Stalking Anthony Bourdain

I'm home with a roiling gut today. This is what it takes for me to get time on Male Offspring's computer.  I'm on the couch, hanging with my man, Anthony Bourdain. Yes, the Travel Channel. I know, right? Trust, this guy is no Rick Steves or Samantha Brown. No offense to Rick or Sam. Just not my thing.

I watched Samantha once. Destination Ireland. The whole time, I was like, okay, is she really trying to do a fake Irish accent? It was intermittent, but definitely there. Weird! And what's with the cheery, eager-beaver act? Girl would be perfect working the Starbucks drive-thru speaker at 5am. That brand of perky just pisses me off. But guess what came on right afterward? Anthony Bourdain's Ireland show! I know, too good, right? I don't know what those folks at the Travel Channel were thinking, unless they're going for a mass exodus of SamFans over to Anthony's side of the pub. Basically here's the difference: kissing the blarney stone with an affected faux-Irish accent complete with cheesy soundtrack, versus quaffing Guinness in a smoky bar after a walk through Belfast, Northern Ireland, touching on the not-so-cheery history between the Protestants and Catholics.

Yeah, pour me the Guinness.

Most travel shows work my last nerve with their exoticism and touristy bullshit. I will actually set a reminder for Tony's show. There I said it. I'm addicted to a travel/foodie show.

He's so goddamn appealing.

This guy is the only smoker and pork eater worshipper that I could consider dating. Or marrying. Or stalking. Whatever. Those of you who know how extremely anti-cigi I am, in addition to my vegetarian status, will appreciate the depth of my obsession, here.

Anthony's show, No Reservations, comes with a parental warning. A deliciously sardonic New Yorker, the FCC's obscenity rules are clearly not foremost in his mind. He tends to drink a lot. I don't mean like sampling a good Cabernet with dinner. I mean like slamming it back and dealing with the hangover later. He also says "fuck" a lot and is basically irreverent, caustic, and sexy in a tall, slightly bowlegged, boots-and-leather-jacket kind of way. He's likely to bust out with a "holy shit!" while masticating a juicy mouthful of meat, and you'll never catch him with an umbrella in his drink. And yes, he can occasionally slide toward disdainful when it comes to his travel and food compatriots:

I think the Travel Channel knows it's not getting Jamie Oliver or Rachel Ray when they throw their lot in with me.

Even Samantha Brown would have a hard time summoning a "wow" for this.

He eschews the tourist traps and five-star restaurants, heading instead for street vendors, family meals, and, as a self-described aficionado of the dive bar, any place where local home brew and home cooking can be found.

He will eat any local specialty, from seal eyes to chicken anus to still-squirming octopus tentacles. What's cool about that though, is that he doesn't do it in that "Ohmygod this is so exotic and freakish, watch me gross you out!" kind of way. (Looking at you, Andrew Zimmern.) No, rather than playing the obnoxious dude-check-this-out American, Tony, for all his general snarkiness, is all about genuine learning, about respecting and honoring the people, cultures and traditions of the countries he visits. He uses his show as a vehicle to challenge assumptions and stereotypes. You can see he is honored that people would invite him to their tables, share their food and their stories.

So yeah, I'm smitten with a travel show foodie. I was considering becoming a full time groupie, when my stalking turned up the inconvenient fact that he's now married, and has a little girl. He's apparently a very proud parent:

...she goes absolutely bat shit over risotto made with wild nettles. And when her Mom dips a finger in the local red wine, she greatly prefers it to juice. This makes me very proud.

Damn. I missed my window. Word on the street is, he even gave up the smoking in the interest of extended parenthood. Cruel irony. Stay sweet, Tony.

Okay, stay snarky. Whatever.

Cakes or Consequences

Occasionally, whilst engaged in the business of parenting, you get to witness your child absorbing a life lesson with no input or effort on your part whatsoever. Consequences, for instance. One of the toughest lessons to drill into a kid, right? I mean, let's face it, how far into adulthood do most of us get, still struggling with the concept of consequences? Reaping what one sows and all that.

Male Offspring started wrestling season a couple of weeks ago. Last year he wrestled in the 152-lb weight class. This year, as he's still a growing boy who drinks his milk, he's been weighing in at a steady 157 lbs, meaning he'll move up to the 160-lb weight class for his sophomore season.

Doesn't sound like much of a difference, but moving up a weight class is tough, especially when first breaking into the new class. It often means wrestling older, more experienced guys. He's been lifting the weights and practicing hard in anticipation of going up against those 160-pounders.

