Posts archived in Food

13 comments

November 9, 2005

Pizzahutenoff

Let’s pretend it’s Monday, so I can play mrtl’s game. Her theme this week is “won”, so today I’d like to talk about how I’m a weiner winner in life.

An extreme overachiever, you might expect to hear about my various scholastic achievements – how I kicked ass in elementary school elocution contests, how I’ve taken state in nerdy Japanese competitions, how I was sent to DC, all expenses paid, thanks to the merits of my writing, etc.

Yes, I could bore you with stories of scholarship and that bit part I got in our second grade production of “The Sound of Music.” (*hack* My Favorite Things Song Group Leader #4), but I would prefer to talk about a win that really means something. I would prefer to talk about the Pizzahutenoff.

Winning the Pizzahutenoff is no small feat. It requires stamina, endurance, and an extreme act of gluttony. It’s about sacrificing your body in the name of competition. It’s about beating the buffet whilst busting your gut.

The Pizzahutenoff was devised on a crisp winter’s day by college kids who had too much time on their hands. The premise was simple: Send a group of cafeteria-worn 20-somethings in to a Pizza Hut all-you-can-eat buffet and see who can eat the most, and still leave standing.

While the odds were stacked against me (I was competing against three male friends), I’m proud to say on our maiden Pizzahutenoff, yours truly consumed 11 slices of piping hot pizza in order to take home the crown.

It wasn’t an easy feat.

At four slices I laughed at my competitors, chomping down a few breadsticks (which didn’t count toward the total), just to show my big cojones.

At eight slices I started feeling lethargic and had to unbutton my pants.

At ten slices, having gone beyond all reasonable levels of bloating, I made myself think about all the starving kids in Ethiopia, and as I put that slice of pepperoni in my pie hole I said, “This one’s for you Abebe.”

By eleven slices I knew I was done. My pants, no longer simply in danger of being snug, were, it seemed, getting close to splitting. Having had a bad experience with busting out of my Levis before, I knew I had to Just. Say. No… to that twelfth slice of deep dish meat lovers, that is.

I’m really proud of my accomplishment. I have to admit though, in retrospect, winning the Pizzahutenoff was kind of like bringing home a blue ribbon from the Special Olympics. I may have won, but at the end of the day, it was still retarded.

7 comments

October 25, 2005

Apparently I’m Still 10

Today kids I want to talk about the Flying Spaghetti Monster. And no, I’m not talking about “The” Flying Spaghetti Monster with his noodly appendages and Pastafarian followers. We are much too lowbrow, here at the haus, to discuss the Lord of Linguine and his role in intelligent design. (But if you’re interested, there’s a good summary of the phenom, right here.)

spaghetti monster

Nope, we’re not talking about art today. And I think my dear old dad would agree with this choice, as I have oft heard him cackle with glee, “F- art!”

Yeah CG puts the “art” in “fart”

… But I digress.

So yeah, we need to discuss something that’s really imporant. We need to discuss, dear hannihaus readers, a little something called spaghetti.

More specifically, I’d like to know…

Is it retarded that even though I am, for all intents and purposes, a fully functional adult, I can’t eat spaghetti without first pouring it down my front?

Is it wrong that I instinctively don protective layers (I.e. Angel’s junky tees) before even thinking about eating organic Ragu?

Forget about boogey men and things that go bump in the night –my ass is looking out for the spaghetti monster.

The Spaghetti Monster:
Jumping off plates and leaving nasty stains since 1972
_________________________________________________________

So you guys remember that horrible lag that just about killed you any time you commented? Well, it’s fixed now. (Thanks SORM!) Comment away kids!

12 comments

October 23, 2005

Because it’s Whistle Blowin’ Sunday

A few days ago, too tired to cook four ourselves, Angelface and I made the unfortunate decision to go foraging for fast food.

And I know what you’re thinking. You’re panicked, because the Nutrition Nazi ate food that was not organically grown and omega3-enriched. Well, if it makes you feel any better, we chose a “healthier” chain that offers vegetarian and wheat-free options for more conscientious patrons, like moi.

