Every food blog title has to be a pun or a meta joke right? Yes, I'm
starting a food blog (though the G-man knows this will probably be my
only entry). Yes, I know, I'll have to figure out some way to earn
back my Man Card...
Why the hell am I doing this? Well, I'll get a little detailed and
give you the stream of consciousness. I was in the shower thinking
about showering (stick with me here) because last night, at dinner
with some friends, we were talking about sitting in the shower, so
while I was in the shower I was thinking about all of the fun things
I like to do in there—use your imagination (think outside the box,
then put all of those idea inside the box—and by box I mean tub).
During the conversation at dinner, somebody said something like “ew”
at the thought of eating in the shower, which reminded me of the
Seinfeld episode where Kramer installs a garbage disposal in his
shower and starts cooking all of his meals whilst staying all hot and
steamy (can't believe I just used “hot and steamy” in reference
to Cosmo Kramer, but whateva meng).
This stream of consciousness thing is taking to long so...segue. I
subscribe to foodgawker on my Google Reader which drives me crazy because I
don't cook. I make the occasional scrambled eggs and I'll throw a
turkey sandwich under the broiler to melt the cheese, but that's
about the extent of it. I've never had too; I've been spoiled rotten
with parents that know how to cook up a damn good meal and enjoy
doing so. Thus, over the years I've become an accidental food douche
without ever having to learn how prepare a thing. I'll chew and
swallow anything that won't kill me (I guess that's just a figure of
speech—I've eaten fugu), but I don't know how to cook rice. This
would all be perfectly fine if I were to live at home forever with
Mommy and Daddy, but now I'm back at school and this year I don't
live above a dining hall. I'd have to walk out into the cold and
fright of the Big {Bad} Apple and I'm a cute little white boy with a
tight...pair of pants. Plus, I'm convinced I could learn to make
something at least as edible as the cook who was caught tenderizing
his meat in the bathroom of the dining hall and (I believe) has since
been fired—and all for less than the 12 bucks or so per meal that
NYU charges.
By the end of this semester, I'll be the Master Chef of the dorm room
kitchenette.
My previous statement was (most likely) false. I'll forget about
this/lose ambition in a week and I'll break down and get a meal plan
so I don't starve. I guess I should explain a little more about
myself so you can understand why that is and to further explain why
I'm starting this “blog.”
Someone once called me a “Renaissance Man.” I laughed in their
face.
You see, I do a lot of things. I catch some people off guard with the
random things I'm into—or was once into. I played hockey and
basketball, I run track and XC at NYU, I juggle knives, I ride a
unicycle, I've been in too many musicals, I can ride any kind of
board, I play chess, I like improv, the list goes on. Am I a
polymath? F*CK no. The big difference between me and ma boyz Leo and
Archimedes is that they excelled at all they did—I get as far a
mediocrity and every now and then slightly above average and then I
move on to something else. In short, I dabble. I'm not terribly GOOD
at anything, really—except for maybe self-deprecation (which likely
stems partly from when I was younger and wanted to be a stand-up
comedian and I read about how you should poke fun at yourself to get
the crowd's guard down), run-on sentences and growing a really patchy
beard. So when I get older all I'll have to show for my erratic
endeavors will be something like this:
Yep, I'll be making egg puns and tossing up “columns “and “the
magnet” for my son and/or daughter like good ol' Nucky. So this is
an experiment. Will I continue to cook for myself? Will I starve? I'm
thinking that, with an insatiable stomach and limited dinero (did I
mention I dabble in Español as well?), I have a better chance at
replicating a 5 estrella meal than I do becoming the next Gretsky or
Prefontaine. Of course, the odds are still stacked against me with a
busy schedule, Mamoun's Falafel right around the corner, a concerning
amount of apathy (see what I did there?), a debilitating inability to
concentrate that will forever go unmedicated and, of course, too much
hanging out at the Procrastination Station.
Also, the only reason I'm okay with writing this and maybe even
posting it somewhere is because I know that nobody actually reads
food blogs, we're only there for the pictures and mayhaps the
tutorial (that's called a “recipe” in foodspeak, right?). I'm
including myself because I couldn't give two schnitzels (shameless)
about the blogger's life when all I want is my fix just as much as
the next junkie who likes food porn more than actual porn (except for
the kind that kind that includes food, of course). Thus, I won't
proofread any of this, I won't read it over, I won't trim down the
sentences (if you're gonna try reading this aloud get a better lung
capacity, yadouche, because the periods will be few and far between
and I don't care what you think).
 |
| wtf, it's not even the cinnamon kind? |
 |
| this is the....kitsch? and yes, the bathroom is in mighty close proximity |
Since this was an extremely lengthy introductory entry, I'll save my
latest creation, which was dubbed “so 2001” by a friend, for a
later date—or, guess, an early date? I'm confused. Whatever, I'll
just include a picture of the high fructose corn syrup that my body
is about to process, what I would like
to be eating right now and a shot of my kitchen.
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