So today, he goes for a hydration test and a weigh-in.

163 pounds. Uh-oh. Up 6 pounds in less than a week. Shot right past his new weight class.

Think the Great Cake Fest of 2008 had anything to do with it? *

Unless he wants to jump two weight classes, and suddenly be wrestling those 172-lb boys, I'm thinking he'd best jettison the remaining cake bits still populating my kitchen.

Good luck, Son. And let that be a lesson to you. Consequences. That's right. Cake Karma. The hard truth, Son, is that cake is evil. That icing may taste sweet going down, but it's Satan's ambrosia. It will cling to your ass like a bitter conservative clings to guns and religion. It's time you knew the truth: the wages of cake is death, at least on the wrestling mat.

Welcome to the hard reality of consequences, Son. Now you understand why I can not allow Oreos into the house.


*At least I hope it was the Great Cake Fest of 2008. If not, that means it was the Thanksgiving food. And I've been eating that mess like a mo'fo for days.


RETRACTION:
It seems I was mistaken. The lesson on consequences did not have quite the lasting impression as I'd hoped. Oh, he did learn about the consequences of eating multiple cakes on top of Thanksgiving leftovers. He learned a right hard lesson when he stepped on the scales that first day back to practice.

For about a hot minute.

Then he lifted some weights. Then he rode his bike from his high school to the neighboring high school for the required early-season hydration test. Probably 10 miles, round trip. Then they wrestled. Then he weighed himself again.

159 lbs.

I'm sorry ... what? What is there, a tapeworm in there? Who gains six pounds in less than a week, then loses four of it in a few hours? So apparently, he's fine. Good to go. Ready to wrestle.

Brat. Mark my words, Son, in real life, there are consequences. Serious consequences. That's right. Consequences for cake. Mark my words.

I Like It Spicy, Baby. Now, Anyway.

Holy smokes. My mouth is on fire.

I brought Indian food for lunch today. Okay, it was in a package from Trader Joe's, but still. To be fair, it did boast a spicy aromatic sauce. But come on -- grocery store spicy is usually along the lines of mild taco sauce.  Grocery store packaged delights don't pack much heat, regardless of that thermometer graphic on the box. Unless you're in the ethnic section*. Then you might find something spicy.

Trader Joe's does not have an ethnic section. TJ's mixes it up all over the damn place and surprises your ass. Or your tongue. Well, actually, who knows if my ass will be surprised later. 

It sure as hell was aromatic. The break room at work smelled gooood. That probably pissed some people off, but I live in the Pacific Northwest, so no one actually says anything if your lunch singes their nose hairs.

Anyway, lunch was tasty, but brutal.

My spice tolerance has actually come a long way. I can now go up to Level 3 (of six) at our favorite Indian restaurant. I can go to Level 4 when Normal Chef is on duty, but it's a crap shoot since you never know whether it's Normal Chef or Fire Chef back in the kitchen.  Fire Chef doesn't play. 

I used to be a complete spice wimp. We just did not eat spicy food in my family. I think it gave my dad gas. Then again, pancakes gave my dad gas. Anyway, when my ex and I were young newlyweds, he caught me scraping pepper off of an omelet. Regular, dinner-table black pepper was too spicy for me. (Trust that my ex got a lot of mileage out of that.) Tabasco? Cajun? Are you kidding?

Mild taco sauce was my tongue living on the edge, in those days.

My sister was even more of a spice wimp than I was. Until she moved to North Carolina in her late 20s. The kids and I visited from overseas. We stopped at Taco Hell for lunch one day. It was either that or Big Bubba's Beef Barn. Her youngest was probably two at the time. Sis grabbed huge handfuls of the "Fire Sauce". As opposed to mild, medium, or hot.

Me: What are you doing?

Sis: This is the best part. You can't eat this stuff without the sauce.

Me: Yeah, but that's fire sauce. The mild is over there.

Sis: You're in the South now, honey. Better buck up. Here you go, kids!

(My kids shake their heads, her kids grab for the sauce packets.)

Sis: Here, baby -- good stuff! (squirting hot sauce on her toddler's taco)

Me: What are you doing? He's practically still a baby! He's going to think food HURTS! That's so not funny!

Sis: (still squirting away) Boy's gotta learn sometime. Eat up, little man!

He loved it. My sister had overcome our childhood spice limitations.

I was passing our wimpiness on to my offspring. My kids watched their cousins with no small amount of awe. I realized my kids were destined to scrape pepper off their eggs if I didn't buck up. I did not buck up at that particular time, but my son did. He ate the sauce. He loved it. Or at least he made his cousins believe he did.

