Bug is Brown Bagging It From Now On

This Bug doesn't believe in bad luck. I have no qualms about walking under ladders. I open umbrellas indoors. Broken mirrors are benign to me. Black cats don't make me nervous. You know what does? A moldy cannoli. It was my stroke of good fortune the other day to get one of these and send me into a tailspin. When I bit into it- it tasted a little funny. Funny like...oh, I dunno. Old beer and sweetened sour milk? But I didn't inspect it right away since I was driving. It wasn't until after I'd had my salad and moved on to dessert that I looked and noticed something spotted in the cream of the cannoli. It looked a little like chocolate chips and I naively thought, "That's funny. I thought I ordered a plain one." Then I saw the 'spots' were tinges of green all throughout and proceeded to completely bug the fuck out. Why does this always happen to me?



A few years back I ordered lunch with co-workers from a new seafood joint that opened up. I got the beer battered fried clam strips with a side of fries. Thank goodness I'm a chatty girl when I'm ready. Had I not been- I never would have paused between my run-on sentences just as I brought the fork to my mouth and seen a 'short and curly' wrapped around one of the morsels. I was horrified. Enough to totally forget my professional surroundings when I yelled, "OhMYGod! Is that a PUBE on my CLAM STRIP?!" Not a good day.

Listen, for those of you who don't know, Hot Pockets should remain frozen until ready for consumption. Got that? Frozen. Not refrigerated in an overpriced sandwich vending machine. So overpriced that when you finally break down and spend the money it would cost for an entire box in the supermarket for just one- that it may be black and fuzzy on the inside from being passed over for weeks. That was my lesson. Now I want you to remember it so you never have to suffer the disgust and anguish I experienced years ago in my cubicle. I used to carry a toothbrush to work back then so after a few seconds of dry heaving with no result, I promptly brushed until all I could taste was blood. But what I really wanted to do was shave my tongue, rinse with gasoline and pop a lit match into my mouth.


It's not like all of this just started happening to me yesterday. When I was 11 years old, I bought a Bomb Pop from the ice cream truck and hopped on my BMX (or was it a Mongoose?) I can't recall. While showcasing my hands-free bike riding skills between enjoying this nice little summer treat- I looked down too late to see that a gnat had landed on the tip of it just as I put into my mouth. I gagged. I spit. I dropped the popsicle. I grabbed the handle bars. I crashed into a parked car. That, my friends, is the true definition of discombobulation.



The above foods are filed under Again Never due to the trauma I experienced. Anyway, I went straight back to the deli after work to show them why I almost died at lunchtime. The manager apologized profusely, gave me back my money and then offered me a fruit bowl for my inconvenience. I asked him if it was fresh. "Of course! Nice lady like you? Fresh. Yes!" Sure. Now I'm "Nice Lady". Hours earlier though, he found me worthy of being "Moldy Cannoli Girl". Bastard. I'm done with all of it. Popsicles. Clam strips. Hairy Hot Pockets..hey, I'm seeing a theme here but I'll keep it clean (for today). And just think of all the gross things you might have already ingested because you didn't even catch it. I know it has nothing to do with luck or its flip side, either. Just eyeball your food fiercely, People.

Next time around I'll take the gun and leave the cannoli.

Sweeeeet....

I'm in a sharing kind of mood so I'll pass this on. I just discovered the above treats at Cinnabon not too long ago. Apparently, they've extended their bun baking talents to cupcake making. Four flavors of intense sugary goodness include Vanilla Bliss, Chocolate Passion, 24 Carrot Cake and Cinnacake Classic for all the die-hards out there who still pine for the buns. Wait, I didn't mean it that way. Although any one of these happen to be orgasmic. Yeah. They're that good. I don't know what that little blue bead atop the vanilla one is, but I think God lives somewhere between that little candy shell and whatever that amazing confection is inside. Seriously.

Food For Thought

When things don't go my way, I try my best not to cry over spilled milk. If something is not my cup of tea, I usually drop it like a hot potato. Sometimes, you just know when you've had your fill. Then there are times when I'm a glutton for punishment. It seems as though I've acquired a taste for unpalatable things lately. I don't always like to beef. I'd rather things be just peachy. But it's not always that way, is it? Some days I'm cool as a cucumber and the next, I'm a hot tamale. It's all a part of who I am, I suppose. Some might say I want the whole enchilada but all I really want is contentment. I don't need to binge but I don't want to starve either. Isn't that what everybody wants? I think I deserve it. I consider myself to be a good egg. I've always heard that you can't make the omelet without breaking a few eggs, but seriously...how many does it take? You can't have your cake and eat it, too.

