In Which We Gel

How do you get gelatin? Originally, it was just the boiled down remains of slaughtering, horns and hooves and fish heads, all the crap nobody wanted to eat.  It was the scrap of scraps.  It rendered out a squishy, fairly clear glop.  Some misguided chef somewhere realized you could suspend more edible bits in it and, voila, in a marketing masterpiece, they called it aspic and somehow it became fancy.  No excessively fancy Victorian or Edwardian dinner was complete without it.  It was not sweet particularly, but was often part of the fish or meat course. Food scientists discovered an easier way to make it, they added sweeteners and fruit flavor and what did they have? They had jello, baby. 

That brings us up to the madness of the post-World War II era.  Homemakers of the time were wild for any product that made the drudgery of domestic life easier.  Canned food, frozen food, and anything labeled "instant" was a big hit.  Jello fit right in plus it had the added panache of aspic's reputation as gourmet grub.  Bridge clubs everywhere were swept up in a frenzy for it.  "The girls" couldn't get enough; a luncheon consisting of coffee, cigarettes, gin, jello, and gossip was guaranteed to get you through another week of your loveless marriage and those fucking kids.  

Hearkening back to its roots as a medium in which you could suspend all manner of random crap, recipes proliferated claiming to be "salads" since that implied health and slenderizing. One of the most popular of those so-called salads was for Ambrosia, which was a mixture of jello, whipped cream, canned fruit cocktail, and the always disgusting dried coconut.  

As a baby gay in the mid-60s, how mrpeenee longed for Ambrosia without coconut.  Dried coconut, in mrpeenee's unshakable opinion, is unfit for human consumption.  I would just as soon chow down on a piece of shag carpeting.  mrpeenee's mother (mapeenee) absolutely refused to consider this very minor modification.  "Coconut is in the recipe," she would state adamantly.  A recipe in her world was something that might as well have been etched in stone.  Looking back I can only sympathize with the poor dear.  She had four kids and a husband whose only contribution to housework was to open yet another bottle of cheap scotch. Her life was not easy breezy.

But that was then, and now it's a new day, a day in which mrpeenee is fully capable of making his own damn jello, anyway that I want to.  The internet was only too happy to provide me with thousands of recipes for ambrosia.  I landed on one called Orange Fluff which expanded its madness to include Cool Whip, miniature marshmallows, and vanilla instant pudding in the mix.  I have now made it twice and it is just as delicious as I dreamed all those many years ago in the suburban swamps which formed me. 

I know this kind of cooking (or "cooking".  The preparation only calls for boiling water and stirring) is often sneered at, but I am here to vouch that it is tasty in the extreme.  It may not be Julia Childs, but neither am I.  What it is is a product of those mid-century women's magazines just as much as I am.  Here's to you ladies. 

Boys for whom I would firm up: 

That's what I need to help me in the kitchen.

Boeuf al a mode

Just a simple boy wondering where the fuck his underwear is.

Wheeee

There are some men for whom clothes are not only overrated, they are almost a crime.

Exhibit A

The strain of trying to think.  Don't bother sweetie, it's not what you were meant for.

In Which We Consider a Culinary Masterpiece

I only discovered, sort of recently, that pimento cheese is considered a Southern delicacy.  Is that true?  Does the rest of the world not know of this delicousness?  If so, you have my sympathy, even my pity.

Pimento cheese is the kind of simple and satisfying food that shows up in school cafeterias and cheap diners and mrpeenee's kitchen.  Here, I'll give you the recipe: take grated cheese, add sweet pickle relish, chopped up pimentos, and mayonnaise. Serve on bread.  Boom.

Just as a side note, I regard grocery stores offering pre-grated cheese as one of the great technological advances of our time, equal to, possibly greater than, the interweb.

When I was a child, in the dark ages of the Kennedy administration, one would occasionally see it  referred to as pimento cheese salad apparently because anything contained in a bowl made up of chopped bits was considered a salad.  Also sometimes anything chopped up and encased in jello made the cut as a salad, but that seems like pushing a very questionable envelope.

It is one of my very most favorite food products.  The American south has a lot of very problematic elements, but if it is, in fact, a southern phenomenon, it is just one more reason I'm glad I was raised there.

Naked guys I'm also glad of

Gavin Reed.  I spent way too long trolling through the Colt website trying to find this his name.

Bruce Jones.  Because I think bandanas are unintentionally hilarious.

Julian Chase. Don't you think he looks a lot like Tom Hardy?

Jake Wilder, from the ancient days of Fox Studio.  Not that Fox Studio, the gay porn one.

Efureimu.  Look, I didn't pick out his stupid name.  Stop giving me a hard time.

