Love and Loathing - Makin' Bacon and Matchboxes

If Brian Boitano can get Food Network to produce a show that apparently features bacon in every episode (and not in a good way, in a super-amusing-Brian Boitano-eye-bugging-spatula-licking-"makin' bacon"squealing kind of way) then the Pastry Chef and I really should have a shot. Problem is we don't have any of those outfits and I suspect the sequins might have really cinched the deal for Bri. It's all part of Food Network's indefatigable effort to uncreate even the most mildly inspiring cooking shows, leaving us with nothing but brain sucking crap like "semi-homemade"or "down home". What ever became of Alton Brown, Alton what happened to you? What would Julia make? Not "bacones" filled with gravy and made to look like meat ice cream cones, I am pretty certain on that one. Although Martha Stewart doesn't really do it for me either - what with all that maniacal scheduling that in reality keeps a battalion of gardeners, prep cooks, dishwashers, maids and seamstresses overworked - at least she has enough faith in the American Home Cook to think we actually want to cook food .

A couple nights ago it was three of us, the Pastry Chef, and the Mom and kids of Freaky Friday fame. Earlier we had made a run to Kamei Hardware and also picked up Dim Sum across from Green Apple Books. It wasn't as good as usual but augmented with a snack tray we made do. At one point in the evening my daughter informs me that they are having a hard time keeping the visiting toddler off my son's model car collection, "Give the baby the matchbooks to play with instead then" I say. Once years ago, in conversation with the Mr., I misspoke and used "self-deficating" instead of "self-depricating" and the look on his face couldn't even hold a candle to how incredulous my 7 year old was at my suggestion. Ever so slowly - and all the while looking back at me like Humbert the Huntsman after having been dispatched by the Evil Queen - she goes to the fireplace and picks up a couple boxes, holds them up, and gives 'em a shake. "Is this what you want Miss Martha?" her silent question begs. You can't get that kind of obedience from a kid you've raised on salad on a stick and hot chicken salad yo.

I had meant the little toy cars in case you are a fahrinah or something.

Both our little doggies are products of special and unique genetic combinations and so garner a certain amount of attention when out and about town. Yesterday, one lovely set of Grandparents clapped and ooed and aahed pointing out to the child in the stroller (who also clapped and cooed) my ball chasers astounding 32 inch vertical. "who's gonna wear out who?" the sweet, handsome old guys asks me, all the while patting my stick chewer on his undersized little head. Nice, nice, sweet older people. Full of unearned pride I had barely crossed the street when an old lady with a hairdo and voice like Selma Bouvier, waggled her cane at us. "Can I ask you a question?" she growls. Yes Babushka? how are you today? I sing. "Why would ANYONE keep dogs in this CITY!" she gesticulates wildly with her nobby cane. I chose a kind way to answer because lately I've been trying to follow my own often used advise. You catch more bees with honey than with hot chicken salad I say to myself.