Ah, ‘tis February once again – that eerily mystical time of year when ground-dwelling rodents emerge from a subterranean slumber to dominate the media with meteorological prognostication … when the dangling residue of holiday gorging still drapes seductively from our necks and mid-sections … when gently-used resolutions for a just born new year sit nestled back in their packaging, awaiting their inevitable recycling come next January … and when common sense gives way to a groundswell of collective hysteria as every man’s hopes of seeing his girl naked at some point between now and his next anniversary hinge precariously upon a suitable sacrifice of pink and white in appeasement of the industrial complex.

BAD VALENTINE’S DAY IDEA #1 – “Because I would rather see you get fat than have to go shopping at a real store… Ooh, is that one coconut?”

Yes, pitchers and catchers report. Yes, the cosmic rejuvenation of Opening Day draws nearer by the moment. And yes, you heathen Angels fans of schizophrenic geographic designation (Anaheim? LA? South Central? WTF, dude?) have a big year ahead. But do not be fooled!!

Seriously, you still don’t believe me about the corrosive powers of winter’s bleakest harbinger?

Consider then, if you will, the following entirely discrepant philosophies on conscious awareness and theoretical humanism:

But Boss, you say, “I think, therefore I am. I needeth not make bauble-laden offerings to the fairer sex in order to sustain my masculine virility; for my uncompromising identity rides, unbridled, across the plains of liberty and my oats sown at will.” Ladies, gentlemen, I present to you the sound of unsown oats and a single-serve dinner on a very lonely Valentine’s Day.

BAD VALENTINE’S DAY IDEA #2 – “Look, he’s got a better body than me AND he’s less afraid of commitment. Why are you not thanking me?”

Like the chubby, diapered cheeks of a winged archer-assassin, for every left, there is a right … and you’d better have plenty of pucker to kiss them BOTH, lest chaos reign throughout the land on a particularly Frigid Fourteenth.

“Come on, Wendy. Just one little redrub? Damn Donner Party had it so easy…”

As anybody from Astley to Armstrong, and from Martin to Morgan, will tell you, “You’re nobody ‘til somebody loves you.” And I would dare posit the follow-up presumption that, should somebody decide to UN-love you, you must necessarily flicker out of existence yet again, returning to an inter-existential dimension of hellish nothingness typically reserved for French mimes and Adam Sandler movies.

Indeed

The male chromosome brings wth it a host of relationship inequities. Such is the burden of rugged manliness … but the bottom line is, we ain’t gettin’ a piece unless we’re keeping the peace. So let’s all just suck it up and play ball before someone gets hurt, shall we?

Yes, my forlorn friends, February is a dark time, indeed … created to confuse and terrify even the most stalwart among us with the icy shrinkage of self-doubt. But fear not, for together we shall replace the pitchforks with dinner forks and swap torches for candlelight and, with any luck at all, we can all enjoy our own happy endings. (oh please, you knew it was coming sooner or later … Ha, see what I did there?)

“Daddy? Where do babies come from?”
“Well, Timmy, I’m no doctor but I believe you came from Kay Jewelers and a bottle of Jägermeister …”

But how?? One simple word, amigos: gooey, cheesy, wine-y, decadent, color-coordinated Italian awesomeness.

If we can agree on one thing as a species, it’s that Italians are pretty damn sexy…

‘Nuf…

…said.

And if we can agree on a second, it’s that there will always be exceptions.

…and on this most sacred day of hard-earned nookie and shamelessly purchased affections, where better to turn to ensure that each of us holds our own, while not left holding our own? (ok, ok, I’m totally stopping now … for real)

Stuffed Shells in Roasted Garlic and Cabernet Red Sauce

Ingredients
One box pasta shells

Sauce
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1 tsp garlic, minced
1/2 tsp salt
2 1/2 Tbsp fresh sweet basil, finely chopped
1 Tbsp fresh oregano, finely chopped
1/4 tsp ground white pepper
1 cup julienne sun-dried tomatoes (rehydrated, if necessary)
16 oz tomato sauce (no salt added)
3 Tbsp tomato paste
1 1/2 cup water
1/2 cup California Cabernet red wine (applied ¼ cup at a time)
2 Tbsp turbinado cane sugar
1 tsp balsamic vinegar (20 year)
One entire head roasted garlic (~12 cloves)(No, it won’t kill the mood. Yes, you’re still getting laid. Shut up and roast.)

Cheese Filling
32 oz ricotta cheese
3 cups shredded mozzarella
1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan
½ tsp kosher salt
¼ tsp black pepper

Spinach
6 oz baby spinach, chopped
1 Tbsp olive oil
½ tsp garlic, minced
Pinch of kosher salt

First things first: like any lovesick pazzo looking to tickle the tongue of his ladylove, you’re going to need to roast up some garlic ahead of time. Peel away the excess husk layers and lop the top one-third or so off the top of a medium-sized head to expose the cloves.  The easiest option is to place the entire head into a foil-lined muffin tin and drizzle with olive oil and a dash of kosher salt, then cap with another piece of foil and cook for 45 minutes to an hour at 400°. If you’re feeling really ambitious, do the same with a second head and cook them together so you can mash a few cloves over garlic bread later on.

Sauce Boss disclaims all liability when serving this dish to sparkly vampire types, though I strongly condone it. Damn sissy vampires these days. Get a haircut.

In a large saucepan or Dutch oven, heat the olive oil over medium and add your onions, (UN-roasted) garlic, salt and white pepper and sauté until the onions are more than translucent but less than thoroughly browned. A caramelized onion gives this sauce a ton of depth but too dark a brown just kills the subtlety of its other ingredients.

Take a long look and tell me the words “I want to be with you forever” didn’t just get a little creepy…

Add your fresh herbs and ¼ cup of the Cabernet, then stir and allow the wine to reduce by about half. This shouldn’t take longer than 30 or 45 seconds. While you’re waiting, feel free to drop down and leave a praise-filled comment about how ridiculously awesome your kitchen smells right now. Seriously. Right down at the bottom there…

Now, add the sun-dried tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomato paste, water, sugar and balsamic. Simmer, covered, for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

At the 30-minute mark, add the mashed roasted garlic and give it a stir. Simmer for another 20-30 minutes until the flavors blend. Remove from the heat and allow the sauce to cool, covered, before transferring to the blender. Begin with light pulses of the blender to prevent a buildup of heat from sending sauce EVERYWHERE, then blend it down thoroughly.

