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Archive for July, 2011


Saturday, July 16th, 2011

Yes, cannibals do still exist, in case you’re wondering. They are in Papua, New Guinea, a place I’m going to cross right off my bucket list.

In an interview with one of the cannibals, a reporter (who’s much braver than I) from National Geographic was told, “I have tasted a man and I have tasted a woman. They taste the same.”

Well, I don’t care what he says. I’m not buying it. My guess is, even if my husband and I were cooked in the same pot, by the same popular braising method, there would be a pronounced difference in our flavors.

They say you are what you eat. It follows, therefore, that my husband (who is the world’s pickiest eater, aside from the cannibals) is a good sixty percent chocolate and maybe ten percent Diet Coke. The rest of him is made up of chicken and movie popcorn. I, on the other hand, am a a full spectrum eater, so I’m composed of a stunning variety of vegetables, fruits, fish, meat and blondies. The difference in our eating habits would, in my opinion, impact the way our bodies taste.

Frankly, I think my husband would be more appetizing. With my varied diet, I might taste like some awful mulch, whereas Tom would be like a Happy Meal. Any discerning cannibal would most likely prefer Leg-O-Tom, and if we ever go to Papua, New Guinea by mistake and we are  captured by cannibals, I will be sure to point that out. I’d advise them to avoid his feet, though, which have been encased in sneakers since his childhood, brined in athletic sweat. (Mine have been tenderized by contact with soft leather, but I see no point in drawing that to the cannibals’ attention.)

Do you think there are cannibal foodies, pursuing new and exotic ways of cooking their cousins? Do cannibals prefer Tupperware or glass for leftover Linda?  Does fried Freddy freeze well? Do they spend all day roasting Roger only to have a dinner guest say she just gave up eating men?.

Do they eat the liver with onions? Do they go to the butcher and ask for a Sam chop? These are just some of the burning questions that swirl around the subject of people eating people. Pursue the answers if you dare. I, for one, am steering clear of the cannibal kitchen.

But, hey, I bet thighs are killer, braised with San Marzano tomatoes and wine, some herbes de Provence to turn up the volume…..

P.S.: for a virtual visit with cannibals (always a smarter choice than an ACTUAL visit), click here.



Oliver and Bachmann

Wednesday, July 6th, 2011

The other night, in an unusual fit of domesticity, I baked a sweet potato bread and set it out to cool in a place I mistakenly thought was beyond Oliver’s reach. When I discovered that the dog had eaten half the loaf and moistened the rest ot it with saliva, I cursed in Oliver’s direction. As usual, he showed no signs of remorse, but not because he’s a bad guy, a sleezeball with no conscience. It’s just that he has no short term memory when it comes to his misdemeanors. (He will always remember where he left his tennis ball, but never where he buried your shoe.)While Oliver showed signs of empathy for my distress, he clearly had no idea he was the cause of it.

I had trouble sleeping that night, not just because of my husband’s buzz saw snoring. My mind was spinning from the subject of Oliver’s digestion to the fate of the universe, specifically one that fosters the Presidential candidacy of Michele Bachmann. She reminds me of Martha Piper, one of the “popular” girls I knew in high school, who had the kind of confidence that empowered her to do anything, no matter how stupid or heinous, with irritating self-assurance and good humor.

It was not helping me relax, thinking Martha Piper-ish thoughts about the dubious white eye shadow Bachmann was wearing recently when she made that gaffe, mistaking New Hampshire for Massachusetts. I struggled against my inner bitch, trying not to judge her for the way she makes mistakes and goofy misstatements and just keeps bouncing merrily along.

But I couldn’t help thinking she’s like Oliver in that regard, able to forget her misdemeanors as soon as thy happen, which is why she, like Oliver (and Martha Piper) but unlike me, probably has no trouble sleeping. As I pondered this,  Oliver jumped on the bed and curled up at my feet. I thought, nah, Michele Bachmann’s got nothing on my pooch. I’d like to see her eat a loaf in under sixty seconds and then fart like a motorboat.

I started to chide myself for sinking so low, taking cheap shots (if only mentally) at some Republican with bad makeup. But then I decided to make like a dog (or a politician) and forget it.

Never slept better.