In my salad days, I believed that too many cooks spoil the pot. Now it seems that I've jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. It always happens the same way. I approach every situation with caution, slip on the oven mitts and await what should be a sumptuous and satisfying meal. Sometimes I follow the recipe to a tee. Sometimes I wing it. Before long, I can't stand the heat and have to get out of the kitchen. This isn't some half baked idea, either. I've given this some thought and I don't need to be spoon fed. I know how the world works. But I don't need everyone to tell me that I'm the apple of their eye. Don't butter me up. And I can't stand to hear that comparing my situation to another is apples and oranges. That doesn't cut the mustard and it only rubs salt in the wound.

Honestly, I'm a bit of a surrealist residing between this world and that. There are no champagne wishes and caviar dreams dancing in my head. I have no burning desire to be two peas in pod with someone. Really, all I want is to bring home the bacon from a plum job. Writing can be my bread and butter while I figure everything else out. I may come across nutty as a fruitcake but I know what I want and more importantly- what I deserve. I tend to put all my eggs in one basket while they are out netting other fish in the sea. The forbidden fruit is supposedly the sweetest, but others may know that better than I do. I'm not hungry enough to take a bite. Rather than go bananas- perhaps I'll simply dine alone. It's been said that oatmeal is better than no meal. There may be some truth to that- but I'm not too chicken to stand by my convictions. If variety is the spice of life- I know a few who could benefit from a milder diet. Sooner or later, someone winds up eating Humble Pie. If you're not careful you can get chewed up and spit out. That, I know from experience. Everything that tastes good isn't good for you- and I guess that's just the way the cookie crumbles. But we all need food like we need love, the way I see it. It sustains us. There's no alternative to it. That's it in a nutshell. Now...Lettuce pray.

"Eat little, sleep sound." ~Iranian Proverb

Drink Up !

Okay, Boys and Girls...show of hands. Who likes candy? Alright then. Hands down. Who likes liquor? I thought so. Now...This Bug is going to give you the perfect recipe if you like both.

You will need the following:

1 Bottle of Midori melon liqueur

1 Bottle of Absolut vodka

1 Bottle of Parrot Bay Coconut rum

Cranberry Juice

Pineapple Juice

Ice, shaker or tumbler and bar spoon, Martini glasses

Mix equal parts rum and pineapple juice in the tumbler with ice. Pour into glass about half way. Next, mix the vodka and cranberry and shake. Using the bar spoon against the inner part of the martini glass- gently layer the cranberry and vodka atop the pineapple juice and rum by slowly pouring it over the back of the spoon. Lastly, holding the Midori as close to the side of the glass as possible- carefully pour a few drops. If done correctly, it should sink to the bottom of the glass.


The end result is a gorgeous tri-colored cocktail called a Gummi Bear. Believe it or not...it tastes like a clear Gummi Bear! No lie. And it gets you hammered because it's not an overwhelming drink at all. Try it. I used to make this when I was not yet retired from bartending. Of course, there's a drawback with this drink. It takes practice to perfect the technique and it's not the quickest thing to make. So if it's a hit at parties- be prepared to make them all night. The novelty lies in the colors so make it pretty. Even if you screw it up (hic) the first few times- it still tastes like the Pina Colada Gummi. There'll be eyes blurring and speech slurring in no time.




Author's Note: I'm a little (hic) out of practice and my camera phone (hic) sucks but my friends and I had a great time knocking these back in the name of research. Yeah. That's what we called it. (hic) Research.

It's All in the Sauce

Okay, so a few days ago I headed to a diner for some late night nosh. Everyone knows the unwritten "Diner" rule. Don't order anything obscure. You know, like the Romanian steak with frizzled onions or the stuffed clams. Or anything that makes them go all the way to the deep freezer in the back. Save that stuff for a credible restaurant. Usually if you order breakfast or the common appetizers- you're good money. So I thought. I get the Buffalo Chicken poppers and a strawberry milkshake. The shake was cool- even if it tasted like Strawberry Quik with a scoop of ice cream blended in. The chicken, however was another story. I dunno. I think Buffalo, I think spicy. I think tangy. I think orange in hue at the very least. Nope. What I got was plain old chicken tenders. A nice golden brown with no zing to them at all. They had the nerve to bring it out with Bleu Cheese. As if my sensitive palate couldn't handle the overpowering blandness. I politely ask for more Buffalo sauce much to the waiter's chagrin. We both know damn well there wasn't any to begin with. He returns with a scary, radioactive looking liquid that resembled the color of Thousand Island dressing at the bottom and clear orange oil at the top. My fellow diner takes one look and asks, "Is it a chicken nugget or a what-the-f*ck it?"