BAD VALENTINE’S DAY IDEA #3 – “I showered, I put on pants … how much creativity do you want from me?”

BOSS BONUS: If serving over basic pasta, this sauce is just perfect as-is. Top and serve. But for baking a dish of shells, you want to puree it down to a smooth texture so it properly coats and prevents any burnt tips. Ouch.

Cook the shells according to package directions. If you made your own from scratch, then you don’t need my humble help – but I would welcome an invite.

While the shells cook, add olive oil, minced garlic, kosher salt and chopped baby spinach to a pan and wilt gently, then drain between paper towels and set aside to cool.

In a medium bowl, mix your cheese filling by thoroughly blending the ricotta, mozzarella, freshly grated Parmesan, salt and black pepper along with the drained spinach.

With a spoon or spatula, lay down a thin layer of sauce over the bottom of a 9”x13” casserole dish before tightly lining your stuffed shells and finish by layering the remaining sauce smoothly over the top. Cook with a foil cover at 350° for 30-45 minutes or until bubbling, then uncover and cook an additional 10 minutes.

Dessert, of course, is up to you. I really don’t want to know about it.

But if you’re still dead-set on going a different way, there’s always…

BAD VALENTINE’S DAY IDEA #4 – Because nothing says I want in your pants like a raging sex offender like an adult Valentine’s onesie…

Bored quite literally to tears, and in the grips of the layover to end all layovers in an airport more than 1000 miles out of my way, I have tasked myself with a soul-saving challenge. Today, my friends, I am breaking new ground with my first-ever all-around airport review. Yes, you heard that correctly…right now, at this VERY moment, history is being made – and YOU can tell your grandkids you were right here with me!!

To set the ambience, I find myself in Salt Lake City. If you really want to know why, you’re going to have to ask my new lifelong enemy, Delta Airlines.

They love to fly, and it shows…mostly in the evil cackles and dastardly hand-wringing

I just wanted to get to Phoenix for Comicon but Delta INSISTED on bringing me here. So, darnit, I’m going to make the most of it!! And with that, dawn illuminates a bitchin’ new era…

Salt Lake City International Airport

As I tend to do every time I step off an airplane in a new place, my first order of business was to ensure that I was still, in fact, in the United States:

whew… ok, what’s next

Entertainment:

Salt Lake City boasts a wealth of entertainment options for the traveler on the go. Foremost among them are the mountains. If you, like myself, are an avid outdoorsman and cannot imagine a better way to kill a few hours than a rigorous mountain climb, well…

…I’m sorry, but you’re pretty much out of luck because they’re, like, REALLY far away. Something about landing airplanes and jagged, rocky geological features… I know there was a reason for putting us so far away but I sort of zoned out. Apologies. But they’re awesome for looking at… I’ve been doing it for two and a half hours now!!

But don’t go thinking the fun stops at the bottom of the hillside. Goodness, no. In fact, Salt Lake City (can I call you “SLC”? I feel we have grown to know each other so well since my arrival, and typing out Salt Lake City is just a really annoying bitch) has pioneered amazing innovations in the field of fine art “speed-viewing”.

No longer do you have to linger painfully at a mediocre work of art for fear of appearing artistically disinclined. Step on the moving walkway and the SLC airport will do the moving for you. Talk about a time-saver!! And, since the pieces they have chosen to adorn the walls largely suck, you will not feel the slightest twinge of guilt as you fly by the visual life-work of some obscure nobody. They really think of everything out here in SLC.

Fashion:

While it may not be New York City or Milan, if you really relate (I mean, REALLY relate) to “UTAH” and love that timeless neon hoodie look, you really cannot do better. And, in case subtlety is truly not your thing, take note of the glistening chrome coffee mugs. I hear those are flying off the shelves – but could not confirm this while visiting.

Cuisine:

People ask me all the time, “Boss, where should I eat if I find myself trapped in a concrete valley, surrounded on all sided by impassable mountain peaks, with about four hours to kill?” My answer is now swift and decisive: DO NOT eat at SLC International Airport.

After briefly pondering Utah’s version of Greek food and a few Mexican options, I settled on a little gem of a place, nestled away in the deepest corner of Terminal B. I believe it was called “Wendy’s”… After perusing the lackluster menu, I ambled to the register and threw down my money for a spicy chicken sandwich. Call it a gut feeling but I don’t think Utah is particularly versed in “spicy”…

While the allegedly super fancy natural-cut fries were uninspiring, to say the least, I found a jewel in the rough in a wonderfully pseudo-dairy dessert called a “Frosty” (yes, I’m being a smartass…I’m tired of being in this damn airport already!!). After discussing the Frosty sizing options with the whip-smart cashier, I settled on a medium. Turning her back for a moment, she promptly returned to the counter with a clear large cup, proudly half-filled. I am not entirely sure what look I gave her but it couldn’t have been good because she promptly informed me that they were out of medium cups so she MacGyvered me a medium.

I vaguely recall laughing and telling her to go ahead and just fill it and make it a large. She blinked twice and reached under the counter to retrieve a half-melted, but completely filled medium Frosty (I am NOT making this up. I would not do that to you). As my patience was about to board my flight without me, I took my melted concoction and made way back for the gate.

My final review? I’m ready for Phoenix and all the tequila and Princess-Leia-bikini-dressed women that it has to throw at me. Bring on Comicon and I’ll see SLC again…in my nightmares, if not sooner…

I hail from an age when good triumphed over evil, the concept of “being famous for being famous” would make people sad, and the only polarizing battle between “black” and “white” was waged on an ancient battleground of cookie-liciousness (what, me idealize?).

