Posts tagged girl

Editor’s Note: Since I posted this, multiple people have informed me that it is “platanos” not “plantanos.” I’m leaving this in as a prime example of my whiteness. Maybe this was why the waitress smiled at me when I asked for more…

My boyfriend, James, lives in Harlem and every night he eats at a little chicken and rice restaurant down the street from his apartment.

It’s $5 for a whole plate of food, and he speaks about it with the reverence that devout Catholics have for Jesus or the excitement that Kristen Bell feels when a “sloth is near”*

I went there with him the other day, and it went something like this:

(We walk in, greeted by a smiling Dominican woman behind the counter)

Woman: (to James) Hola papi! Lookin’ good! How are you?

James: I’m great, darlin! Got that ill mondongo today?

(they both break out in a chorus of laughter)

Woman: (laughing) Oh you!

Me: (hovering in the background in my puffy coat, laughing loudly, clearly confused) HA! HA! Right??

Both: (stop laughing and look at me as if I had just farted)

James: (pause) So anyway… Can I get the lunch special?

At this point, I feel like I should mention something to you.

I’m white.

Alright, pasty.

Alright, borderline translucent…

And I don’t just mean skin color. I’m talking country-club going, khaki-wearing, socks with sandals white.

If I was a genre of music I would be smooth jazz.

I used to try to pretend I wasn’t as white. I went tanning, dyed my hair dark brown, and wore hoop earrings. But it just felt weird, like that time Christina Aguilera was brunette and did a music video with Lil’ Kim*

I wish my life was like one of those Old Navy commercials with the black dad and Asian mom and Native American children all dancing in the sunlight, throwing snowballs and wearing knit hats.

But alas, I am sorely, painfully, Caucasian. 

James is white too. But I don’t think anyone has ever told him this, and sometimes I literally have no idea what he is saying.

The other day we were walking down the street and he pulled me aside whispering, “Yo, everyone be sleepin’ on Harlem son.”

“Yeah, son…” I whispered back, “They mad tired!”

Judging by the sad look on his face, I feel like this wasn’t the correct response.

Back to restaurant: at that point I wanted to yell, “Hey! I can dig it! Chicken is the ill na na!” but I restrained myself and instead climbed onto one of high stools on the counter with my hands in my lap, like a five year-old waiting for din din.

James quickly ordered two lunch specials. As the waitresses were dancing to the radio, flirting with the regular customers and dipping ladles into different spicy sauces, I sat there tapping my foot to the beat in my J. Crew turtleneck.

Then it came: a heaping plate of morro rice, kidney beans, plantanos and roasted chicken breast with crispy skin glistening.

It was over. I dove in, forsaking all cutlery, face in the plate, eating bite after bite of delicious chicken with rice, kidney beans, and plantanos.

I alternated between James’s plate and my own, stealing his chicken skin, to which he promptly responded, “What the f**k son??”

“Sorry daughter!”, I joked. He didn’t laugh, but I know he liked it.

Then with crazy eyes and chicken grease on my face, I grunted to the woman with maroon hair behind the counter, “More plantanos please!” She gave me a nod and spooned six extra fried plantains on my plate and smiled. We finally understood each other.

“Food is colorblind”, I thought, downing a 22 of Budweiser.

Then a second thought came to mind, “This beer tastes like sh*t.”

JUST EAT THE FOOD

*This is actually really cute: http://youtu.be/t5jw3T3Jy70

* Still not sure what the f**k that was about: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dg8QgUIKXHw

Editor’s Note: If you’re related to me or hold me in high esteem please do not continue on, as there are things I will share here with you that will make you clutch your turtlenecks and cardigans in horror.

Now that two of you are out of the way, let’s go!

It was a warm summer afternoon and I was passed out in a bra and underwear on top of my comforter with makeup smudged on my face from the past night, and empty applesauce containers scattered on the floor.

It was like any other Tuesday.