The lusciously meaty Tristan MacLeod.

Here we present chaturbate model Courtney981.  His onlyfans page is not worth it.  You're welcome.

Everbody's a Critic

Whilst cooking up a big pot of lentils tonight (because I am apparently a lesbian,) I was overtaken with the urge to burst into a rendition of Boogie Fever (because I am actually a fifty-something gay man.)  Who knows why?  These things are beyond a mere mortal's ken.  More annoying was my cat's annoying reaction.  He turned tail and bolted from the room, before I even got to the first chorus and way before I started shaking my groove thang.  Bitch.  We'll see how tough he is on Friday when I take him down to get his claws clipped.

Also irritating is the reappearance of the dread Blogger's Comments Spam.  I had eliminated the requirement for word verification from my commentors because I like comments and I wanted to make placing them as easy as possible.  But now that They have found me again (Here's the comment from earlier today: We [url=http://www.onlinecraps.gd]free casino bonus[/url] be suffering with a corpulent library of unqualifiedly free casino games for you to challenge opportunely here in your browser. Whether you pine for to practice a table encounter strategy or scarcely sample exposed a occasional late slots before playing for legitimate filthy lucre, we procure you covered. These are the rigid uniform games that you can with at veritable online casinos and you can play them all representing free.   Uh, thanks.) I need to go back in and crank the security level back up to Def Con Orange.

Also, I think I saw Wade Neff, porn mega star and all round hairy guy, at my coffee place this afternoon.  And I downloaded an app to play Yahtzee on my phone.

So, all in all, not a bad day.

We Give Thanks for So Many Things

In case you missed it, Thursday was Thanksgiving.

before

after

Let's just move on, but not before offering up sincere and deep thanks to Diane von Austinburg (who blew in town just for the cooking) and Secret Agent Fred, both of whom were great help.

In more up-to-the-moment news, we are sharing in the general slavering over tonight's trainwreck that is the Liz and Dick movie starring Lindsay Lohan.  A great many reports confirm that it seems destined to challenge Plan 9 from Outer Space's long held title as the worst movie ever made.  The New York Time's review actually said that it wasn't "terrible enough."  That's right, they were complaining it was insufficiently crappy.  Wow.  That's just greedy.  Anyway, come 9:00 PM West Coast time, count on the inhabitants of Chez Peenee to be in our jim jams, thrilling to this epic.

Lifesaving bitches at attention in case the Virginia Woolfe scenes overcome mrpeenee.

A Movable Feast

Don't mind me sweetie, I'm cooking, Thanksgiving dinner to be precise, and you know how slightly psycho I get when in my hash-slinging modus. It's true, the total kitchen bitch. Fortunately I am here all alone so no one has to put up with my shrieking and cursing. Even Saki has been exiled to one of the bedrooms upstairs, aka Cat Jail.

We're leaving tomorrow to drive down the coast to Big Sur for a few days and since I suspect the kitchen in the cabin we've rented is rudimentary, I thought it would be smart to get the cooking out of the way. Plus I don't want to share my madness with the friends I'm going with.

So now I've roasted a boneless turkey breast with a French garnish under the skin

My recreation of my grandmother's cornbread dressing, because I am as big a Southern girl at heart as Paula Dean.

Speaking of the Queen of Grease Refinement, I also have gravy. But of course. Smooth as silk, but much, much tastier.

The beautiful, beautiful Cranberry Apricot Ginger Chutney.

And Vicodin.

The vicodin is especially handy since I clumsily tangled with the handle of the roasting pan while getting it out of the oven. Ouchywow.

We had a planning meeting last weekend for this trip and I have to say, I'm looking forward to it immensely. Food, hanging around, card games, maybe hiking, if I'm not too lazy, woo to the hoo, in short, even if we aren't able to share it with Diane von Austinburg. Rats.

Although we will technicaly be at the beach, I do not expect any of this.

Tragic, I know.

China Doll

I forgot to mention in my News You Can Use from Vermont bit below that Super Agent Fred (proving his absolute superness) boosted a small set of china from the house for me. Let me hasten to add there was more than plenty of other dishware to cover the loss, and perhaps "boosted" is too harsh a term to use. Let us think of it as "taking an advance on his inheritance."

They're the sixties space age pattern on the right, just the thing to set the heart of an aged queen survivor of that era, such as I, to racing.

Of course, I needed absolutely no more china, groovy or otherwise. R Man loved to give me dishes for Christmas and birthday presents and I have been working the thrift store kitchen section for thrity years, so we gots plenty. Not that that has ever stopped me.

The good stuff. Lots o' good stuff.

The everyday stuff. Cause every day, my posse drops by and I need ten soup plates. Oh wait, that's right. I never need ten soup plates. And I have no posse.