Far be it from me to allow a bit of harmless introspection to escape my grasp without prompting a verbose pontification of greater implications… As I worked through another day of weaving culinary magic, I began to ponder this apparent devolution of society during my brief lifetime…and came to one conclusion: good and evil may be artificial constructs that can only exist within a vacuum devoid of any degree of context and Paris Hilton will never, ever go away…BUT this black vs white thing is utterly asinine and we ALL need to get the hell over it, like, NOW.

Yes, I get profound when I cook… What, you don’t?

Never one to back down from the opportunity to charge myself with single-handedly spearheading a nationwide campaign for social change, I hereby formally propose a national movement of getting over our intolerant selves and bringing our neolithic asses into the 21st century, once and for all. And we shall do so, my friends, by calling to order the first-ever “Forget Our Counterproductive, Kafkaesque, Intolerant, Tedious Asshattery and Let Live” Day…

Yes, together we can all share in the blame for the past, we can all forgive the person to our left in the present, and we can ALL take that first step toward a better future by standing proud, raising our arms into the winds of change, and emphatically declaring “FOCKITALL” to anybody and everybody who crosses our day. (Warning: you may get punched…a lot. Remember, some people fear change.)

Black? White? Hell, we never even noticed – we’re just a crotchety old retiree and a psychotic loose cannon authorized by the municipal government to carry a gun, but we proudly support Proposition “FOCKITALL“

Ok, so we’ve got a platform and an acronym…who’s in charge of t-shirts?

Now, I could hulk out and go on for days about how tiresome and ridiculous our endless obsession with personal differences has become in an otherwise entirely interactive and interconnected global civilization, but I know most of you are just here for the cookies.

We, too, proudly advocate “FOCKITALL“…and cookies – long as they’re both ebony and ivory, baby.

Well, tough…because I am pretty sure I’m going to hulk out just a little bit. I mean, come on, we live in a time when we have cracked the human genome and could probably clone a mammoth-saurus® over the weekend, if science wasn’t so busy already being awesome in a million other ways…and yet, at this moment, states are imposing arcane restrictions on marital rights for a specific subset of hard-working, tax-paying Americans, based primarily on pants-wetting fear and groundless personal suppositions of morality. I can’t help but wonder what it must have been like when America woke up on August 18, 1920, as an enlightened country that allowed and encouraged the voting rights of women…before looking back at America, circa August 17th and wondering, “who the hell were those cavemen?“

We’ll “FOCKITALL” too – for ONE dollar!!

But let us not lose sight of the uplifting fact that you and I are changing tomorrow – right now – by initiating a proposition against any more intolerant societal bullshit, using my harmonious black and white cookies as a conduit. Isn’t the Internet great? It doesn’t even have to make sense!!

Old-Fashioned New York Black and White Cookies

Cookie:
4 cups cake flour (all-purpose flour is entirely different and will not yield the same results)
1 3/4 cups sugar
1 cup milk
16 Tbsp unsalted butter (softened)
2 eggs
1 Tbsp fresh lemon juice
1 tsp Mexican vanilla extract
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking powder

Icing:
5 cups confectioners’ sugar
1/3 cup filtered water
1/4 cup corn syrup (light)
2 oz melted unsweetened chocolate
1/2 tsp Mexican vanilla extract
2 tsp water ( to dilute as necessary)

Preheat the oven to 350º and set your oven rack to middle position. Combine flour, salt and baking powder in a bowl and set aside.

Beat together the butter and sugar (preferably in a stand mixer on medium speed) until light and aerated. Add in the vanilla, eggs and lemon and continue mixing until well combined.

Bring your mixer speed to low and add in one-third of the flour mix and 1/2 cup milk until blended. Repeat until all ingredients are fully incorporated into the batter.

A proper New York black and white cookie should be sizable but not overwhelming, so use a 1/4 cup measuring cup to mound batter onto a parchment paper-lined cookie sheet. You don’t want the batter to spread too thin so gently use a dampened finger to round off the top of the mound without applying too much pressure. Allow ample space between mounds for a slight expansion while cooking.

Cook for approximately 12-15 minutes, or until the slightest browning becomes visible on the bottom rim of the cookie. In most ovens, I would recommend rotating the tray halfway through the cooking time to ensure consistent heat.

If you have never tried an authentic black and white cookie, they tend to perfectly straddle the line between cookie and cake in consistency. This means they are delicate but, if done right, sturdy. Once removed from the oven, you’re going to want to leave the cookies to cool on the pan for about 10 minutes before moving them to a cooling rack. Moving them sooner will likely result in a disastrous mess of crumbs and breakage. For the next batch, remember to line the sheet with a fresh lining of parchment paper, as the paper tends to absorb moisture and distort with each batch.

…and don’t “forget” to “FOCKITALL” (HAHA, neuralyzer humor…but seriously…)

For the icing, heat your corn syrup and water to a boil, then remove it from the heat and mix in the confectioners’ sugar and vanilla until you’ve got a smooth consistency. Now, split this equally into two bowls. In one of these bowls, add in the melted chocolate and as much of your 2 teaspoons (or more, if required) of water as you need to make the chocolate icing manageable for spreading.

Ice one half of each cookie with the chocolate icing and set the cookies aside for about 20 minutes to solidify, then ice the other half with your vanilla icing and let the finished cookies set for an hour or so before serving.

Enjoy with a tall glass of milk (chocolate or otherwise) and all the pride of a social movement pioneer and a truly admirable humanitarian.

I SAID, won’t you help us to “FOCKITALL“?

_________________________________________

Somewhere out there, some jackass is saying “hey, how come you put the WHITE part in front?” This is the enemy.

EPILOGUE: If you love cookies and share The Boss’s exhaustion toward overblown superficial personal differences and disdain for media fear-mongering dragging down the advancement of social relations, please feel free to COMMENT, “Like”, tweet, stumble, pin and otherwise share this bittersweet diatribe with the rest of the world. Let’s get “FOCKITALL” trending around the globe and EVERYONE gets a cookie…but you’re bringing your own damn milk. I’m not running a charity here.