And if you really want to click your heels with glee, you’ll be interested to know the fact that I was “good” and didn’t have a full-on, bust-your-gut and damage-your-liver hogfest, didn’t mean a thing. At the end of the night, after enduring a series of unnerving theatrics, I still had that good old fashioned, fast food feeling. You know the one – It starts with guilt and remorse, and then inevitably ends up with you riding bareback on the porcelain pony, making rapid-fire deposits from your six-shooter into the toilet bowl.

But I (and my diarrhea) digress.

So I think it should’ve been a red flag that when I walked into the store, the first thing I saw was an entire seating area taken up with trash. The makeshift landfill was littered with leftover napkins, food containers, utensils and plastic trays. Even the freaking garbage can had overflowed, giving it the appearance of some sort of trash-eating monster that had vomited all over itself.

Despite having witnessed the health hazard fast escalating in Seating Section B, Angelface and I still ventured towards the register. The pimply faced 16-year-old stationed there didn’t immediately take our order. He was too busy complaining about how hungry he was and how he was supposed to be done working a half hour earlier.

And I felt guilty. After all, I knew what it was like to be hungry –while Zitty Face and another employee, we’ll call him Stir Shit Up, (because that was his only discernable job function), participated in a lengthy discussion about how much working late sucks, I was fairly starving.

So yeah, at long length the discussion died down and I was able to put my order in. While waiting for said order, an argument broke loose between the night manager and that stupid ass, bobble-head, Stir Shit Up.

Apparently dumb-as-bricks, SSU, thought that having someone “on the fries” at night, was not necessary, and must’ve felt it was a great injustice to be asked to perform this task, because he yelled across the kitchen at his manager that he wasn’t going to do it.

Night Manager, taking a page from his idiotic protégé’s book, yelled back that yes, damn it, someone had to be “on the fries” until 8pm each night.

Then the two of them proceeded to have a lengthy, verbal pissing match.

As I watched the two of them bicker back and forth like Jews in a gem store, I thought to myself “Oh good lord. If I had wanted to attend dinner theater, I could’ve gone to Medieval Times. At least there this type of battle royale is preceded by a visit from the Beer Wench.”

So in the interim of this bitchy little tiff, the production of Angelface’s hamburger by the night manager had come to a halt. Only when Angel yelled into the kitchen, “Hey can you stop arguing long enough to make my sandwich?” did the bickering stop.

And then, because it needed to be done, I yelled “You – freaking back-talking, plebian employee, take off your paper hat. You’re fired buddy!”

…Well actually, I didn’t really yell that. But I sure did want to.

Anyway, even after receiving our food, a myriad of horrors continued to occur, the most disgusting of which was witnessing the french fry scoop being used as a tool for trash compacting. When I saw the scoop go into the trash, and then back into the french fry, well it made my stomach churn… And then, when I saw that same scoop being used to put fries in a container that was handed to a customer, I had no choice but to throw up in my mouth a little.

So I’ve written my grievance down and sent it to the restaurant headquarters. I’ll keep you all posted, dear hannihaus readers. In the meanwhile, why don’t you share some of your horror stories with me? I need something to cheer me. Hurricane Wilma’s headed this way, and I’ve got house cleaning to do. Double d’oh.

17 comments

October 19, 2005

Sugar Shock

I really wanted to keep quiet about this, but I just can’t. You see, the words won’t fit in my mouth. Even though yesterday I kind of said it was okay, I can not, in any circumstances, condone soda drinking.

Drink martinis if you must, but for God’s sakes, stay away from the mother loving soft drinks.

They will rot your teeth.

They will make you fat.

They will dance the flamenco on your kidneys, and flood your veins with saccharine swamp gas. (And let’s face it, folks, if you’re anything like me, you don’t need the extra gas. You can only exclaim “thar she blows!” whilst emitting noxious broccoli fumes but so many times a day.)

And I know I’ve got some naysayers reading this right now. Faithful members of the Church of Coca Cola, you think that no matter what I say, you won’t quit drinking the ‘Pibb. You, dear die-hard Tab fan, you think I can not covert you to my Nutrition Nazi ways.

Well open up baby birds, because I’m about to deliver a nice, juicy worm:

soda is bad

Erm, okay so baseballs don’t contain sugar, but like seriously, look at the freakin picture. One tasty little beverage contains a shit load of sugar!

And by the way, unlike Tara Reid’s boobs, this is real. The picture are looking at was taken by a friend of a friend who is a pharmacist, and by virtue of her profession, knows how to do uber cool things like extract chemicals from cola.

