Republicans demanded explanations from Chris Christie and Sarah Palin. I’ve had a few inquiries myself, and here is my response.

Why I’m not running for president:

1. I could never have Presidential hair with that D.C. humidity.
2. I’d have to wear jewelry like Hillary’s and a pants suit whose jacket would NOT provide adequate butt cover.
3. On those Air Force One flights, I could not knock back a chardonnay ad watch Xmen: First Class.
4. I’m pretty sure security would insist I wear a disguise when accepting a pizza delivery.
5. My closet is so full of skeletons, it’s like a Halloween party in there.
6. I’m a Democrat.
7. My house would have to be white.
8. Whenever I had a VPL, millions of people would chat about it on the Huffington Post Style page.
9. I’m guessing martinis would be frowned upon.
10. What, in these shoes?

I do not have a green thumb. On my watch, plants usually perish rather than prosper. But I am newly motivated to hone my gardening skills, after hearing about Snoop Dogg and the 85-pound rutabaga.

The story takes us to Cardiff, where a Welsh farmer, Ian Neale, grew the largest rutabaga in histoy. The gnaraly looking vegetable (also known as a swede) weighed in at 38.92 kilos. Typically, achievements like Neale’s are noticed only by a handful of gardener geeks. But this vegetable caught the attention of Snoop Dogg.

Turns out Snoop grows things too. If you check out this video of him reaching out to Neale, , you’ll see his impressive crop in the background. (I’m not sure what it is, but it looks a lot like something my stoner cousin grows in his backyard in Berkeley.) While Snoop’s plants look plenty robust, he apparently seeks to grow them to “Jack And The Beanstalk” proportions. When he got wind of Neale’s uber-swede, he invited the farmer to come to his show in Cardiff, and then backstage to swap growing tips.

Neale declined at first, but then accepted, and got the VIP treatment after the show. He had a ten minute audience and a smoke with Snoop—no tobacco was involved—and told him to use a product called Root Grow.

While Neale says he “would not pay” to see Snoop Dogg in concert again, he’d happily accept a free ticket (and, presumably, another sample of Snoop’s crop).

I guess it’s too late in the season to attempt to grow a zucchini the size of a dachshund or a tomato as big as my head, but I’m posting the picture you see here (taken some years ago) in hopes that Snoop will mistake me for a gardener extraordinaire and invite me backstage too. (Between you and me, I may or may not have grown the pumpkin, but I did raise the kids, sans Root Grow.)

P.S. Here’s a recipe for rutabagas. By my estimation, Ian Neale’s could feed abut 190 people.

My daughter Nora is going to Florence on Monday for a semester abroad. Her last two years in Providence made her distant enough from L.A., but Italy qualifies as S.F.A.. (That’s So Far Away, not Saks Fifth Avenue.)

To calm Nora during the pre-departure countdown I’m fulfilling her every food-related wish. I made her oatmeal cookies (using vegan bogus butter since Nora’s off dairy at the moment). What’s better comfort food than milk and cookies? (Almond milk, in Nora’s case.)

I didn’t stop there. “Can I make you a sandwich? Any fave dishes you want before you go? What do you want for dinner? How ‘bout some stuff to take on the plane? Anything, I’ll make anything.” When it became clear that I was getting on Nora’s nerves, rather than soothing them, I made a note-to-self to back off. She is going to Italy, after all. (I’m told they have food there.)

As most of you know, you won’t often catch me aggressively offering to cook like this. You might be wondering just who in this picture is the one who’s on edge. That would make you an astute observer of maternal behavior. I admit it: I’m jumpy. My nest has been half full all summer, and going back to empty is freaking me out, hence the bizarre hyperactivity in the kitchen. It is actually Tom and I who will be needing comfort food in the days ahead.

If you see us driving home from the airport on a Monday, you can be sure of two things. 1. Our tears will not be related to the traffic jam on the 405. 2. When we get home, we’re heading straight for the cookie jar.

