Everything Tastes Better With Fat On It
In the waxing early hours of a post-migraine afternoon, when the left half of my face tickles with the memory of pain, I scour the web for reasons to not work. Here is my favorite find so far:
Ranch Dressing - Why do Americans love it so much?
Yes, Slate comes through, as always.
I have also discovered in this hazy day that the Bella in Roma (aka Vice) and I are the only two people on Earth who hate Florence. Witness the evolution of said discovery:
Vice says: annexation is bullshit
McBickle says: i know. City of Brooklyn
McBickle says: Kingdom of Naples
Vice says: why couldn't manhattan and brooklyn get some good old Italian-style urban rivalries going
McBickle says: exactly
Vice says: Florence vs. everyone
Vice says: for centuries
McBickle says: florence should lose
McBickle says: i don't like florence
McBickle says: don't make me explain
Vice says: me neither
McBickle says: i don't know why
Vice says: me neither
McBickle says: good. fuck florence
Vice says: we're like, the only two on earth
McBickle says: i know.
McBickle says: it's irritating
posted by TK @ 13:54
2 comments
2 Comments:
ARGh. Brendan I. Koerner of Slate is an ignoramous when it comes to dairy products. Buttermilk isn't milk plus butter (as he seems to think), it's the leftovers from making butter which are then cultured, like yogurt. And ranch needn't be fat laden: I used to make it with low-fat buttermilk, garlic, dill and olive oil.
That aside, we're on the same wavelength, big suprise. Is it terrible for me to plug my own blog here? http://romansummer.blogspot.com/2005/08/cryptofascist-gastronomy.html
um, plugging? whatever. if you can't digest taleggio, you certainly cannot plug your blog on my blog. not to mention that i have ALREADY plugged your blog on my blog more than once, AND you LOVE the small of horse manure. whatever. i cannot have such types plugging anything on my sacred space.
anyway. my car imploded last night and i sat on the side of a highway for an hour in the 90 degree heat, awaiting three boys from work who magically rescued me. for now, my miserable midget car is in an unnamed town somewhere awaiting judgement on its sludge-filled radiator. on top of that, i dreamed about the misery of my car last night, only this time, i encountered a woman mechanic, and we couldn't find where i parked the midget in the station's lot.
i.e. i awake this morning with a tight jaw from teeth-grinding and the reality of my slowly expiring car, and now you tell me that brendan i. koerner is an ignoramus AND you can't digest taleggio??
i cannot handle living.
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