But this time was a little different. This time I sensed that I was not alone…

Now, we’ve all been there: the dreaded “Morning After.”

• Maybe you had a few too many Malibu Woo-Woos at the bar last night and you don’t remember how you got home
• Maybe you met up with some girlfriends from college and got “cRaZyyyy” like Spring Break ‘08 
• or maybe, just maybe, you were drinking alone in your apartment after a particularly intense Toddlers and Tiaras marathon

Who can really say?

It was at that very moment that I began to sense a presence in the bed next to me, like someone was watching my every move.

“F**k!” I whispered, grabbing my phone quickly to see who I was last talking to. The last text I sent was, “Hayyy, wat r u doin. I’m drunzzzzks.”

It was to my grandma.

I don’t even think she gets text messages.

“Whew, dodged that bullet”, I thought with shmide*

Still sensing someone next to me, I immediately went over possible escape plans in my head:

“I can pretend to be dead”

No.

“I can say that I have an appointment to run to!”

No, I don’t look like the type of person who has appointments.

“I can just leave!”

No, it’s my apartment.

After twenty minutes of debating to how to exit, I decided to face my fears.

I attempted a seductive yawn like I imagine a sleepy Playboy Bunny would do and rolled over, instead I sounded like I was having a small stroke.

My eyes closed, fearing the worst, I reached out next to me and touched something firm and cardboard-like. Then I opened my eyes and saw it: an extra-large Papa John’s pizza box ripped down the middle like an animal had gotten into it. Pieces of crust were scattered all over the bed and remnants of marina sauce were on my face and body.

“Wow”, I thought and then said the only thing I could think to ask,

“Well was it good for you?”

JUST EAT THE FOOD

* Check out my “How To Eat A Bag of Tostitos Hint Of Lime Doritos In One Sitting” post for more on this word.

Setting: Sixth-grade cafeteria

“What are you doing?”

My best friend Jessica was staring at me with a look of disgust usually reserved for roadkill and vomit as I panted excitedly, balling up a grilled cheese sandwich in my hands and shoving it in my face, “Romggg. You gotta try this!”

“You’re such a gross eater,” she snorted, as I stared at her blankly, half of a grilled cheese sandwich hanging out of my mouth.

“Warrever…” I slurred, continuing to eat my sandwich.

It was grilled cheese day and no one was going to ruin it for me. No one.

I am a gross eater. It is my cross to bear.

I eat with my hands, nose and sometimes forehead, tossing morsel upon morsel of delicious food down my gullet.  This is an especially great tactic on dates if you want someone to like “you for you.”:

GUY: “Um. You have food in your hair.”

ME:  “Ohhhh, haha. Weirddd…”, I would say with feigned embarrassment, frantically eying the table for scraps.

I eat sourdough bread by scooping out the doughy middle, rolling it into a ball and slowly chewing on the yeasty goodness* leaving the carcass of hollowed out crust on whatever surface is closest to me, before raiding the fridge for cheese.

It’s an addiction.

While some little girls want dresses or Barbies, I wanted Burger King.

There’s a home video of me when I was three years-old, wearing tiger print velour overalls standing on top of a wooden fence near our house with my dad shouting, 

 “Come on Peachie! Who wants Burger King??”, goading me in the same tone of voice one would use when asking a dog if they want a treat.

At the mention of “Burger King” my eyes widened to twice their normal size and I started yelling wild jibberish and scooting my butt at record speed along the wooden railing to meet him until my mom came out yelling,

“Paul! What are you making her do?! Peach! Get down from there!”

But I just keep motoring on towards glory and that glorious BK paper crown.*

So gross eaters of the world, embrace it. Who cares if you always seem to get milkshake in your beard? Or your hands always smell like garlic? Or the sight of you eating lunch makes people physically sick?

You’re enjoying one of the best parts of life! Delicious, terribly unhealthy food.

JUST EAT THE FOOD

*Realizing that “yeasty” and “goodness” should never be used next to each other in a sentence. Keeping it in.

