that merely two weeks later we would be face to face, a mere centimeters away.

I had started working at The Network and was working with my friend Nancy on expense reports, (sounds dull, but wait until you hear what happened next). I was looking down diligently taking notes when a man walked into her office, walked right up to her – practically in my lap – and asked her something; I don’t know what it was, the whole experience has become blurred in my head. Looking back I don’t see us in an office but rather floating on a cloud somewhere above the great Mississippi River, starring into each others eyes and discussing the best place to get crawfish. Back on Earth, I recognized the voice immediately and looked up and gasped. One of those must-be-in-a-movie-because-it’s-louder-than-humanly-possible kind of gasps. He looked down into my eyes and said:

Well hello there.

Our first date, as I like to refer to it, was a brief but memorable encounter. The next day I walked into work and to my surprise and glee, my boss Bob informed me that AB was downstairs in Chelsea Market filming right that minute! I ran to the elevator, pounding the button and willing it to move faster. I was about to climb out the top of the elevator car into the shaft and cut the cords if it would pummel me down to the ground faster, but alas the doors opened on there own. I saw him immediately. His shining blonde hair, his adorable little spectacles… how could anyone have missed him? Oddly enough people weren’t stopping to harass him for autographs. What stupid, stupid people, right? I hadn’t prepared a speech and was thrust into the situation so quickly that I simply was not prepared. I took one stumbling step and hid behind a pole to gather my thoughts. Here is your chance, you can do this, you can do this… But I couldn’t do it. I began to panic. Abort, abort! When I turned back around to get one more glimpse I realized something that I’m sure AB and his infinite wisdom had noticed long ago; I was standing behind a pole (honey I’m a foodie, I aint that skinny) and wearing a bright red dress. Inconspicuous? I don’t think so. Our eyes met and I saw a quizzical look on his gorgeous face. I smiled, made some sort of grunting sound, and walked back to the elevator. It was a very romantic way to end our second date.

Dear Darling Reader,

I don’t want there to ever be any secrets between us! That is why I am posting the “Press Release” I sent to my family and friends announcing the birth of this adorable little blog. Weighing in at 4,000 pounds this little bundle of joy aims to bring you a lifetime of happiness! So here it is:

Hey everybody! I have some very exciting news! I am now a blogger! That means I have created my own blog just like Perez Hilton except mine will focus, of course, on FOOD.

I will post the inside scoop on chef gossip, restaurant reviews, pictures of stuff I make, recipes, dinner party ideas, and photos of my own little sausage, Brutus!!!! There will even be a special section dedicated to burritos and the passionate love affair we share.

I will laugh in the face of four star restaurants and scream "DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM" to matre d's all over town until everyone knows StoringUpForWinter (...because it's never too soon to start) and my name is synonymous with gluttony. I will eat my way through New York and share the whole experience with YOU! It is going to be a funny LT look on food and how it is the love of my life, so please check it out and tell your friends.

Please feel free to comment and give me your suggestions! I look forward to hearing what you think.
Keep on eatin',
LT

I Hope You’re Hungry…

because this is going to be the most incredible blog you have ever laid your shining eyes upon. I have so much that I want to get out, so many stories to tell, that it has been oozing from my pores like melted cheese on a double bacon burger. Sorry, too soon for food references? I promise from now on all personifications of food will be positive, no more pores involved. So thank you, dear reader, for stopping by and please feel free to make comments – you love food, you hate food (WEIRDO!) – whatever it is you want to say, go right ahead. Please check in whenever you get the chance, this is going to be fun and I wouldn’t want you to miss out. Eat it up, there’s plenty more to come.