The overflow. Some of it, anyway.

In fact, I was back at it this very afternoon. Diane von Austinburg, Fred, some other friends and I are planning a big Thanksgiving in cabins down in Big Sur, the beautiful, rugged coast south of here. Diane and I have suffered through cooking in rental kitchens often enough we agreed it would be a good idea to stock up on various pots and pans, dishes and silverware in advance to take down with us and then just abandon there for future renters to bless us for.

We've all been there, I assume. Kitchens stocked with the filters from espresso machines, the implements to cut hardboiled eggs into perfect little slices, asparagus steamers, but no timers, or pots with lids, or decent knives. So I trotted off to the big thrift store on Valencia Street to begin the hunt.

And what a thrill it was to have a focus and not feel vaguely ridiculous about bringing home yet another bowl. My three rules are 1) nothing can cost more than $1.50, 2) it has to be a Useful Size (whatever that is,) and 3) it can't be chipped. That's the real sticking point. Even if something started out in pristine condition a very short time out in the war zone that is a thrift store rack leave all these poor dishes looking like they have lost a rough fight.

For years, I have resisted the siren lure of plain white china with gold rims knowing that the gilt never lasts long in dishwasher combat. This then is my big chance, cause what do I care if the gold wears off? All it has to do is last through a couple of dinners and then it's "So long sucker."

Of course in the middle of my "Just buying for a one way trip to Big Sur" I ran across a most charming little Staffordshire bowl and a Wedgewood salad plate, $1.50 each. What was I going to do, pass them up? I don't think so. Turns out I am, after all, a big ole china queen.

I also snagged a small-ish box for the chargers and cables and other electronica ephemera that are running over the basket they currently reside in, but Saki has laid claim to it.

Cats: utilizing their inherent cuteness in service to some diabolical plot they are then too lazy to execute.

mrpeenee Sweepstakes

Diane von Austinburg, god love her, blew back into town last week to support us through the trials of Thanksgiving. Believe me when I tell you we were giving plenty thanks for her, not the least was for her delicious butternut squash bread pudding.

Of course we hit the very best thrift stores.

Alas, we scored ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, except a pair of charming little saucers, one of which I promptly broke.

We did unearth this bizarre oddity.

Diane has urged me to throw it into a competition here. The best guess what it might be wins. The prize: I will personally go back to Thrift Town and if it's still there (chances seem good,) I'll snap it up and send it to the winner.

Hoo Hoo.

Second place will win houseboy Vantius Olivier.

To save time I have already declared myself as second place winner. Thank you.

Adventures in the Kitchen

It's been a whirlwind of cooking around the ol' Chez today. A lovely, rare warm day that we didn't want to waste by being productive, so we just laid around, sluglike. Wandering through the kitchen, though, I noticed some pears our friend John had brought over were at the very peak and demanding to be dealt with. What else can you do with insolent pears except poach them?

Scouring the bar only turned up the dreg ends of a bottle of white wine and one of brandy.

Further, more determined digging turned up an odd bottle of Kirschwasser (cherry brandy) and a tall skinny one of pear liqueur. How do these wind up in one's cupboards? I promise you, I never went out shopping for a bottle of pear liqueur in my life. And yet, this afternoon it certainly turned out to be handy.

I'm pretty sure there are no recipes that include the directions "Root around in your liquor cabinet until you find enough of anything to cover the pears and then go to town." Ha. A little cinnamon, a little nutmeg and voila, deliciousness.

Sloppy, but yummy plates.

We're having friends for lunch on Sunday, which is also supposed to be hot, so I've made vichyssoise, a dish I can cook, but never spell. It's just potatoes and leeks with cream, and I went a tad bit long on the leeks, but it seems to be terribly tasty.

What is it with leeks anyway? I often cook with them, but every time, I act like we have just met. "Perhaps these attractive vegetables will not be filled with grit and dirt and a quick rinse will suffice in cleaning them," I think. Fooled again. So tomorrow we will sit down to a lovely luncheon of potato and leek and cream and dirt soup.

Mmm.

Random houseboy.

In Which mrpeenee Learns Not to Eat a Dead Cow.

This is not me, it's just a picture I found. Bitch.

That pervasive low, moaning sound? That is not Nicole Kidman attempting to "act." That is mrpeenee reacting to his barbecue bacchanal yesterday. Lord honey, I spent all night last night like a beached whale, wondering if pulling my spleen out would be worth it if it just made a little interior room.

It was not my fault. In the first place, that barbecue was good, and I speak as a Texas boy who knows from good seared cow flesh. And good barbecue out here, in the land of precious food stuffs is painfully rare. What could I do? In the second place, when faced with a platter of ribs, I instinctively react the same as I did when I was teenager in the swamps outside of Houston: I tuck in. Voraciously.