Our friend David came by yesterday after dropping off his son at a military academy. As he said goodbye to Dexter, he was told that restrictions on communication would be tough. For the first month, kids would be allowed no cell phones or access to email. The only way to write home would be to do it the old-fashioned way. (We’re talking paper, a stamp and a zip code.)

David had a sense (as, no doubt, did many other parents) that this was a non-starter. His kid was just not going to be motivated enough to work out the logistics of postal service. Dexter and his generation, raised as texters and taught that paper equals dead trees, often can’t get their minds around snail mail. (The only time in recent memory I received something in an envelope from a daughter was when Elizabeth forwarded me her electric bill.)

David knew that his own anxiety level in an the absence of communication would be far greater than Dexter’s. He figured if he wanted to know how his son was doing, he’d have to facilitate. So he provided Dexter the Texter with a “McLetter,” a home-addressed stamped envelope and something like the following for him to fill out and mail back.

Dear Dad,

I am (check one): __fine
__medium-fine
__not fine

So far, school (check one): __is wonderful
__is so-so
__sucks

You may visit me (check one): __whenever you please
__in a couple months
__when hell freezes over

Please send me (check one or more): __money
__food
__clean sox

Signed, your loving son,

(Your name here):___________________________

It’s been a week and so far, there’s no word from Dexter, not even the McLetter, although a message from the dean indicated that he is doing fine. His anxiety alleviated, David now just enjoys the unusual experience of opening his mailbox (the real one, that metal thing, down by the curb) every day with the reasonable hope that there might be something there, made of paper, stamped and addressed, from his son.

It could happen.

On August 19th, Bill Clinton turned 65, and he became a vegan.

On that same day, my daughter Elizabeth turned 22. She will not be going vegan until there is figure skating in hell.

I took the birthday girl and her boyfriend out for dinner in New York on the day, and, predictably, she ordered a cheeseburger and fries and chocolate cake. If Bill Clinton had shared her meal, he’d have required an after dinner ambulance. Others of us would be speed-dialing the liposuctionist. (Or are they called liposuckers?) But Elizabeth eats even more than Clinton used to, and still maintains a slim body and good cholesterol numbers. I have trouble seeing the fairness here.

August 19th also happens to be the birthday of Coco Chanel. Her eating habits are among the few things Google does not reveal, but my guess is she was neither a vegan nor a chow hound in the style of Elizabeth or early Clinton, and I bet she never ate a Big Mac, but if she did, I’m pretty sure she was their best-dressed customer.

Actually, the news of the ex-Pres.’s shift in eating habits revived my interest in exploring veganism, but I need to confirm that martinis are allowed. While I investigate, I am going to eat some steak (here’s the recipe) just in case I actually do get veganized and swear it off forever.

Eat your heart out, Bill.

My husband and I are looking to upgrade our TV, to move into the 21^st century with a few bells and whistles, reducing the number of remotes from three to one, and going 3D so Tom can add dimension to his ESPN addiction.

But I’ve been advised to hold out a little longer, because  there’s technology on the horizon that, in the near future, we will be ashamed to be without. The Japanese have made great leaps forward in the development of Smell-O-Vision.

Soon, by attaching a small device to the back of your screen (or potentially by installing it in your cell phone), you will be able to experience 10,000 scents associated with whatever show you are watching. Needless to say, engaging a third sense in the viewing experience will greatly enhance it. Or will it?

I love to watch the Super Bowl. (It gives me an excuse to make bean dip.) But I’m quite sure that when we are treated to a close-up of a team huddle late in the fourth quarter, I’d be happier without Smell-O-Vision.

My daughter loves to watch what we call “dead people shows,” like CSI, which is heavily populated with murder victims. (There are live actors too, of course, although they are sometimes indistinguishable from the corpses.)  But I it’s tough enough to watch when a body is fished from the river. Do I have to smell it too?

Also, I think I’d prefer to do without Smell-O-Vision while watching political TV. I have enough trouble taking in Michelle Bachmann with two senses. Adding a third would send me over the edge. I’m sort of curious about what John Boehner smells like, but only in the same way I’m fascinated by other icky things. As for Obama, after the debt ceiling deal, I don’t want to know. I’d rather go on thinking he smells like a rose.