And so it was this morning as I lost myself in a brief catatonic stasis (yes, another one… no, I do not need to “see someone” about it), standing mid-kitchen, somewhere between an unprepared bowl of oatmeal and the siren song of the coffee pot. I was conscious of my surroundings, yes. I had surveilled the countertop to ensure the ritualistic elements of my morning breakfast routine were at the ready. And yet, I was not “whole.” Oddly, and without warning, my thoughts had retreated inward, yet I recall passively watching my subconscious frolic somewhere out in the middle distance.

Yes, I am pretty sure I was giving myself the thousand-yard-stare. And, as my gaze unlocked with…myself…it’s complicated…after what felt an uneasy eternity, a tiny ember of truth expanded forth with the blinding MichioKakuan force of an over-eager singularity, bursting at its adolescent seams with testosterone and galactic energy…

An epiphanic event so epic, it was totally narrated by this guy…for free.

…I was not a chef with recipes to share… I was not a wordsmith, channeling his craft through a generalized gustatory muse… And I was not the long-awaited, perfected, culmination of 65 million years of lovably snarky evolution in dire need of a written outlet…

Well, ok, technically, that part might still be true…

…I had become… A BLOGGER.

For approximately 1.7 seconds, this awakening made the most beautifully flawless sense you can possibly imagine. Law was brought to a chaotic system – flown in on the wings of an angel and kissed, gently, with the warm authority of cosmic balance…

For approximately 1.7 seconds, Handel’s “Messiah” hung in the air before clashing to the ground as the first three bars of John Carpenter’s “Halloween” theme…

For approximately 1.7 seconds…

And then it began to dawn on me: the evolutionary convergence of my inner writer and my outer chef into one cohesive identity is not the ultimate discovery of a long-sought voice. To the contrary, the realization has only provided me a pick axe, compass and hand grenade with which to try and FIND myself a voice. In the process of weaving personal passions into verbal conveyances that inherently carry fragments of my soul, one obvious question surfaces repeatedly… Who am I???

Oh God, it’s high school all over again!!

The more I thought about it, though, the more I began to hope that this tumultuous voyage is exactly what sets this blog apart from the countless others out there… This is not a standard recipe collection and it is certainly not a primer on cooking like grandma. I want your visit to be an EVENT: front-row seats to a bare-knuckle brawl between the mad chef, the irrepressible poet and the socially irritable satirist that hopefully keeps you, the inspiration behind it all, coming back for more.

Put another way, my passion for food mirrors my obsession for life on a larger scale… And I have always sucked at keeping my passions limited in number. But perhaps this is exactly the harmless schizophrenia that I should be culturing and nurturing for the benefit of society as a whole – or, far more likely, for the brief-yet-genuine amusement of a discrete and insular minority within that society…an awesome minority that embraces the belief that it is not always recipes, but rather personality, that makes food fun. Perhaps my voice is not hiding entirely within a realm of ingredients and process, but rather flitting the boundaries of some inter-dimensional space where there can never be too many cooks in the kitchen – as long as they all reside within the same over-crowded head…

But where can a bewildered, conflicted and fragmented soul find a utopian world in which to commit such multi-faceted textual alchemy without fear of reprisal…?

…oh that’s right… I’m a blogger.

…the journey continues…

These words, forever burnt into my conscious along with every brush-stroke of subtle nuance with which they were so cavalierly delivered, were spoken long ago by a man that none of us should aspire to be like…that comically smug type of man who will always – always – know better than you.

Honestly, I cannot fathom falling into such a sad resignation of life itself. It is one thing to groan every time we read of another unnecessary Hollywood remake, or throw profanities and tangibles at the TV during yet another rehashed promo, thinly veiled as a new movie and yet not-so-veiled as to hide the fact that it is rehashing something that succeeded once before. For there, we are not lamenting mankind itself but merely the wealthy idiots willing to violently pillage our memories to line their own pockets with a few more crumbs of cash (Yes, F*ck you, Michael Bay. F*ck you twice with the broad side of a rusty garden tool).

Bumblebee will NEVER be a damn Camaro. SAY IT!!

It is another thing entirely to allow oneself to first accept, and then embrace, an emotionally bankrupt lifestyle of justification whereby one’s own lack of ambition or creative inspiration mystically and delusionally becomes “insightful” by application of the “realist” tag.

Make no mistake, creativity is not dead. It is simply difficult. Imagination is rare and becomes rarer still, the further we remove ourselves from our wide-eyed, youthful enthusiasm and clip our own wings because it is so much easier than saying “no, thank you” to the drab, monochromatic establishment…

...there's a good lad.

I begrudge nobody for the lack of time, energy or inclination to do their own thing. I love lots of people without a creative bone in their entire family tree (because mixed metaphors are AWESOME)… but I’ll be damned if I don’t take someone to task for trying to mitigate their own inabilities by dragging everyone else down with them. Such a silly mindset disrespects me and, more importantly, it disrespects you.

I can only thank any and every higher power out there for, prior to this soul-sapping diatribe, exposing me to a wealth of reasons to utterly discount this man’s self-aggrandized wisdom…including bearing involuntary witness to his unholy violation of the brave elastic waistband on an utterly ill-advised pair of “choo choo”-print stretch pants.

…and I choo choo choose to avert my eyes while heaving, violently.

All that said, my point is zen-simple: don’t let some jerkwater schmuck downplay your ability to contribute something new and fascinating to the rest of us just because that surly person can’t do what you can do… It’s people like that who deflate dreams and cast a blur over true vision.

On the inside, she's already blogging about this

People like that did not invent the automobile… People like that did not inspire art- and literature-driven social movements… And people like that most definitely did not give the world spicy candied bacon or balsamic caramels, half-dipped in dark chocolate and sprinkled with sel gris and love (oh yeah, LOTS more still to come. You might want to bookmark).