*Just spoke to my dad on the phone this morning and confirmed this story saying, “That explains a lot” and breaking in a fit of laughter. Five minutes later, he stopped laughing and ended the conversation with, “Alright kiddo! Well hope you’re going to the gym!” Thanks, Dad.

The reviews are in, my good friends!

• “A good companion to ‘My Drunk Kitchen’.” – Seana Wilkerson
• “Stop asking me to follow your f**king blog.” - Everyone Else
•  “Peach, how do I open the link?”– My Mom

I smell success!

 Or I might just be smelling my own body as I haven’t showered since I started this blog and I’m running on pure adrenaline!*

But seriously, thank you for the support and the nice comments. I really do appreciate it. Otherwise all this snarkiness would just bottle up inside me and I’d end up a bitter, weathered alcoholic in a robe eating two-day old lo-mein out of the carton. (too late!)

But for real, I love you. I am IN love with you.

JUST EAT THE FOOD

*This may or may not be true.  I actually can’t remember the last time I showered. Get over it.

I live in New York City and see weird sh*t everyday.

• An old Russian woman with no teeth tongue kissing her dog
• A black man with rainbow dreadlocks wearing a pink tutu, drinking from a can of tuna
• Bros

It takes a lot to shock me. But on my way to work, this ad did just that:

It’s Tropicana’s new NYC ad campaign. In case you couldn’t see, the arrow is pointing to a bottle of orange juice.

So here’s the thing, Tropicana. I have never seen two ex-boyfriends on the subway train at the same time. EVER. I ride the subway at least four times a day. And I’ve dated at least 7 million people in this city.

(I know. The numbers don’t add up. It’s weird.)

But seriously, what are they trying to say with this ad? “Hey ladies! Thirsty? Drink this OJ and forget about those mistakes you made your sophomore year of college!”

I just imagine some guy named Jeb at Tropicana Corporate like, “Now if there’s one thing I know about promiscuous women, it’s that they LOVE juice. Right? Right?” And everyone around the conference table nodding in agreement, “Sluts sure do love citrus, Sir!”

If you ever DID see two of your ex-boyfriends on the same train, in what scenario would a carton of orange juice make it better?

I can picture it now:

Jenny enters the train.

Things are going well until she notices Bill, and Dan! Oh no! Not one, but two of her ex-boyfriends!

Jenny reaches in her purse, struggling to find her savior: that smushed up carton of orange juice she bought at the bodega yesterday. She attacks the little papery envelope with her nails but can’t tear it apart. People on the train start to stare. “Got it!” she yells  triumphantly holding the carton above her head like a golden chalice.

At that moment Bill notices her and comes over, “Hey Jenny! How have you been?” he says.

Terror washes over here face. “Nuh uh!” she blurts, guzzling from the carton, eyes closed tight, shaking her head from side to side. Little beads of perspiration forming on her brow.  

“Ummm… Ok?”, Bill mutters and backs away, instantly reminded of why they broke up in the first place.*

Just then ex-boyfriend #2 Dan saunters over. “Yo Jen!” he says. “Crazy to bump into you! What’s going on?” But Jenny just closes her eyes even tighter and starts humming to herself “Narrrrr, narrrr”, sucking down that tiny carton of orange juice like her life depends on it.

“Jen WTF is wrong with you? Is there even any juice left? The carton is empty!” he blurts.

“Narrrr narr” she mumbles frantically, tipping back what is now an empty carton.

“23^rd street!” the conductor calls out and Jenny walks off of the train.

“Thanks Tropicana!” she beams giving the thumbs up to a non-existent camera behind the garbage can.

REAL LIFE:

If I saw two of my ex-boyfriends on the train I would introduce them to each other and then sit in awkward silence, waiting to see who cracks first.

I have no problem with uncomfortable situations. In fact, I thrive on them as vampires thrive on blood.*

 So come at me, ex-boyfriends of the world. I’ll bring my OJ. It’s gonna go down. 