One channel that would be a no-brainer for this technology would be the Food Network. When Paula Dean makes those donut burgers, who doesn’t wan to smell ‘em? Add a little 3D and I’d be drooling on my treadmill. But what I’m really hoping is that they’ll move on to the next level, to Touch-O-Vision. If I could just reach out and grab a few of those burgers, or Rachael Ray’s casserole or whatever the Barefoot Contessa’s lemon chicken, I’d never have to cook again. Hmmm. Now, that’s what I call an upgrade.

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.

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.

In a recent video I made about boiling an egg, I introduced my cow kitchen timer. This adorable gadget caused such a stir among video viewers, I feel compelled to tell you more about it.

This timer’s most striking feature is that, instead of sounding an abrasive bell or a buzzer when it’s time, it emits a charming moo. You feel as if you are being gently poked by a laid back farm animal, instead of shattered by the shrill, demanding sound of an emergency. Maybe I’m oversensitive to the nuances of timer language, but, it’s as if the cow timer says, “Hey, I know you’re busy doing world-changing things, but your skillfully prepared plum cake sure smells ready!” The traditional timer sounds more like, “Yo, Martha Stewart! Wake up or burn it down, fog brain!”

What’s also interesting is that the timer sometimes moos once, but sometimes twice, as if it intuits that you have not heeded its first call to action. For example, the other day I was multi-tasking as usual, baking a plum cake for my mahjong group’s potluck, while also organizing my shoes according to frequency of use. I heard the moo but decided to ignore it for a minute while I determined the whereabouts of a missing black loafer. Just as I headed for the rosemary bush, which is my dog Oliver’s favorite shoe burial ground, the cow timer made an executive decision to moo a second time. Apparently it knew that the plum cake would most likely burn while I chased the dog with a rolling pin. Either this is one hell of an intelligent gadget or the cow is in cahoots with the dog.

A caveat: Family members who don’t cook and are therefore clueless about gadgetry should be warned that there’s a cow in the house.

Early in my timer’s tenure,Tom and I were having a lively discussion about the pros and the cons of having his cousin for dinner. My (con) point was that her husband Quentin (who dresses and speaks like Sherlock Holmes) invariably shows up having just gone vegan or pescatarian or whatever trendy food regimen precludes eating what I’ve cooked for dinner. Just as I was reminding Tom about the beef stew Quentin rejected on their last visit, the cow timer went off, startling Tom so severely that he required several minutes of recovery time.

On the other hand, if Quentin or someone equally odious were to come to dinner and refuses to eat, say, the lasagna you’ve spent five hours making and you’re feeling a little hostile, discreet use of the timer is an excellent and harmless revenge tactic. When placed under the offending diner’s chair (or even in the guest bathroom, if you can work out the timing), a good moo is guaranteed to shock the bejeezus out of annoying dinner guests.

The cow timer is useful in many ways outside the kitchen as well. If I have to go out for dinner at eight, I will set the timer to moo a half hour before I need to leave, so I don’t space out and show up at nine. If my husband or the dog does something that pisses me off, I can set the cow timer to allow myself ten minutes cool down time before I respond, thereby minimizing the rolling pin injury sustained by the perpetrator. If chatty Aunt Lucy calls, I set the timer for five minutes, and when it goes off, tell her I have to go tend to the cow and hang up. If my visiting daughter leaves her room in a mess that suggests she was brought up in a barn, I’ll plant the timer in her room to deliver a subtle message.

I mean, the list of uses for this thing is endless.

If you want to do yourself a favor and pop for this incredible domestic tool, click here and it’s yours. If you are on my Christmas gift list, hold off, and don’t be startled if you hear a moo issuing from your stocking.

I just read a new study claiming that cell phones cause cancer. I remember past studies coming to the same ominous conclusion, but this new version contains a scintillating detail. It says that you are about as likely to get cancer from your phone as you are from pickles or coffee. (more…)