Perhaps this is why I cook like I do…and I know it’s why I write like I do. There are still countless contributions to be made. So what if our false Hollywood idols have forsaken artistry and new ideas in streamlining their money-making machine? And why should we really care that a few sad individuals truly seem to believe that all the ideas and breakthroughs of which the human race is capable have now been poured into the Internet, to be plucked and rehashed until doomsday? The laziness of a few does not give us cause to write off our vision and stop innovating altogether, does it?

well said

For those of us nurturing even one small talent within us – no matter what form it may take – the world will always hold wonder. For we, the impossibly fortunate majority, exist perpetually on the cusp of a new strike of inspiration which, when embraced and applied, will change the world forever…even if nobody else notices the ripples at the time.

There is one particular quote – a favorite of mine that I keep mentally nearby at all times, specifically for those moments when the arrogant ignorance and ineptitude of another threatens to corrode its way through my last fibre of tolerance and send me scaling up a clock-tower (which I also happen to keep mentally nearby)…

The author Anaïs Nin (strange chick…a little kinky…awesomely insightful) once said:

“We don’t see things as they are, we see things as we are.”

I’m not sure how open this is to interpretation but I like to think that someone once stood before Ms. Nin and tried to tell her that something she poured her heart and soul into was nothing more than a conglomeration of stale past ideas and was, therefore, worthy of no recognition.

Whoa, choo choo pants… Anaïs Nin just called you a dick!!

I like your style, Anaïs Nin.

MANY more fun, inspiring and innovative recipes & anecdotes to come… Eat that, status quo.

Although, to be fair, I do give you pretty things to look at and my undying virtual companionship

For that particular transgression, however, you will have to blame my passion for the topic. I can assure you that I never start out a new entry with the blow-hard intent to drown my fair, loyal, attractive and, hopefully, manipulable readers in an unyielding wash of crashing verbal rapids.

No, the process always begins innocuously enough…typically, with a diligently crafted ingredient list, its corresponding set of protocols, about 20 minutes of uncontrollable sobbing over a lifetime of regrets – and a good-hearted compulsion to share with you not only the technical details of amazing food, but the playful joy of the journey.

After all, recipes are to be appreciated and respected for what they are – rough roadmaps, hastily sketched on the back of your napkin just a fleeting second before the thought escapes you. The true fun begins when you stuff that napkin in your pocket and set off on the journey depicted thereon. Of course, there will be detours, ill-advised yet irresistible shortcuts and the occasional spontaneous decision to scrap the whole damn idea in favor of half a store-bought cheesecake, methodically sacrificed to the backdrop of a Grey’s Anatomy marathon. Because, honestly, who the hell ever reflected in old age, regaling their young listeners with the story of that one time they followed the directions precisely?

"and then…ohhhhh, how I THOUGHT about adding that third egg white… BUT…………*yadayadayada*………….and the next morning I woke up pregnant with Tom Jones' love-child. Ok, little sugarplums, time for bed…!!"

And if you’re not wondering what the hell my point is by now, then you probably zoned out somewhere around the title (…could you put down the damn sudoku for a minute? I’m trying to have a moment here). I’m sure I speak for nobody but myself here but, personally, I find no greater satisfaction in life than that found in a heartfelt “thank you” from someone I didn’t even know I helped. All the gratitude of a legitimate hero but none of the obnoxious hard work. Am I right? Well, today, and simply because you are reading this right now, I want to extend that same gratitude to you.

As some of you already know – and the rest of you now will – it has been a rough and unpaved road traveled over the past few months, since launching my humble little sauce company to amazingly encouraging reviews. Along the way, I have met so many incredible people who taught me so much. But, as with any winding road, I have also crossed paths with some of the seedier sides of human nature and greed… I have come to see that there are people in this world willing to slit the throat of trust itself for the opportunity to grab one more handful of cash…and it has saddened me immeasurably.

Saddened, yes, but I find it has not soured me. To the contrary, the uncomfortably close proximity to such money-driven moral erosion and comically gargantuan egos has only served to inspire me to counter that negativity with kindness…good…sharing… It has encouraged me to reach out and get to know all of you (so start leaving some damn comments already…or a doctor’s note regarding your broken fingers)…people who embrace, not merely tolerate, great food, offbeat humor and the element of the Great Unknown around the next corner.

So… I have lost months of my life… I have lost a promising business born of my own soul… And I may have lost a little faith in the general human condition. Why the hell am I thanking you??? Well, to be honest, you have given me license and encouragement to begin creating again. You have re-released the lovably caustic Kraken of smartassery and let him run rampant through the kitchen once more.

And you have kept me honest, forcing upon me the zen reality that miserable people will always be miserable and life is all about having fun at their expense…

I love my new friends!!

There are certain dishes in the gourmet universe that just scream “PROTOTYPICAL COMFORT” to your average food-worshiper, and I am sure I don’t stand alone in putting risotto atop that list… So, when I recently surveyed my surroundings, in search of a shining beacon of inspiration for my latest culinary entry – only to find myself adrift in a sea of restless uncertainty; without anchor, tether or any apparent means of halting my tide-bound ebb and flow -  “comfort” was the very subject that commanded center stage.

Still, seeking safe harbor in generic ol’ Risotto Bay is a cop-out, isn’t it? Much like calling ice cream one’s favorite dessert – it says a lot without conveying much of anything… By opening the door to risotto, are we not really just pulling the curtain from the window of possibility? Touting the culinary virtues of risotto does not place one before a masterpiece so much as it leaves one, gawking, at the threshold of an entire museum…

But therein lies the very essence of adventure… In the abstract, lawless badlands that reside between fuzzy safety and likely disaster lies a blank slate of gastronomic bravado whose boundaries are that of imagination…

"HEY!! Y'know, that's not half-bad… Mind if I use that?"

…a landmarkless terrain where right and wrong are phantom concepts and every journey taken is “off the beaten path”… an unsupervised playground where guts meet glory and the rubber meets the road. A foreign land of suspended propriety, it is virtually impossible to explain to someone who has never stood at the cliff’s edge and peered across it first-hand, other than to say…well…have you ever been to Connecticut?

(“There are lots of different ways to make risotto…I guess would be what I’m getting at…but this is one you’re going to LOVE.”)