Loud. Uncontrollable. Laughter. They probably think we're sauced. They may or may not be right.

Lunchtime at Osaka

"Time flies.
Suns rise and shadows fall.
Let it pass by.
Love reigns forever over all."

Handling chopsticks with seasoned expertise, the talk moves to practical things. Mechanics and maniacs. Fortunate times and some less so. Most of the sentences punctuated by an occasional broccoli floret being popped into the mouth. He goes on...No one should take advantage of a lady like that. In goes a morsel of Orange Chicken. Sometimes you have to turn it up on folks so they know what's what. He pauses. Takes a sip of Peach Iced Tea through a straw I am officially envious of. His eyes dart from me to the activity behind me, watching take-out orders travel in and out. Like Malcolm- his back is never to the door. I hear every word and yet I don't. Too busy watching deft fingers manipulate the bamboo. What comes out of his mouth is more delicious than what I see go in. I hear every word. And yet I don't. Manila fortune cookies lay cracked on the table- resting by the check. He has no idea how true mine is.

Hungry For More

It's no small secret that This Bug loves food. I enjoy everything about it. God lives in that place between taste and the visual consumption of all things delicious. Okay, that may be stretching it a bit- but seriously, other than sex- eating is the one thing you can do where all of your senses are at work. Recently I've been craving foods from all over the world. My niece hit me with the most quizzical look the other day when I mentioned that I wanted Guacamole and Tiramisu. Folks at home can put the eyebrow down; This Bug's eggs are unfertilized to date. I just tend to pine for something radically different from day to day.

I've decided that the best way to taste the world would be to seek out men of various cultures and ethnicity. This way, when I want authentic Masala dosa- I can dial up my Indian friend or when I want real Fettucine Alfredo, I'll give the Italian man slave a ring. I understand that we're in a recession, so dining out may get a little steep. No worries. More than likely, they'll have a Mom or someone in their lives that cook traditional foods. I'll just hang around to pick up a few recipes. Mothers love me (most of the time) so this should be a breeze. I'm bound to learn how make something new in the kitchen.

This new plan has revolutionized my view on dating- since I now actually have something solid to get out of it. This Bug is hungry...and focused. I can just taste the possibilities; something I can really sink my teeth into. Handcrafted sushi from my Tokyo buddy on Monday, Down home southern fare from American Boy's momma on Sunday- and all the savory samples in between. Perhaps I'll tell them I'm a food critic and this way, we'll get superior service as I pretend to write a review of the chosen restaurant. That method is tried and true, believe me. I once got outstanding service in a Thai restaurant and I'm sure my trusty pen and notepad had everything to do with it.

I'll be chronicling my food adventures with said hand selected men so stay tuned, People. Variety is the spice of life!

Nom, nom, nom...




Photo Courtesy: Corbis

Give me Couscous, Love me Good

Now there he goes again, the Dopest Ethiopian. I'm talking about Chef Marcus Samuelsson. Mmmm...there is something about a man who looks like that AND can cook. Tasty and talented? Whoo! He had me at Hello. As I've said before, I'm a bit of a foodie so I've been known to follow the careers of some of the top chefs in the industry. Marcus is a bit of an anomoly. He was born Kassahun Tsegie in Ethopia before he lost his mother to Tubercolosis and was adopted by a couple who lived in Sweden, hence the name change.

He apprenticed at the Culinary Institute in Austria and Switzerland before he came to New York to work for Aquavit Restaurant. Quickly, he became the executive chef and at 24 was the youngest chef ever to receive a three-star restaurant review from The New York Times. In short, the man is the Tiger Woods of the gourmet world. His cooking combines international influences with traditional cuisines from Sweden to Japan and Africa. He never lost his roots to strictly European cuisine. In fact- he pimped the system when he introduced his own cultural dominion to what was usually "snobbish" food. Now, I could go on and on about his accomplishments but seriously- I just want to talk about how good it is to know that a man that fine can also cook.

