I Think We Have A Winner

Mr. Scoop and I have been searching for a worthy successor to the trainwreck of reality tv that was WB Superstar. Behold:



Dance Your Ass Off

From their site:

Twelve finalists, nearly 3,000 lbs, one goal -- to go from an eating machine to a dancing machine...Each contestant is paired with a professional dance partner who will train him or her for weekly stage performances -- ranging from Hip Hop, to Ballroom and even Pole Dancing! Then they shake and rattle their rolls in front of a live studio audience and a panel of expert judges.

Oh. I cannot hit "Favorite" on the Tivo fast enough.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to procure a gallon of whiskey, a beer hat and a box of Depends. Reality TV awesomeness awaits!

I Can Has Cheezburger!

No. It's not a LOLcat. It's better. It's an actual cheeseburger.

This burger is about the cheese. I wanted to take advantage of a particularly yummy Gorgonzola Dolce in my fridge before it turned into a science experiment. Well, more of one anyway.

The nice thing about using turkey is that it frees you up from the constraints of burger purism. Beef based burgers have a lot of baggage. Use only beef. Don't put any binders or flavorings in it other than salt, otherwise you're making meatloaf, douchebag. It must be a grind of at least 80% beef and 20% fat. You are grinding your own beef, right? If you don't grind your own meat, you're an asshole. You may as well eat at McDonald's. God, you suck. Use a griddle. Poseurs grill. And make sure you cook it medium rare. Oh, wait no, you can't do that. Buy a thermometer and make sure it's at least 160 degrees FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON'T YOU KNOW YOU'LL DIE OF THE BACTERIAL ICK?!?!?!? Why are you even bothering? Clearly, you don't know what you're doing. Is that a brioche bun? Where are the Martin's Potato Rolls, for fuck's sake! You don't love the burger like I do! NO BURGER FOR YOU!!!

Sometimes, I think I should spend less time reading the Intertrons and more time outside. Then, I open another beer.

Using turkey breast accomplishes two things. One, it takes the "how done should this be?" out of the equation. It's poultry. Cook it until it's done. Two, it's an extremely mild flavored, lean meat. Moisture is added by mixing in shallots and shredded cheese. The focus of the flavor of this burger should be on the cheese. You can use whatever cheeses make you happy with this particular recipe. I've done variations swapping smoked Monterey Jack for some or all of the Mozzarella. Mr. Scoop enjoyed his burger with a slice of Pepper Jack instead of the Gorgonzola. It's your damn burger; enjoy it anyway you like.

Blue Cheese Turkey Burger

1.3 lbs ground turkey breast
1 c. shredded Mozzarella
1 shallot, finely minced
2 t. soy sauce
1 t. Worcestershire sauce
1/8 t. ground white pepper
cooking spray
4 oz. Gorgonzola Dolce (or other blue cheese)
4 hamburger buns, split

1. Preheat your oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.

2. Mix the first 6 ingredients until well combined. Shape the meat mixture into 4 patties.

3. Spray a large, heavy skillet with cooking spray. Heat to medium high. Place the patties into the skillet and cook on one side for 6 minutes. Flip the patties and place into the oven to cook for 6 minutes.

4. Remove the skillet from the oven. Divide the Gorgonzola evenly over the patties. Place the skillet back into the oven to cook for about 1 more minute. The Gorgonzola should be soft spreadable at this stage, but not melted so much that it is running off the burger.

5. When the cheese has softened, remove the patties from the skillet and place them in the hamburger buns. Serve immediately with whatever condiments you like.

Serves 4.

Oh, and here's a LOLcat:

Drinking Independently

Annual Open Container Violation Night Independence Day has come and gone. We stood on the corner of our street and Other More Major Thoroughway with uniformed guys that might have been cops, but probably were firemen from the station across the street. We watched the finale of the town's fireworks display. It was pretty cool. The uniforms ignored my Dunkin' Donuts travel mug of Sauvignon Blanc the way they ignored the Mexicans a block up firing cherry bombs and bottle rockets into the airspace across the street from the local chop shop. God bless America.

Right now we're watching the Tivo'd Boston Pops Fourth of July festivities. I used to actually make my way to the Esplanade to see the Boston show in person. The problem with that is you need to make the commitment to spend the whole day by the banks of the Charles River. I love that dirty water as much as the next Bostonian, but I also hate my fellow Bostonians. Plus, sneaking booze into the Boston Pops show requires getting a space by the river proper. That means you get to the park by 8am or you don't bother at all. The reason for the river space is so that you can hide your booze in the water. I would generally make 64 oz. of sangria in Rubbermaid punch containers and float them in the river, avoiding scrutiny from the ever-present Man. Buddies would show up with coolers containing 2 liter Coke bottles. Half the Coke had been emptied and replaced with Bacardi. But you have to show up early and get your shit settled. The later in the day you get there, the greater the likelihood someone would toss your stuff to make sure it didn't contain any possibility of you actually having fun. As I just can't be bothered with the early rise and the logistics these days, now I just Tivo it and drink at home.

I can drink without fear that some douche will come down on me for trying to make my surroundings more interesting. I can enjoy flashbang explosions in a properly medicated state.

Oh, and on HDTV, Keith Lockhart looks like a painted whore.