They say the best revenge is living well… Well, if that is true then you’re not going to get much revenge before starving to death if you don’t, first and foremost, EAT well. Seriously, I’m so smart sometimes that it legitimately startles me. I’m just plodding along through my day with basic, mere-mortal-level thoughts and then, suddenly, it’s like, *BOOM* “WHOA, damn I’m good…”

…oh, sorry…

…and since I plan on living long enough to exact sweet, sour, salty, bitter, umami revenge on my own evil personal demons, I intend to fuel this vigilante crusade with the most mouth-watering, la-vida-loca-livingly-flamboyant, “in your face” food conceivable… And unless this is your first visit (WELCOME), you know that’s rudimentary Bossian code for………………

Fried by day, or smoked at night…No evil shall escape my sight…Let those who worship evil's might…Beware my power, and possible early coronary artery disease…*BA-ZING*

Now, where were we…? Ah, yes…

Spinach, Bacon & Gorgonzola Risotto

5 cups chicken stock (reduced sodium)
1 1/2 cups arborio rice
1/2 cup dry white wine
12 oz baby spinach
6 oz sweet onion, finely chopped
3 oz gorgonzola
2 oz shallot, finely chopped
1 oz crispy bacon
(reserve about 1 Tbsp bacon drippings, optional)
2 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp olive oil
2 Tbsp parmesan
1/4 tsp kosher salt
1 clove garlic, minced
black pepper, to taste

Cook up the bacon in a cast-iron skillet or stovetop-friendly pan until crispy, drain and set aside. Remember to reserve 1 Tbsp of drippings for later.

Saute garlic in olive oil, over medium heat, until fragrant. Add in the baby spinach and salt, and gently stir until wilted. Set this aside as well.

In a 4-6 quart stock pot or dutch oven, saute the onions and shallots with 2 Tbsp butter and bacon drippings, until golden – not a burnt dark brown but a nicely caramelized color. Add the rice to onions and shallots and continue sauteing. When the arborio becomes translucent, add in your white wine (I’m a Pinot Grigio junkie, personally) and stir until fully absorbed…

No, wait, that should be “until it’s fully absorbed by the RICE…”

*sigh* ok, you can have a LITTLE bit…

Begin adding in the chicken stock, one cup at a time. Once the first cup is fully absorbed, add in the next, etc., stirring often through the process. This should take approximately 18 minutes. You will want to reserve the last 1/4 cup of stock for the final step to come. While you can begin adding in chicken stock cold, I like to bring mine to a quick boil and keep it warm on the side. Adding in pre-warmed stock tends to speed up the process somewhat — and you know who loves a big ol’ hot pot of eau de chicken stock infusing his kitchen with aromatic inspiration?

...THIS GUY.

KUMMERSPECK – Now with actual “Speck”!!

While we have a few minutes to kill, I genuinely consider it my humble duty to occasionally further the lexicon by hijacking words from other languages that should REALLY exist in our own. And while the Germans may have lost a few rather high-profile races in history…

"Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds… Who's your daddy NOW?" - Julius Robert Oppenheimer, bona fide badass (and unconfirmed risotto enthusiast)

…it can be safely said that they run circles around the rest of the Western world when it comes to weird fetishes and descriptive terminology…perhaps none more timely or appropriate, given the sheer awesomeness of this dish, than the epic colloquialism: kummerspeck. Literally, this three syllable powerhouse translates into a simple, yet elegant “grief bacon” — and I can confirm, after substantial research, that the English language has absolutely nothing that comes close. As if a word of such immense perfection even requires meaning, the etymology of the term points, oddly specifically, to any degree of weight gained as a direct result of emotionally-induced overeating…

Downed three pints of Ben & Jerry’s after a bad breakup? BAM, kummerspeck!! Rampant, crippling boredom’s got you reaching for the Krispy Kreme? Enjoy the kummerspeck!! Gorging on a boatful of risotto because the lovely, talented and immensely vivacious Kathy Ireland never got back to you (probably because she lost your number and has, no doubt, been searching for it for days)? You guessed it…

Bad break, champ...how about a heaping serving of jiggly, caterwauling grief bacon?

…aaaaaaaaaaand, let’s call that 18 mercifully short minutes.

Once all your chicken stock has been absorbed (minus the bit you held back), go ahead and stir back in your spinach and bacon and cook for two more minutes. Add in the gorgonzola, parmesan and remaining 1/4 cup of stock and blend it all together until the cheeses are melted and thoroughly incorporated. Adjust with salt and pepper to taste — and feast with all the blind fury of a vengeance-driven masked avenger, determined – against all odds – to uncover his own shadowy past with the dramatic flair of the amnesiac love-child of Stan Lee and Michael Bay…and bring those who have done him wrong to vigilante justice…

(“…enjoy your risotto…is pretty much what I’m trying to convey.“)

Served here with roasted lemon asparagus

As you may know, I am a man who thrives on mystery…a man who feeds on it, I guess you could say. Do disembodied spirits still walk among us? What really happens inside the event horizon of a black hole? Why the hell do they call a cut of meat from the shoulder of an animal a “Boston Butt”??? (my array of passions can be…eccentric)

But the fascinating thing about any good mystery is the force of curiosity catalyzed by the mystery itself, independent of the issue being shrouded. Once unveiled, the cold and clinical underlying facts will invariably fall short of hopes and expectations and we will be left feeling cheated and lessened. What’s behind Door #1 will never be as fascinating as what could be behind Door #1.

Need real-world proof? Let us consider the Great Boston Butt issue… For those of us not burdened with an over-abundance of knowledge, the self-created visuals are limitless. For me, genetically programmed with a lifetime of American League East superiority, I find myself envisioning a city dripping with history and tradition, and filled with all the world-class ass a man could ever imagine…

HA, gotcha…for disambiguation of the term "ass," see…………now, when's the next train back to civilization?

The more astute among you have probably already picked up on today’s theme. Today, I am piggybacking (get it?) on an earlier recipe and putting my famous recado rojo to work on braised pork shoulder. Today, we revive a truly ancient dish – originally feasted on by the Mayans of the remote Yucatán Peninsula – and give it a slight Bossian twist… Ok, maybe more of a respectful addition… There may not be many things The Boss holds reverent but mathematical genius and bloodthirsty warrior tribes make the short list.