JUST EAT THE FOOD

* She’s f**king crazy (great clip on this here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N007irODH9s )

*I know this is true because I read it in Twilight, a great little series by Stephanie Meyer. You should check it out if you haven’t heard of it. I think it’s gonna be big.

Step 1:

Wake up sweaty and disoriented, ten minutes before you have to leave for work wearing a Soroptimist Women’s Organization shirt your grandma gave you and those stained dELiA*s sweatpants you bought in the 7^th grade (when JLo’s velour sweat-suit was a “thing”)

Step 2:

Grab a pair of jeans crumpled up in the corner of your apartment.

Step 3:

Do the sniff test. If they pass, throw them on. If not, Febreze® them and then throw them on. Same goes for socks. It’s quick, easy and saves tons of money on laundry! Also prevents you from having meaningful romantic relationships.

Step 4:

Grab a bag of Tostitos® “Hint of Lime” chips located in the “nacho supplies” section of your kitchen. If you do not have a “nacho supplies” section in your kitchen, stop reading this immediately and kill yourself*

Step 5:

Throw on that magenta puffy coat your mom got you on sale from L.L. Bean. Yes, you look like an overgrown toddler with a disability but it’s f**king cold and your self-respect is a gone anyway.

Step 6:

Jog down your hallway cradling the bag of chips in your arms as if it were a small child. Drop the bag: lose 12 points. Nobody likes crumbled up chips*

Step 7:

Jump on the subway. Push past the finance bros in Grand Central with their ill-fitting Dockers and “Super Cuts” haircuts. Start to laugh at them. Realize you are wearing a puffy L.L. Bean coat your mom bought you. Stop laughing.

Step 8:

Breeze into the office, mingle, check email, stare at that puppy desk-calendar you bought at Staples last week. Note that your desk resembles less of a “professional work-space” than the bomb-shelter of a confused tween girl.

Step 9:

Engage in an awkward run-in at the coffee machine with that guy whose name you can’t remember (Elijah? Enrique? Jamiroquai?).  

Step 10:

Your conversation will go something like this:

You: “So what do you do?”

Jamiroquai: “I’m a headhunter.”

You: “Ooh headhunting!! Scary!”

Jamiroquai: “Umm… It means we recruit talent for companies.”

You: (blank expression) “Ah hah! Well… This coffee is really coffee today! Bye!

(Run into glass door, realize it’s a “pull.” Laugh uncomfortably, then swing it open and bolt down the hallway. Do not look back).

Step 11:

Lunchtime! Your co-worker is eating Tomato Cheddar soup from Hale & Hearty again (your favorite). It smells delicious, but unfortunately you spent all of your money at (insert name)’s birthday/holiday party/bar mitzvah last week, so instead you are going to eat this bag of lime-flavored tortilla chips.

Step 12:

Rip open the plastic bag with your teeth and put your dignity aside, (probably next to the puppy desk-calendar.)

Step 13:

Eat the entire bag of chips.

Step 14:

At some point you won’t feel hungry anymore. Power through this. It is an illusion. You are always hungry. This is who you are.

Step 15:

Soon your co-worker will ask if you’ve “done that spreadsheet yet.” Just act like you can’t hear them and point to the bag of chips mouthing the word “lunch.”

Step 16:

The bag is done. You’re filled with a mixture of shame and pride. You decide to call this “shmide.”

Step 17:

Write down “do yoga! :)” on a sticky-note.

Step 18:

Never do yoga.

Step 19:

Repeat weekly.

That’s all folks!

JUST EAT THE FOOD

*OK, don’t actually kill yourself. It’s not good press for the blog. But do take a moment to look at your life and your choices and then do the opposite of everything you’ve been doing. Now proceed to Step 5.

* Unless you mix them with sour cream (but I digress.)

Have you ever loved someone so much you would do anything just to spend one moment together? You would give them everything you have, because you know that you will never find another person who satisfies your needs in the way he does? And every morning you wake up and thank God you found him?