Happy Fourth of July!

Bring The Funk

"Look, you were a drunken accident. Frankly, I didn't want to keep you but she insisted", ranted Mr. Scoop. By she, he meant me.

"It's not my fault that you didn't know he'd need to be fed and cared for when you brought him into the world. Besides, look at him. Sitting there all helpless and alone. You were so excited when he first got here. You were all like, 'Look at my goo! Behold my goo and tremble!' Now it's all, 'He smells funny' and 'Why is he weeping? I didn't do anything.' It's like you've never dealt with a sticky load of gak before", I said. "You want to kill him? Fine. Just remember, we've already named him."

This is Mongo.

He's our sourdough starter.

This is a picture of his first home. Apparently, we were committing unintentional abuse even as he was brought into the world. Sourdough starters don't like metal. It stunts their growth.

Mongo eats like a teenager and smells like yeast in puberty. No, I'm not sure what that means, but it is funky.


After a few days of not eating and sitting around marinating in his own funk, Mongo weeps tears called "hooch". "See", I said to Mr. Scoop. "Tears of pure, fermented hooch. He is your child." Realizing this base connection, Mr. Scoop stopped threatening to feed him to the garbage disposal.

I got impatient and made some of Mongo into bread on day 5.






The bread was tasty. Very tasty. But it was not particularly sourdough like. Mongo needs more time to mature. More time to get funky. So, Mongo now lives in the fridge, biding his time.

Get funky, Mongo. We'll be waiting.

4 Horsemen Smoothie

via this recording


I should be working out. I'm not. I'm sitting here at 6:23 in the evening, wearing pajamas because I never bothered to get dressed today. Yesterday, I drank two bottles of pinot noir while catching up on Tivo'd episodes of Battlestar Galactica. Today, I sat on the couch catching up on episodes of Iron Chef America while eating a metric ton of Chinese take-out. Somehow, I still think I made healthier choices than the young ladies in the photo. I did not consume the McNuggetini.

The end is nigh, folks. And it comes with a chocolate milk shake garnished with a rimjob of barbecue sauce. At least there's vodka in it.

Mom, mom!!!! Watch me!!!!! Mom!!!!!!

Practically luminous, it arced high into the sky, glistening yellow, sparkling in the mid-morning sunlight of Saturday. The object stood out brightly from the blue sky it hurtled through, as well as from the other icicles and snow that competed to refract the sunlight.

It exploded against the side of the hulking form of the navy Nissan Xterra that was crunching its way over the ice that continued to cover our driveway, despite the fact that the storm had happened four days ago. The SUV belonged to our condo association. I'd like to call this a coincidence.

Mr. Scoop called it "this week's upper body work-out".

"Darling", I said. "What the fuck?"

He replied: "You've been doing such a great job working out lately. I just want to try and keep up with you."

"Was that a Ziploc bag full of your pee?" I asked.

"Wouldn't you like to have plausible deniability?" he returned.

"Well", I said. "There are Nautlius machines in jail. Or so I've heard."

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I have been working out a lot. Since August, I'm down about 20 pounds. I still see about another 50 pounds to get rid of in my future. My body is fighting me every step of the way. The diet and work out have, frankly, been affecting every scrap of free time that would normally be used for recreational fun. I'm beginning to wonder if I might have more success with meth and heroin. At least, initially, there would be a buzz.

I'm not cooking anything interesting. I'm not drinking anything cool. I'm not socializing. My co-workers threw a party during lunch for December birthdays. There was cake. I hid in my room and ate tofu.

They tracked me down to the study hall I had the following period with "my piece of cake". I freaked out, lied and said I had diabetes. Plus, they wanted me to wear stupid oversized, sunglasses for a photo for the departmental "Wall of Fun". Yeah, um, no.

We go out to dinner with friends. I'm asked "What's new?" It's an innocuous question...right up until I realize that I have no real answer. "Not much", I reply. "Well, you're going to Italy in April", interjects Mr. Scoop. "Oh, well, that's exciting", say my friends. "Yes, well, it's a school trip", I say."It's free!" "Oh", they say. Then we pick at our tapas silently for a moment or so. The guy part of the couple we are out with starts to talk about guy things with Mr. Scoop. I live in a bubble of silence as I work through my shrimp with olive oil and garlic that no one wants to share. Then, realizing that one new thing has happened to me that I think I can talk about in my world has happened, I turn to the female part of the couple and say, "Oh, well...I've, um, finally mastered the half moon pose in yoga."

Yep. That pose over there.
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That's what is exciting in my life. Now that I'm healthy and sober, I can stand on my foot without help and not fall over. This is exciting to me.

Which is why I'm drinking tonight. It seems like, when I was drinking, this wasn't an issue.

Go figure.

Secrets, Lies and Grocery Shopping

I've never really understood the appeal of Levi's 501s. Button flies just are stiff. They dig into places that I'd rather be otherwise unmolested by metal. And apparently they now act as a catalyst to commit home invasion and pick up homeless dudes...with whom you then have sex while committing the home invasion.

None of this changes the fact that 501s have never fit me through the hips.

However, wearing the relaxed fit 550s act as a catalyst to...going grocery shopping. Unshowered. After running errands at the post office and bank.

But they fit me through the hips.

Yay.