Oh and if that’s not enough to keep you off the hooch, well the fact that you could lose your eye sight, well you should take that into consideration. You see, loss of vision has been linked to diabetes, which of course, is linked to excessive sugar consumption.

What that means is, just like masturbation or Viagra usage, if you partake too much in the sweet stuff, well, you might just go blind.

But I digress.

13 comments

October 18, 2005

Nutrition Nazi in the Dog Eat Donut Workplace

One thing about working where I do is, any time management decides they want to spoil us working-class grunts, they do it with food. Usually the food is tied to a celebration. It’s like “Oh! It’s so-and-so’s birthday – let’s have cake!”, or “Ms. Whats-Her-Name graduated night school. To celebrate, let’s all shove a bagel in our pie hole!”

Lately things have been a little more celebratory than I, she-whose-diet-consists-of-85%-organic-veggies, would like. Yesterday we got an e-mail to announce that – woopie –the Big Guns hooked us up, because the pop machine is now selling Mr Pibb for 25cents! And while we have avoided such a monstrosity for many months, today a large, Funyun-wielding vending machine appeared outside the men’s room on the second floor.

And even though I’m anti, even though I’m so totally against processed foods and their excessive consumption, I have to admit, being given the opportunity for pants-splitting gluttony is great.

Yes, I am a Nutrition Nazi, but I appreciate that the bosses at a Very Hip Software Company like their employees enough to pony up for pizza every once in a while. I mean, where I used to work, my old boss, he was so tight, you could put a lump of coal up his ass, and after a fortnight, you’d probably have a diamond.

Seriously – this dude was so cheap that around the holidays, instead of throwing a party, he forced his egregiously underpaid employees to purchase and prepare various foodies for a mandatory, Christmas pot-luck. This 60 minute intestinal adventure in the cockroach-infested den of iniquity known as the company kitchen, well it was meant to satiate us.

I don’t think any of us were fooled.

As we chewed through the beef jerky that Helen insisted was meatballs, we knew that other companies were throwing real Christmas parties, the kind you don’t bring a crockpot to, the kind where you drink too much and then photocopy your unmentionables.

Yeah, because I worked for Ebenezer Scrooge, we never had that party, and that’s a real shame. After all, nothing says Celebration of Christ’s Birth quite like a Xeroxed set of butt cheeks.

But I digress.

So in conclusion, I won’t be drinking that swill, but the 25cent soda was a nice gesture. It makes Hänni happy. Good job Big Guns!

And good job to you too dear hannihaus readers. If you’re reading this, you’ve made it through another marathon post. I’m on a freaking roll this week – woo.

3 comments

August 23, 2005

Now With Increased Hipness

We took a brief respite from our breakneck programming, testing, selling, supporting and writing to party doon at A Very Hip Software Company yesterday. It was an amazing day, but now I’m sad because I think I’ve peaked. I’m pretty suspicious that I just had the Best. Work Day. Ever. And I fear that like the loss of Lindsey Lohan’s boobs, it’s all down hill from here.

The atmosphere of said party, alone, was ridiculous. The helium-balloon-to-employee-ratio was probably 5:1 and the $80 spent on donuts, bagels and various other bad-for-you baked goods was probably overkill considering we also had catered lunch, candy, chocolate bars, chocolate milk, champagne, brownies, cookies, milk, etc.

And in the name of excess at work, I rode that sugary, caffeine-laced, faux-food train all the way babies. In retrospect, this was probably a mistake. I realize now that this gluttony is merely a one-way ticket to fat ass ville. Plus, now I’m all constipated.

In case you were wondering, it sucks.

The best part of the party was probably the grand finale, wherein said festivities took a more action-packed turn as a massive rubber band fight ensued. Rubber band fights are nothing new at A Very Hip Software Company. Part of the company culture, just about every day of the week, at some point in the day, I’ll hear the snap of a crisp band as it hits some poor schmuck right in the keester.

And then I hobble back to my desk, trying to look cool, like it didn’t really hurt when I got that stretchy missile lobbed at my voluptuous, easy-target of an ass.

But I digress.