Of course, eating as one did when one was a skinny 16 year old turns out to not be all that great an idea (I always got the three meat combo platter with a side chopped beef sandwich. I never understood why anyone didn't, there are three meats there, why deny yourself? And nobody said a sandwich wasn't a side. Duh.)

I was lying in bed, dully resigned to dying of a potato salad and brisket overdose. My only concern was that if my previously expressed wish of being cremated were carried out, the resulting grease fire could have taken out the west side of San Francisco. That's just me, always thinking of others, even as my enormous intake made the bed slats creak underneath me.

Ooh, also, we had homemade (by me) brownies with ice cream and homemade (also by me) hot fudge sauce. So, ok, maybe it was my fault, but maybe it was all worth it.

Win Some, Lose Some

Did I forget to post anything over the last week? O my gosh, how embarrassing. It must be my life as a trannie secret agent pirate is so absorbing I just forgot.

R Man is doing much better with his silly old cancer. He had his last round of chemo yesterday and we should know in about four weeks how effective it all has been. I certainly hope it's been worth it. We had three fights in one day last week about his not eating; I pointed out, vigorously, swallowing Vicodin does not constitute eating. Am I right or am I right? Anyway, he's in better spirits and somewhat more energy than then. He has chemo-induced anemia and with it, no energy and no appetite, but starting on Tuesday, he's felt much better and eating much, much more. He still only weighs about the same as a plump 12 year old girl, but he had seconds on the split pea soup the other night, so yay.

It was rather delicious soup, I must say. I'd made a ham last weekend and saved the rind so I boiled the hell out of the rind in chicken stock to make a base for the soup, fished out the now icky residue and dumped in the split peas (yellow, because they're more dainty.) With chunks of left over ham diced into it, it was some tasty.

About a year ago I went looking for a Night Blooming Cereus. They have the most spectacular scent known to man: heady and sweet without being cloying. One of them blooming in a backyard can perfume a whole neighborhood. Plenty of people raise them outside in pots, bring them in when the flowers get ready to open and have a party for all their friends to smell it. Surely you've been invited over to smell somebody's cereus.

Anyway, the one I snagged was sturdy and I was thrilled when it swelled with two big ass blooms that opened this week. They're stunning, but a) they're pink, which I had never heard of in a cereus and b) they have NO SCENT. Motherfuckers. I'm trying to hide my disappointment from the blossoms, cause I don't want them to feel bad, but damn.

Flowers and macancheese

R Man's sister (the good one) came out to visit this last week and was wonderful. She helped out, took him to the doctor, made soup; in short, a real jewel.

Part of the visit was a lunch party with some old friends while she was here. I picked a bunch of flowers from the yard, which was gratifying.

I made a ham and the most fabulous macaroni and cheese. I would have saved you some, but I ate it all. Yummy

Enlightened Cherries with Chops

So R Man and Urban Street Pirate are in there watching a video lecture by Eckhart Tolle on spiritual enlightenment, R Man because he is seeking enlightenment and the Pirate because he is the sweetest soul on earth. I was invited to participate and when I saw topics included "Moving Beyond Thought" and "Accessing the Power of Now," I asked that they let me know when he got to the part about "Git Down You Funky Motherfuckers." I was then invited to leave. It happens.

It happens a lot. R Man wants to understand the nature of his being, I want to watch porn, the cat wants to play with string; there are many paths to nirvana.

Speaking of which, for dinner I'm making thick-cut pork chops braised in merlot with fresh cherries. Pitting cherries always leaves behind a scene the looks like something out of Dexter, but it's worth it.

In general, I'm leery of kitchen implements which only serve one purpose, but I'm willing to make an exception for cherry pitters because wielding them is so darn amusing.

The other houseboys told Eban Horalius the pitter was sex toy and made him cry. Honestly, those boys.

From mrpeenee's Kitchen to Yours

Ever since R man's heart surgery two years ago, we have been very virtuous about avoiding fat in the Chez Peenee Diet. Gone were the days of macaroni and cheese, gravy with everything, and the glories of french fries. We didn't miss them, honest. Roast vegetables became a great favorite. And then, with the cancer diagnosis, suddenly we sort of decided to adopt a more "what the hell" attitude. Case in point might well be our dinner tonight of hot fudge sundaes. Yum.

Here's the sauce recipe: take 7 ounces of fine quality chocolate.

Put it in a baggie and whack it with a hammer until it's well and truly busted up.

Mix with sugar, cream, butter, and some other stuff over moderate heat.

Bon appetit.