"...a wise choice, soft little man."

It should come as no surprise that a culture capable of advanced astronomical theory, iconic Pre-Columbian architecture and time-tested messianic calculations could whip up a pretty stellar feast when properly motivated but we tend to gloss over this element of Mayan civilization when marveling at their epic historical awesomeness.

and these were NOT a people who embraced the concept of "bland"

So, what do you feed a proud warrior-scholar tradition on-the-go? …actually, I’m not entirely sure since this particular dish takes a few hours to get just right (relax, it’s mostly oven time) and I have yet to see a verifiable recipe for a Mayan power bar — and don’t think I haven’t looked…because I would patent the mierda out of that formula and retire to my own hacienda, populated entirely by war-painted Yucatecan beauties, before the paint even dried on my newly-commissioned jaguar headdress.

"I, too, had a dream…….once…"

But I digress (which is pretty much how you know it’s really me)… Fare thee well, my gilded senoritas, for at least one more day… For as the sun rises on another glorious Mesoamerican morning, we set aside our traditional maize, squash and chile peppers in favor of a special treat.

Cochinita Pibil

Approximately 3 pounds boneless pork shoulder, fat intact
1 1/2 cups Seville orange juice (or substitute, if necessary, with 2 parts grapefruit juice to one part orange and one part lime)
2 Tbsp Recado Rojo paste (see, I told you we’d get back to this)
Whole banana leaves (optional), for braising
Queso Oaxaca (optional), for garnish
Cilantro (optional), for garnish

Cilantro-Lime Rice

4 cups water
2 cups basmati rice
3 Tbsp lime juice
2 Tbsp canola or vegetable oil
2 Tbsp cilantro, finely chopped
1 tsp kosher or sea salt

If you’ve already prepared the recado rojo paste, linked to above (and here too, ya lazy bum), then you’re off to a good start. If not, quick, go back in time and make it fast!! Some people will suggest simply buying achiote rojo paste online or from a local ethnic specialty market but I have always found this pointless, as you will need to add back in most of the spices and seasonings the mass-produced version already includes if you want anything resembling a fresh flavor. And I can honestly say that the earthy subtlety and layering of herbally-fueled flavors are best enjoyed as fresh as possible.

Like many other decadent dish, this one is well worth planning ahead for…which is fortunate, because you will – in fact – have to plan ahead for it. It is best to start the marination process the day before you plan to serve this dish. To do so, add your two tablespoons of recado rojo paste to the Seville orange juice and thoroughly whisk, until fully incorporated.

Cube your pork shoulder (Boston Butt – god, I just LOVE saying that) into chunks between 1 1/2 and 2 inches each. Don’t be tempted to trim the fat because you’re going to want it to render during the extended braising process.

I find it easiest to marinate just about any type of meat in a large ziploc-type bag (SEALED – for our more remedial friends). This allows me to flip the bag as necessary to ensure everything stays evenly coated. I then rest the bag in a glass or non-reactive metal pan in the fridge. Whatever marination process you prefer, you want to give the marinade at least several hours to allow the citrus base to do its thing and properly break down the connective tissue.

[PHOTO OMITTED HERE BC, LET'S FACE IT, A BAG OF MEAT JUST ISN'T THAT SEXY]

Double-layer a sizable casserole dish or roasting pan with aluminum foil of sufficient length to fold back over and seal. If you can get your hands on some banana leaves, they really do make a difference but they are not in any way crucial. If you do have them, create a bit of an overlapped nest of leaves within the foil-lined pan…

I prefer the nutty flavor and underlying notes of a floral bouquet imparted by the lower leaves of the dwarf cavendish sub-species over the more acrid bitterness of the gran nain or plantain……..HA, I'm totally screwing with you. Any banana leaves will do.

Basically, we are doing our best to replicate the ancient methods invoked in this dish and, until I gain a readership with sufficient culinary commitment to taking a back-hoe to the lawn and installing a subterranean Central American char-pit, the least I can do is advocate for the damn banana leaves.

Fold the banana leaves and/or foil layer over to create a seal and cook in a 325°F oven for at least 3 hours. At this point, it is a good idea to begin checking internal temperature for doneness. You want the meat practically flaking apart and this generally means aiming for a temperature of 160° to 170°.

Pictured: about 170°...how you doin'?

Once you hit your target temperature, remove the cochinita from the oven and let it rest about 10 minutes. Ladle with a slot spoon into a large bowl and shred the cubes, just as you would shred pulled pork. Once shredded, I like to pour in a bit of the residual marinade from the pan – but I do my best to siphon off what I can of the oils and fat.

About two hours into the braising process (i.e., an hour or so before it’s finished), you want to think about beginning your cilantro-lime rice.

Sauté your rice in the canola or vegetable oil until translucent and then add the water. Bring it all to a boil and cook for about 17 minutes for basmati (or 20 minutes for white long-grain). Remove from heat and DO NOT UNCOVER for thirty minutes, giving the steam time to naturally “fluff” the rice. Just prior to serving, dissolve the salt into the lime juice and mix in, along with cilantro.

I generally prefer to keep the finished dish as simple and rustic as possible but a sprinkling of cilantro or queso oaxaca (a semi-soft Mexican cheese, analogous to mozzarella) would not be inappropriate. Some will splash a bit more lime juice over the dish at the table but I personally prefer to not overwhelm the surprisingly sophisticated layering of balanced flavors.

And, if you’re not really a rice person (…weirdo…), the cochinita meat lends itself equally well to contemporary tacos (alongside micro-greens, queso oaxaca and a splash of salsa verde), flautas or what I just decided will be my next batch of tamales…………damn, this blog is going to make me fat.

…or, of course, served with a side of my stupidly-hot Yellow Spring Salsa (with mango and Andean manzano chiles).

I always make margaritas for two...especially when I'm drinking alone.