But yesterday’s rubber band fight was the greatest I’ve ever witnessed. Employees from every department and level snapped bands like their lives depended on it. A regular war zone, rubber bands sailed through the air like kamikaze jet fighters, crashing into their targets with no remorse. We even had a bit of a matrix moment when rubber bands, caught in streamers hung from helium balloons, slowed their flight, producing futuristic, psychedelic tri-color waves.

Above the din of said fighing, a lone voice could be heard shouting gleefully, “Productivity is at an all time low!”

And that, my friends, is why I love my job.

0 comments

August 16, 2005

Key West Chronicles

As a nice first anniversary surprise, Angelface got us a flight to the Keys and a room at the Doubletree. Consistent with most of our adventures, it was pretty fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants. I got Key West gorgeous (in a flesh-bearing, flower print halter) and had my bags packed within two hours. I wasn’t sure if I’d love the Keys, but I did know one thing: I’d been to the Doubletree a time or two and they have the Best. Cookies. Ever. If nothing else, I was pretty sure I could spend two days in a hotel room, sitting in my skivvies, giggling from a sugar high, yelling, “bring on the tooth decay beyotch!” as I gulped down cookie, after oh so delicious cookie.

I’m sure my dentist would be pleased to hear that.

But anyway, it turns out Key West is da bomb. Even before you leave the airport, you’re having fun. A Rastafari and his bleach blonde companion adorned my neck with mardi gras beads and welcomed me to the island right away. As I got out to the street I saw pink taxi cabs and steel drummers. Everybody was talking about the night’s big event – The Lobster Festival.

The Lobster Festival is this crazy downtown street fair where – you guessed it –you can find lobster done up twenty different ways. They had lobster pastries, lobster dumplings, lobster kabobs, lobster tempura and lobster tails cooking on big makeshift grills positioned, literally, in the middle of the street.

That night I also saw:

* A man, slumped over his folding chair, wearing a funny hat, but looking rather gruff holding a sign that said “Dirty Jokes $1. (I need beer).”

* A dog, wearing fuchsia running shorts walking a tightrope. At the same time his trainer, an older gent in a tie-dye t-shirt and ten gallon cowboy hat, tried to get pretty girls to tie him up.

* More Rastafarians. One band featured five guys with dreads down to their ankles. The keyboardist looked suspiciously like Jerry Garcia, and I wondered if it’s true that deadheads never die, they just fade away… and join a reggae band in the Keys.

* A real-life Harry Houdini. He heckled Angelface and then made the ‘Face bind him up in chains and foist him into the air upside down!

Seriously, I can’t make this stuff up.

On our way to breakfast the next morning I saw two nuns on vespas waiting at a stop light. As I got closer I realized those weren’t really nuns, just two gay men dressed in habits. As the light turned green, the Ambiguously Gay Duo sped away, their habits flying behind them as they shouted, “Circle the wagons, ladies!”

And that’s when I knew… Key West is my kind of town. I highly recommend it and can’t wait to go back for the kooks, conchs, and keylime pie.

——————
The Secret is *not* that I’m wearing my underwear inside out, because I am. So it’s not a secret anymore.

2 comments

August 4, 2005

3/4 To Cuckoo and Steadily Increasing

The Secret is starting to wear on me, and if it doesn’t get revealed soon, it just might ruin my life.

As the countdown to Secret Reveal 2005 draws ever closer, I find myself getting more and more manic. This is dangerous territory my friends, b/c, as anyone who knows me can attest, even without this mind-numbing secret prattling around in my brain, I’m already ¾ of the way to cuckoo.

Yeah, I’ve got a few screws loose. I’m missing a few marbles. I’m a fry or two short of a happy meal. I’m about 8 donuts short of Kristi Alley’s morning dozen. I’m a maniac, maniac on the floor and I’m kvetching like I’ve never kvetched before.

To give you an idea of the state I’m in, yesterday when Angelface suggested McDonald’s for dinner, I consented. How does Micky D fit into my health nut, wheat-free, reduced-fat, low-carb, lean-meat, pesticide-free, allergen-free, frankfurter-free, livin-la vida-lettuce lifestyle? In answer: It doesn’t’ f*ing fit at all.

Thankfully, whilst looking into the pimpled, dimpled face of a boy whose employee nametag said “John,” I had a moment of clarity. For a brief moment, the fog in my brain dissipated, and like the good little nutrition nerd I am, I had the state of mind to order a double cheese w/o the bun and side salad instead of greezy mcgeezy French fries. And because bunless double cheese does not a full stomach make, I rather (seemingly sensibly) decided to up the stakes in the game of Russian roulette that was playing out my gut, and dump some hot fudge sundae down my gullet.