Anyway, I've since bucked up. My sister would be proud. Two of my kids have surpassed me, and can hang with Fire Chef at Level 4. My middle daughter carries on the spice wimp gene proudly. Her reaction to any hint of spice -- My mouth is on fire! -- has become a standing joke around the house. (Thus my opening sentence. Just a little tribute to her.)

Of course, this could have something to do with losing a bet to her uncle during the aforementioned visit, in which the loser had to eat a whole habanero chile pepper. Apparently, watching a 12-year-old child's throat lock up is all in good fun in North Carolina. I'm pretty sure that could actually damage a person's esophagus.

Bro-in-law is lucky I didn't find out about this until later. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have liked my version of Fun With Habaneros.

*Ethnic Section: The half-aisle in a grocery store reserved for foods which are not seen as 'Murkan foods, particularly foods with roots in Mexico or China. Foods in the ethnic section are usually expensive and may sport flags, chopsticks, or sombreros on the packaging. Our local Albertson's actually has a sign that says "Oriental" instead of "Asian" food. 

Why Do They Call Them Thin Mints?

Apparently it's Girl Scout cookie season. I heard it on the Today Show. These cookies have their own season. Hunting season, the holiday season, football season, Girl Scout cookie season.

These are the only cookies that people will drop $40 for and not bat an eye. What are they, like $6 a box or something? And we order in advance, too. Then, before our "real" order arrives, we buy from the little girls stationed outside Safeway to hold us over until the real order arrives. After the $40 order arrives, we hit the grocery store station again, because now we've only got eight boxes left, and the season is almost over!

People get possessive of Girl Scout cookies. Seriously, people claim boxes.

Back off my Tag-a-Longs, bitch, you should've slowed down on your Thin Mints!

Oh, please. You know you've thought it, if not said it outright.

It's not quite that rough in my house, but last year my daughter did cover "her" box with threats in bold Sharpie, aimed at potential cookie thieves. I thought this was intended for her little brother until I saw "This means you, Anyu!" in fierce Sharpie strokes. Complete strangers think nothing of approaching each other over Girl Scout cookies. "Hold up ... dude, hey, where'd you get those Girl Scout cookies? Do they have any Samoas left? Thanks!"

What is there, crack in these things?

Girl Scout cookies have become part of the fabric of American society. Even when I lived in Germany, Girl Scouts were there, swarming through the US housing areas and camping out at the PX. You think it's bad here? Girl Scout cookies in Germany were the ultimate Taste of Home.

When I lived in Hungary, there were no Girl Scouts, thus, no cookies. Sometimes we'd get lucky, and someone would go visit the States during Girl Scout cookie season. I actually felt sorry for those guys. It went without saying that anyone traveling across The Pond came back with a cooler of various requested items: Arby's Beef & Cheddar, Taco Bell, KFC, whatever. It didn't matter that it sat 15 or 20 hours in the cooler; people would inhale that stuff like it was manna from heaven. Anyway, it sucked to go back during Girl Scout cookie season. You had to take an empty bag to bring the cookies back, in addition to the cooler.

Amazing how much that taste of home comes to mean. You tend to hoard items that you can't get easily. Like cake mixes or cheddar cheese. I once hoarded some Jiffy corn muffin mix so long that little moths got in the boxes. We were devastated. Jiffy corn muffin mix in and of itself sucks, actually, but it -- along with creamed corn -- is necessary to make corn pudding/spoon bread. The cans of creamed corn survived, but the Jiffy mix was toast. No spoon bread for Christmas that year.

I think those years without have lead to some hoarding behavior of Girl Scout cookies, even now that I'm back in the Land of Obesity. Last year I bought way too many cookies. Yes, I claimed boxes, as did everyone else in my house. I hoarded so much that several boxes went stale.

I was like Gollum with the friggin' ring.

I mean, the hoarded cookies were too stale to eat, but throw out Girl Scout cookies? Bitch, please! Every once in a while I'd try one, like maybe it wouldn't taste stale if I dipped it in coffee first or something. My son finally discovered a stale box in my desk at work.

Dear Son: Score! Girl Scout cookies!
Me: Son, you don't want those -- they're so stale ...
Dear Son: They're Girl Scout cookies. They're fine.

He would not be dissuaded by a bit of staleness. At least they didn't go to waste.

So, this year, I'll try to remember that I'm back in the land of Girl Scouts and it's not necessary to lay up a store for the next six years.