One of these days, I'm going to make it to Aquavit to sample some of his delectable goods...and I may even order some food, too. In the meantime, I'll put my own spin on his Seared Salmon with beets and potatoes and feed someone just as- if not sexier by far than Chef Samuelsson. One thing's for sure. I don't need his recipe for Chocolate Marzipan Terrine with Pistachio Ice Cream. I have some Milk Chocolate just within reach that is smoother than Nutella. Some desserts need no spoon... and got flava like prailines, Yahnahmean? Damn. I just made myself hungry.

The Main Ingredient

This Bug has always had a passion for two things. Writing and cooking. While the writing may be obvious, you'd have to be better acquainted with me to really experience the latter. By the time I was seventeen, my friends would come in droves to sample some new recipe I tried out. There was something about feeding everyone that made me happy. There still is. And I found that whenever I was dating someone, they seemed to think that I was auditioning to be Wifey when I made dinner, when in actuality I just loved to cook. It wasn't my fault if they wanted to go home and slap their Momma after having one of my plates.

I am the consummate foodie. I watch Food Network. (If were married to Bobby Flay he would have to detach my feedbag just to hear me speak.) I have dozens of cookbooks and I have been known to travel for rumored good food. Like, out-of-state travel. I used to go to restaurants, try something new and go home and put my own spin on it. Usually it came out better than what I originally ordered. But in the case of Thai food, which I absolutely love- I've learned I'm better off leaving it to the experts.

I'm passionate about food shopping and preparing food. I employ all of my senses and just lose myself in the act. To me, food should be an experience. It can be comforting or sensual or just plain gratifying. There is something so wholesome about that to me. It let's you know you're alive. And when I do in fact cook a meal for someone who truly appreciates it- that is something that I savor long after the 'wares' have been washed. What can I say? I'm a Trini woman. It's how I'm built.

Mambo Italiano Go, Go, Go!

I can remember when I fell in love with Spaghetti and Meatballs. I was 6 years old when I first saw Lady and the Tramp. There was something so sweet and endearing about the way those lovable canines shared that meal. Of course, most will remember the ever-so-innocent kiss that took place via pasta- but mostly what I found unforgettable was the food looking downright delicious.

I was craving comfort food this weekend so naturally I had to whip some up for myself. The entire process was therapeutic. I rolled carefully down the aisles at the grocery- sans purse, which is a rarity for me. I just wanted to be completely unburdened while shopping, so I stuffed my wallet into the front pocket of my green hoodie and rustled up a cart. Sidebar: Why must I ALWAYS grab the cart with the one wheel that won't comply with my autonomy? For some reason, while heading for the produce aisle that dastardly wheel always has other plans. I'm convinced there's a conspiracy hard at work here.

It might sound strange but I absolutely love to food shop, especially when I know exactly what I plan to cook. Selecting the ingredients is pure poetry. The sweet, heady scent of fresh basil, the firmness of the tomatoes, the vibrant colors of a bell pepper trio all let me know that I'm alive and my senses are intact. And then there's the preparation of such a meal. Beating the eggs and rolling the balls of meat into breadcrumbs, the sizzle of the garlic in the olive oil...it's something of a dance to me. Tango to be exact. Somewhat forced but fluid- violent and sensual all at once.

Anyhow, I say that to say this: There is nothing like a good bowl of pasta topped with some well made meatballs. Delicious. And Oh, it doesn't taste quite the same unless you have some beautiful people (or just one really hot person who appreciates Italian cuisine) to share it with. Pop a nice bottle of Red and you're in business.

Mangia! Mangia!



Photo courtesy Corbis

Worth dyin' for, worth killin' for.

This is me at my most indulgent. What is it about Massaman Curry Chicken ? Words escape me as I try to articulate its sweet and savory righteousness. About ten years ago I was introduced to Thai cuisine and never looked back. It’s the only thing I ever order when I go, no matter the Thai restaurant. The only thing. Ever. There is something about the coconut milk, the spice and warmth, that readies me for death with the first forkful. The delicate marriage of potatoes, peanuts and chicken is genuine perfection. It’s something like a first kiss with the person who has occupied your thoughts for an extended period of time. My relationship affair with Massaman has only grown more passionate with time. I would kill for it. So much so, that I completely identify with Johnny Depp’s sociopathic reasoning in Once Upon A Time in Mexico.




I steady my trigger finger around a glass of plum wine. When a creation is that good…balance must be restored at once. Ah, Sweet Massaman. The flavor is everything that is right and wonderful about the world. My last rendezvous with Massaman was in Miami. A quaint place called Bangkok Bangkok. You should swing by if you’re ever in that neck of the woods. Amazing. The cook is still alive for one reason. I left my .45 at the hotel that evening.