Perhaps to atone for the sins of the sundae, my next stop was to Louise’s Pet Connection where I proceeded to purchase the most expensive (i.e. organic, antioxidant-infused, wheat-free, chemical-free, beef-free, lamb-free, herring oil and turkey neck-enriched)
cat food known to man. At $7.00 a pound, my cats better start leaving little golden nuggets in their box, instead of those smelly, lumpy, make-you-wanna-vomit stink bombs I found this morning.

I blame it all on The Secret. The stress is really getting to me. Last night I couldn’t sleep a wink. I’m cranky, crusty, and suffering from intestinal distress (thank you Micky mutha f*’n D). To boot, my cankles are swollen, I’ve got a horrific patch of backne, and Mt. Vesuvius is threatening to explode off the left side of my temple.

All I can say is, oy vei. And yeah, I’m sorry to have this Secret between us. But like a bad dream with a kick ass ending, it will all be over soon. For the love of all that’s good, great and holy, let’s hope it will all be over soon.

2 comments

July 26, 2005

Deez Nutz

My coworker, Manuel, is trying to get healthy, and as such has made the excellent decision to go on a fruit and veggie fast. Having done this type of thing before, I know it’s not easy, so I wasn’t surprised to hear him exclaim “Goddamn donuts!” from the Very Hip Software Company kitchen.

Things can get pretty intense when you’re in a stare down with a big, old glazed crueler.

I told Manuel, don’t sweat the breakfast pastries. Don’t think “donuts” when you see those little circles of sweetness– instead, think “dog nuts”. And I think it helped Manuel. Dog nuts are not nearly as appetizing…unless you happen to be a Pomeranian in heat.

But I digress.

Oh yeah, and if you were wondering, that secret, it’s still coming.

0 comments

July 4, 2005

Accidental En Flambé

Happy Independence Day America. For your triumph over the tyranny and bullcrap imposed by the British and their snooty, “proper English” accents, I salute you. I’ve been so excited about Fourth of July festivities that I ended up celebrating a little early. Last night there was a nice, big bbq – in my kitchen.

So, anyone else set their kitchen on fire this weekend? Or is it just me?

When I was planning on preparing my romantic dinner for two, I really didn?t think to factor in a backup plan lest my gourmet (read: expensive) lamb chops burn up in fiery blaze of glory. I mean, who would’ve thought my beautiful, luscious chops would spontaneously combust, only to leave a path of gristle and a rising inferno in its wake?

Everything started alright. I rubbed a mixture of lemon, rosemary and garlic into 9 tasty-lookin chops and lined them up on the broiler pan. The recipe called for 3 minutes cooking time per side, but I felt like 10 was more appropriate, what with my extensive broiling experience, which is actually that I have none. Whatsoever.

Not coincidently, it turns out the 10 minute thing was a bad call.

The plumes of smoke bursting forth from the belly of my Hotpoint oven clued me in that something was amiss. Opening the door for closer inspection only fed the fire as blue flames turned red and then leapt high, higher, and higher still, bolstered, apparently, by the sudden burst of oxygen.

“Blake, Blake, BLAKE”, I screamed at Angelface, who was napping on the couch. Like a true hero, he ran to the kitchen, located the extinguisher, and faster than you can say “that’s smoookin’”, unloaded on that fire’s ass.

In the aftermath, amongst the rubble and destruction, I found this:

Obviously, dinner was ruined.

I should’ve known better. I mean the last time I tried to cook something more exotic than a hamburger, my apartment ended up smelling like dirty wino for three weeks.

Because of the fire, instead of nutritious, delicious lamb chops, Angelface and I ate Golden Corral for dinner last night. Predictably, I had diarrhea this morning.

So Happy 4th everyone! While you are eating hot dogs and waving your flags, I will be celebrating in my own special way. By “special way” I mean, I’ll be spending the holiday gutting the kitchen, cleaning fire extinguisher residue from every freakin nook and cranny. Every once in a while, I’ll be sure to shed a single, solitary tear in memorandum. R.I.P. lamb chops.

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