Diary of The Food Whore

So I’m in the grocery store last night.

I had just finished my nightly walk - a huge success, by the way. I didn’t trip over any small animals, or things like my own shoes.

Anyway, I was kind of looking like a hot mess, and wanted to just get in, grab my few items and get out of there. So I was in the baking aisle (I know what you’re thinking… were you lost?) And I heard a woman say, “So have you had the spotted dick?”

I was ready to say, ‘look, I realize I look tough but that’s no reason to make gross assumptions’ when I noticed she was asking a man that question. And then I felt, you know, like I was in the middle of the kind of conversation that only takes place in the free clinic.

He responded, “Not for a long time. My family has a spotted dick it is quite proud of.”

Braggart.

I guess.

After they walked passed me I looked up on the shelf and noticed this:

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I hate clowns.

I know, I know… what kind of black-souled human being can hate a clown?

Um, that would be me.

I guess, I don’t know, hate maybe is too strong a word.  But seriously, am I the only one who finds them.. creepy?  All painted big-shoed and horn-honkey.

To clarify - I did love JP Patches.  Because, a child who did not love JP Patches was a child who did not have a television growing up.  But the rest of them… it’s just unsettling. 

Clearly, I have issues.

So we’re talking with The Client the other day and she mentions they are going with a circus theme - the whole ’Big Top’ idea.  We discussed different options, set up, etc.  All very exciting and unique.

But then she said, “Oh!  And we will be having clowns serving cake!”

And then a little part of me died inside. 

Whirlwind days and nights and a lot of windshield time have given me a lot of time to think.  Blog, not so much, but the thinking has been crazy.

Thinking things like, “That’s a new smell in my car.  What could it be this time?”

Or, “Why did the bride lose her biscuit over the napkins.  She asked for red.  And while I understand she changed her mind - the morning of The Wedding - did it occur to her that I do not have ESP? And did it occur to her that her dress did come in a bigger size?”

 Or, “Hot long will this popcorn skin be stuck in my tooth before there is some sort of catastrophic infection that will cost me thousands of dollars at The Devil’s House The Dentist?”

Or, “I wonder if The Wannabe Client thinks calling me 14 times in 3 days will actually - and magically - change my calendar and make me not be booked the day she wants me.

 Or, “Wait… was that a stop sign?”

 Or, “Are those flashing lights for me?……”

Or, “I wonder if that is going to leave a stain…”

Lots of thinking.  Thinking of lots of things.  And food, always thinking of the food.  Like how certain foods remind me of certain places and moments in time.

For instance the aforementioned popcorn seed.  I was eating popcorn the night my blog died.  I will now forever associate popcorn with blog death.  Perhaps more butter and salt will cure that…

And whenever I eat a bagel I think of New York.

And whenever I eat a calzone I think of Virginia Beach.  I recently reconnected with The Friend in California and we were reminiscing about Virginia Beach and the swealtering heat of the day.  And while there was a lot to remember from that day, the one thing that always brings it back is Calzone.

And whenever I see Hollandaise I think of shoes.  And I think of shoes because yesterday I spilled an entire pan of hollandaise on my shoes…

Good times, people.

Good food… good times…

*Note… the old blog is still there.   http://thefoodwhore.com/index2.html

Nick Soutter.   A new friend introduced by a friend.

A new friend who is wildly intelligent, and extremely kind and patient with a girl who said, ‘um, yeah.  It’s broken.  It’s totally broken.’ 

It is all about servers and complicated (to me) stuff that I could not seem to make work.  And apparently, you know, a girl should upgrade things once and a while.  

Whatever.

What do I really know about upgrading?   I am still driving the same car

It was as simple as a few e-mails, a couple of phone calls and a nice Viola!  It’s done.  All set.

Mr. Nick rocks. 

I am hoping he can work the same magic on The Client - the client who has called no less than 5 times to trim the menu.  The Client who keeps rattling on and on about tight budgets.  The same client who said, “…just a simple buffet station in between the martini bars.”

I had to ask.

“Did you say martini bars…sss… as in plural?”

“Oh I misspoke.  What I meant to say was the martini bar and the daquiri bar.”

“You are having a martini bar and a daquiri bar.”

“Yes.  Oh, and a wine bar.  Well, beer and wine.”

“But your budget for the food is…”

“Limited.  We are really trying to pull this thing together on a shoe string.  The band was astronomical, but so worth it.”

“You have a band?”

“We do.  And they are fantastic.”

“So you have a martini bar, a wine bar, a daquiri bar… and a band…”

“Yes!  So much fun.”

I see.  We have enough money to bring Crazy Cousin Cathy into a drunken stupor while doing the electric slide, but we don’t have enough money to provide her with enough food to vomit in the coat closet.

I see.

Mr. Nick… it’s broken, it’s totally broken…

(Author’s Note:  Please be patient with the very vanilla site… I’m working on it…)