The Body

I celebrated Easter by making rabbit:



It's a Gordon Ramsay recipe, Rabbit Fricassée with Tagliatelle.

I decided to serve the rabbit with items that it might have eaten out of the garden:

Asparagus with Oyster Mushrooms and Shallots

Roasted Beet Salad

and

Spicy Carrot Salad

I'm not sure if actually eating bunny on Easter is traditional, but it just seemed right somehow. Plus, Mr. Scoop had requested that I make the recipe again (I debuted it last Easter, actually) - and the local supermarket actually carried them in the fresh meat case about a week before the holiday. I bought three rabbits and nestled them carefully next to the dead hooker frozen pizza and Hot Pockets.

The biggest challenge this year was that the rabbit came as a whole carcass instead of already cut up. I needed to cut it up into pieces parts before I could cook it. If you've ever owned a cat, a whole rabbit is kind of disturbingly similar in shape and weight. Mr. Scoop actually had to leave the room while I proceeded with my butchery:

	The Whole Bunny
	The bunny minus its legs. I'm proud of myself because I cut cleanly through the joints. Look out Jeffery Dahmer Emeril!
	Gordon says that once you get the loins free you should roll them up in the belly flap like a cigar. It will protect the loins. I don't think you can argue loin protection, really.
	The bunny even gives its kidneys for this tasty dish! Frankly, a lot of this part of the prep was like reliving my Human Anatomy and Physiology final all over again, but with less fetal pig and more Easter Bunny. I'm probably going to Hell. Oh, yes.

But, ultimately, the recipe is worth it. Really.

Happy Easter!

Nabooti Is Not Nairobi Is Not Uganda.

"That thing with the four circles? Yeah. Don't touch that." Mr. Scoop gestured to the crude black and white wire frame map that, currently, existed only in his pickled by Jack Daniels mind. "It's a stove top. Fire brings pain." He nodded to himself as he said this.

"Are you channeling slam poetry?" I asked, perplexed. Eyes wide shut and flailing incoherently, this is the god of our New World Order. Mr. Scoop, Lord High GM of Shadowrun. I said as much. My mistake. "Doctor Mister Lord High Game Master Pope Monsignor of Shadowrun, thank you very much. Esquire. I'm a doctor in Uganda, goddammit."

"No, you're not", I replied.

"Don't test me, woman!" he ejaculated. "I have papers!"

"You have a Choose Your Own Adventure book about The Lost Jewels of Nabooti. Which might qualify you to cut people open in a third world toilet, sure. I don't know how these things work. I'm just not sure it qualifies as cyberpunk is all."

"Do not question the almighty Game Master! I ride the lightning. I am he that brings pixilated geographic goodness to your band of canny travelers over the InterTubes so that you may game without having to leave your homes. I make Windows dance like a monkey in a virtual environment on my desktop while I run Linux in the background. While I'm taunting 40 year old men who pretend to be 13 year old girls in AOL chat rooms. Because it seemed like a good idea at the time. And...I've got problems, Captain. I'm not right...", he began to trail off.

"Don't question your God", he finished quietly.

And, so he commanded. And so it was done. As far as he knows. He passed out shortly after that.

I Do It All For You. All Of It.

A rousing round of "Let's Drink The Hangover Away". Yes. This has made my day more bearable. I am full of sake and raw fish products. I now hate being awake marginally less.

I drank so much last night that I forgot finishing whole bottles of Chardonnay and accused them of hiding themselves from me out of fear while I opened bottles of Sauvignon Blanc in retalliation. I was lots of Fun^TM for a healthy chunk of the evening. Reportedly. I lack even the most vague memories of going to bed. For all I know, I was teleported there by aliens, jammies and all.

In short, it was a good Saturday.

In other news my butcher, Dave, is concerned because his cat has gone gay. The cat started a bromance with his former roommate's cat. It too was male. There apparently was snuggling and mutual grooming. Then the roommate moved out and now the cat pines and Dave wakes up with the cat on his face. Ish. Face-ish. I was more concerned about the words "bromance" and "cat" in the same sentence. These are the stories I endure in order to secure high quality meat products. Dave, or at least his cat, knows his sausage.