Well, that’s how I feel about sour cream.

“What?” I hear you saying, “That’s not a person. That’s a topping.”

You raise an interesting point.

Sour cream and I, while not a conventional couple, have a very intense relationship. Sometimes if I can’t find something to dip in it, I’ll just eat it right out of the container. A week ago my roommate walked in to find me crouching behind the refrigerator door, wide-eyed, frantically spooning sour cream into my mouth. I’ve never seen that kind of disappointment in someone’s eyes before.

That was a wake up call.

That afternoon I decided that I needed an excuse to rationalize my disgusting behavior, and what better way than to start a blog!

That very day I began a year-long journey of indulgence, where I will eat whatever the f**k I want and document my progress, as well as my inevitable weight gain and crippling depression.

It’s kind of like Eat, Pray, Love. Only minus the pray and the love part.

It’s kind of like Super Size Me, only there’s no political message behind it. Just me, straight up, eating my brains out, until I become the size of a giant bean bag.

It’s like Mardi Gras! If your idea of Mardi Gras is eating alone in your apartment while watching Top Chef and crying.

So here we go!

I woke up around at 3:30 PM today.

I say “woke up”, but I didn’t actually leave bed until 4:30 when I rolled my fat ass out of bed, ripped open a packet of ramen noodles with my teeth and followed it with lemonade out of the carton.

It is now 5 PM and I am comfortably back in bed. At this point I’m considering getting a catheter so I don’t have to get up ever again.

“What are you doing?” you ask,

Indulging

This is my Valhalla, my heaven, my paradise.

So throw on your robe and grab a family-size bucket of Ben and Jerry’s.

Sh*t’s about to get real.

JUST EAT THE FOOD

My name is Caroline and I have an intense relationship with good food.

Whether I’m eating at home, at a restaurant or hunched over take-out in the back of a movie theater, I have been known to attack a plate of food with a ferocity that scares small children.

Lunging, I dive my fork into whatever is in front of me, shoveling it wild-eyed into my mouth while greedily sucking in breath through my nose to avoid suffocation. (This is especially sexy on dates!)

Honestly, you could tell me that you’re going to hike Mt. Kilimanjaro, naked, with no oxygen, but mention the possibility of a snack and I am on board*

To prove my devotion to the culinary arts (and the greater art of being a fat-ass), here is a sad but true story from my life: one time I was making Spaghetti Carbonara, a classic Italian dish that I learnedfrom my Italian grandmother (aka Mark Bittman’s “How To Cook Everything”) on a hot plate in my tiny studio apartment.

I transferred the pot of boiling water to the strainer in the sink when the pot slipped out of my grasp and spilled a cascade of boiling hot water onto my sock foot. “MOTHERF**KER!” I screamed, gritting my teeth and wincing from the pain.

Hobbling, I opened the refrigerator door, cracked an egg and beat it together with parmesan, crumbled the pancetta, set the table, salted and peppered my meal and ate it.

Twenty minutes later I remembered that I had severely burned my foot. I removed my sock to find that entire top layer of skin on my foot had melted off*

My foot now resembled something out of Michael Jackson’s Thriller music video, but all I could think was, “At least that pasta was good!”

So that’s a little bit about me. Now I want to know about you!

What do you like to cook? What are some of your stories with food? Thongs or granny panties? Let’s get personal!

Send restaurant suggestions/pictures/recipes to justeatthefood@gmail.com and I’ll post my favorites!

I’ll also be posting weekly stories, recipes and inspiration and restaurant reviews.

Thanks for stopping by :)

And remember, JUST EAT THE FOOD

*As long as it’s not f**king Cheese Nips. Seriously. Cheese Nips are the bastard, redneck brother of Cheez-Its. They taste like a cheesy cracker dipped in sh*t. Please stop eating them, America. Send Nabisco the message it needs to hear!

* Here’s the damage in case any of you are freaky like that: