You'll Never Know What I'm Apologizing For

I guess it's true what they say: booze and pills don't mix. * All I can say is, thank goodness I abruptly forgot how to use a keyboard last night, so you are spared approximately 400 words of heartfelt braindrool. I can scarcely bear to look at it, but it seems to be about a plant. And life. It would no doubt make an excellent poster for some over-aged emo chick's bedroom, hung right next to the 'Hang in There!" kitty and the David Hasselhoff one where he has his hands down his pants. I should throw the dirty little page away, but I'm going to keep it, to remind myself of my secret, sentimental self, and why I should never let her out to play.

* Sedation dentistry, a Vicodin, and one teeny, tiny (cough-cough) glass of wine.

Instead, I'll go to my default, and post a recipe for quiche. It's what I'm eating now, with an amusing little French rose. (That's pronounced roe-zay; I can't get the accent mark to work. Also, the thing on the computer that plays music from the internet seems to be very broken.) The wine is amusing because I've drunk so much of it, by the way.

This recipe makes just enough for two 5 inch tart pans, and it really needs a salad on the side, but I couldn't be bothered, today.


Two Small Cheese Quiches

Heat your oven to 350 degrees. Pour yourself a glass of wine.

Make crust:

2/3 c. flour

1/4 c. butter

a couple of pinches of salt

enough water to hold it all together, say 1 to 1-1/2 tablespoons. I forget, but you'll know when it's right. Press it into your pans. Have another glass of wine.

Filling:

2/3 c. heavy cream

1 large egg

Blend together and season with a bit of salt and pepper, at least. I also threw in a bit of garlic, dry yellow mustard, and red cayenne pepper. How's the wine holding up?

Strew a bit of thinly sliced onion on the bottom of your crusts if you like; I do. Generally, I also add a bit of bacon, but not today. Grate 2-3 ounces of cheese and dribble it over the crust. I know I used some cheddar, and perhaps some scraggy bit of something that was left over that I can't recall, as I made these quiches three days ago. Ooh, this bottle's empty.

Where the heck did Grumpy put that corkscrew? What happened to my glass?

I couldn't remember how long they should cook, but 55 minutes seemed to do it. If you don't keep opening the oven door and checking on them as I did, perhaps 50 minutes would be enough. You don't want a wobbly, blobby quiche--that is, after it has cooled, but if the smoke alarm goes off, it's too late.

(I'm going to have one of the safety-at-work signs made up for my kitchen. Mine will say: ___ smoke-alarm-free days.)

As I said, it goes well with salad: Caesar, if you can be bothered. Above all, don't forget the wine. Really.

You know, it's really good, straight out of the bottle. Really

Death, and other parts of Life

I have recently noticed a disturbing trend in my video viewings. A quick perusal of the pile next to my machine: Six Feet Under; Dead Like Me; Dead Ringers; Donnie Darko... Do we begin to see a theme here? I really need to lighten up. Maybe some Disney? Yeah, I know... Corpse Bride, Nightmare Before Christmas... I guess I am an evil Momma. Though I do like that little brat George in Dead Like Me. She reminds me of myself when I was younger. And alive, of course. I mean, I'm alive now, of course. Crap. Is my slip showing?

Cue music.

Fadeout.

Savage Chef, Career Counselor

Well, aside from creating an involuntary flambe of some perfectly innocent burrito meat, it's been pretty quiet in the Savage Chef kitchen. Though I must say, it is truly astounding how high flames can leap (towering inferno, indeed!) when one pours a cup of cheap red wine into a greasy, smoky pan of meat. As the flames leapt upward, I experienced a brief flashback to the flaming tortilla incident of '91, but alas. This time, there were no handsome firemen rescuing this foolish damsel. No, an older and wiser Savage huffed and she puffed and she blew that naughty fire right out. (Don't try this at home, kids. The Savage Chef is a professional (fuckup). And she can console herself with the knowledge that unlike a certain old friend of hers, the fire department does not have her on speed dial, just to check up.

On to cheerier things:

No one can say that I am not a devoted wife. Grumpy has reached a time in his life when he is ready for a change. * Accordingly, I have been keeping my eyes peeled for any likely career opportunities. Soldier of Fortune magazine has some intriguing advertisements, but I don't think mercenary killers can get accompanied tours, so that's out. I'd miss the old man too much, you see. Hmm.... What else is he good at? No. I'm too jealous. I'd cut da bitch. Let's see...what would be the perfect job for a Grumpy who wants to gear down a bit, but still rake in the bucks?

I pondered away, and suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, like a slip in a puddle of--anyway... Whilst skimming the fine literature available at the grocery checkout stand, I discovered a certain young lady who is in dire need of a designated driver. Now, I am not tooting my significant other's horn too hard when I say that he is one hell of a driver. He loves it. Hell, he even drove a big rig for a while, and they made him an instructor. So, I am currently revising Grumpy's resume to send off to Paris Hilton (or whoever reads stuff to her) with the aim of offering his services as personal driver. I mean, talk about your major oversights here. Paris is so wealthy, and yet there she is, driving her own dumbass all over town, and getting herself into trouble. In my day, no young lady of consequence would be seen conveying her ownself about town like common trash. I blame her mother. The girl was just not raised right.

Of course, they first have to let the poor girl out of stir. In, out. In, out. She must feel like---uhm, never mind...


* I try to get to the paper first, so I can throw away the Harley Davidson ads.


Tomorrow (or whenever, okay?) Why Savage watches and reads stuff about death.

The Raw and the Cooked

First off, a confession here. My name is Savage, and I do not drink coffee.

>Hi, Savage!<

Despite coming from the loins of dedicated coffee drinkers, I have never felt the urge to indulge in the roasted and boiled bean. Even nowadays, in the age of Starbucks, I do not indulge; never mind that most of the green lady's beverages scarcely resemble coffee, what with the milk and the sugar and the divers flavorings.

For this, I am labeled outcast. So be it. I do not need a jolt of caffeine to start me up in the morning. If truth be told, I would prefer a glass of chilled champagne, or a mug of cold chocolate milk. (Dependent upon mood and circumstance.)

(Yeah, I know chocolate has caffeine in it. Bite me. )

This being said, I must confess to a certain yearning, one that I find a bit embarrassing, one that has on occasion caused me shame. (That time at South Coast Plaza, for example. Yes, I did inhale, but that was all!)

(It is simply not true that I licked the canisters. Nor did I threaten the counter boy with death if he didn't let me "just fondle the beans a little bit."

Can I help it if the same small brown nuggets that are so banal when brewed up in water to be drunk are so tantalizing when they are dry? Why do roasting coffee beans smell so drop-on-the-floor delicious?

And why do people eat burnt cookies (biscotti)?

There was a time when I realized that I had an addiction. Opening my cupboard to fetch a devilled egg plate, I noticed that I had six teapots. Now, this could come in handy if I were to open a small tea room, otherwise, not so much.

And speaking of--why do I have three or four (I think one is hiding) devilled egg plates? Am I opening a Southern tea room?

Was I the only girl who hung around those mall perfume stores just to sniff the cups of coffee beans? (And leave unsatisfied?) Coffee beans roasting. Mmm... Some smells are cold. Some are warm. The smell of roasting coffee beans is warm. Some things smell of the color that they are. Roasted coffee beans smell brown. The smell makes me feel good.

But you still can't get me to drink coffee.