Fifteen courses and a treasure chest full of bon bons later, I’ve had the hands-down best dining experience of my life AND have not been murdered. 2014 is off to a great start! Here’s to an incredible year of great food and not dying.
It’s the shortest day of the year! Which is awesome, because that means tomorrow is NOT the shortest day of the year, and eventually it will begin staying light past two in the afternoon.
As my father would have said, “We’re going into the gravy!” Which on one hand makes little to no sense, but on the other is immediately understood by everyone. It’s like a Zen anti-koan. (Also, who doesn’t like gravy?) Genius.
I realize there’s been a lack of curmudgeonliness emanating from this corner of the internet. it’s because I’ve been in Montreal since late June, pretending to be Canadian, and enjoying jazz and their ability to perfectly cook a duck breast.
I took some pictures. They’re over here. You can look if you want.
(I’m back in the States now, and find that my natural curmudgeonly state has reasserted itself undiminished.)
Don’t get your panties in a bunch.
If you’re feeling sorry for yourself because you’re not at South By Southwest and you didn’t get to see Quentin Tarantino sitting alone, writing in his journal at the Omni Hotel bar*, let me see if I can’t give you a feel for what it’s like.
In the exhibition hall, a few booths down from my employer’s booth, there is a booth for company called Yam Trader. Their sign attempts to convince you that “everybody’s jumping on the yamwagon!” In order to entice you to hop on said yamwagon, they’ve spent two entire days erecting and painting a 20-foot-tall styrofoam yam.
One of the many perqs of my job is the travel. For example, this afternoon, I leave for the glamorous state of Rhode Island.
The most direct route from New Jersey to Rhode Island requires driving straight through Connecticut, a state I have vowed to destroy. As I will be absorbed in eating fried clams and coffee milk in mass quantities all weekend, Connecticutians are safe through at least Monday morning, at which point the state is due to be destroyed by a hurricane anyway, thus saving me the trouble.
Now that I think about it, washing Connecticut into the sea could be much environmentally friendly than burning it to the ground and then salting the earth, although I suppose it might contaminate the otherwise pristine Jersey Shore with bits of washed-up Connecticut flotsam. Also there’s a chance that a few people could swim to safety and end up on Long Island, and lord knows Long Island has enough problems.
Anyway, if I don’t make it home because I have (1) been crucified by angry Nutmeggers or (2) am dead of instantaneous fried clam-induced heart disease, know that I have loved you all.
Finally home, after a pedicure-free flight. Time for dog snorgling, food, shower, nap, and work, in that order.