I’ve always considered myself a rather good-natured and mellow guy… I don’t kick puppies* unless they refuse to move and I can count on three hands (not all mine) the number of times I have overtly taunted my fellow man to a degree that would secure my passage to hell. Truth be told, I’m a misguided pacifist…a dove of peace at a NRA convention…a Mohist disciple, adrift in a sea of self-important feudal lords. I’ve never seen the point in letting the misery and bitterness of other people damage my inner peace by igniting my own contempt…until I gave it a try!! Wow.

*no puppies were harmed in the making of this blog entry...especially this guy.

Let me just say that I’ll never go back to a harnessed chi again… Lame. From now on, if I genuinely dislike you, I’m gonna raise my glass to you in scornful tribute. Until my damn arm doesn’t want to lift anymore.

Until someone hybridizes the manslaughter-banana (Patent Pending), the blood orange may just be the most perfectly passive-aggressive fruit on the market today — a fat little culinary voodoo doll with all the visual satisfaction of a bloody crime scene — but none of the embarrassing prison time.

And on a sultry day like today, as rising temperatures shorten tempers dramatically, the only thing better than gruesomely slaying a sanguine little oompa loompa-fruit with a dull, serrated blade might be…tequila. And NEVER let it be said that The Boss lacks a knack for combining awesome stuff, not unlike a culinary Dr. Moreau, into something you just didn’t see coming…

Based on a true story... Just sayin'

Could I make you a phenomenally elegant terrine with 6 inches of duct tape, a coconut and two AA batteries? Hard to say, as I rarely work with coconut… But I can turn the eviscerated life-force of a small pile of unsuspecting citrus into a margarita with a twist — and now you can too!!

Pictured: official food groups in Margaritaville

Blood Orange Margarita

3 tbsp (1.5 oz) silver tequila
2 tbsp (1 oz) fresh blood orange juice
2 tbsp (1 oz) fresh lime juice
2 tbsp (1 oz) agave nectar
1 tbsp (0.5 oz) cointreau or triple sec (though I’m partial to Citronge)

Now, I’ve met the type of pretentious person who will tell you – at eye-gouging length – that there is only one correct way to chill down your margarita (or martini) on the rocks and, I won’t lie…I was as tempted to Voorhees the nearest blood orange as you are. All I will say here is that you want to make sure to fill the shaker with enough ice to make sure you can quickly chill down the drink. Too little ice will create too significant a temperature fluctuation when you add in the room-temperature ingredients and water down your drink. Too much ice will jam up the shaker and prevent sufficient mixing. Both alternatives would suck.

While your basic “simple syrup” would do the job in this recipe, we all know that anything “simple” is fundamentally out of sync with my philosophy of bringing sheer, adrenaline-pulsing adventure to any recipe I vamp. Using agave nectar adds a touch of depth to the final flavor that you just can’t match with plain sugar.

Because Knowledge is Power:

Did you know the blood orange is given its iconic pigmentation by a mutation that creates an unusual amount of anti-oxidants in the flesh? That means it’s totally good for you. I suggest making yours a double…

...or maybe a triple, if you're looking for a good time - and a solid alibi.

You see, you can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat the lemons that life throws at them. In fact, next to “breast size”, I find this delineation to be one of the most useful methods available for meaningfully categorizing the populace into easily-catalogued segments.

...although, I suppose leg-based categorization works too…if you're some kinda sicko.

The most irrepressibly generic among us tend to make lemonade…those smug, old-school bastards, always smiling and happy. Try and turn my frown upside down??? Friend, I EARNED this frown!! Try a tour of duty through law school and two viewings of the last Pirates of the Caribbean movie and then let’s chat about pain… I sure hope you have lemonade-maker’s insurance, you self-righteous little…

Always wanna punch them in the face for some reason. But then my sense of moral obligation turns back on me, forcing me to feel bad for having such thoughts — especially when they’re children.

Keep it up, kid…call down the thunder.

Of course, this just pisses me off even more since I should be able to fantasize about face-bopping those damn optimistic hippies however I want, am I right?? This is America, damnit… I am somewhat acquainted with people who fought for that freedom… What, me? No, no…I totally would have but I was born a lover, remember? Can’t fight genetics and all…

Needless to say, violence typically ensues as my inner turmoil spills outward…and then there’s all the screaming (the lemonaders in this scenario NEVER fight back. They pretty much always cower and shriek like schoolgirls – which just isn’t cool, except for that one fight I got into with a schoolgirl…absolutely got my ass handed to me…not my best day)…and then the policemen…and the pepper spray…

I guess my point being a simple one: in the wrong hands lemonade can be a vile, noxious brew of smug self-righteousness…a hellish libation, spiced with pure, self-indulgent tripe and funneled to your glass through an upturned battle horn of fermented evil — but, you know, to each his own…

Suuuure, they say they're working for you...

The more enterprising set in this high-stakes world of involuntary lemon adoption will often grab a few limes and raid their liquor cabinet en route to a kick-ass margarita. THESE are the people we all want to hang with. Unfortunately, such people seem invariably incapable of taking down a proper address to save their lives…always losing my invites in the mail… I mean, once or twice is understandable but… Wai…wait a damn minute… You know what, screw them too!!

Isn't Jersey Shore on somewhere? (I didn't even know a "Douchebag Party" was a thing until I Google searched for this image and died a little bit inside)

Then you’ve got those of us who see the world of citrus as a realm of limitless possibility, so often abused with simplistic, heavy-handed zeal and yet so uniquely suited to subtly enhance a borderless expanse of dishes for anybody who can see past the desiccated wedge on an expired bed of curled parsley, quietly cursing you from the “garnish corner” of your plate.

For people with this particular zest for life (you see what I did there), I humbly offer up the world’s most cutting edge, phenomenal and super-wicked-awesome soup EVER. Sophisticated enough to be a meal’s main focal point, yet sufficiently light for a friend in need of a ‘Get Well Soon’ pick-me-up — or a little hair o’ the dog…

Sit, Wino, Sit… Good dog. *WOOF*

(In a fit of Churchillian brilliance, I actually wrote out the recipe first just in case I sank too deep into the cooking wine along the way…which, as you can see above…………I may have…)

RECIPE

1 chicken breast (boneless & skinless)
5 cups all-natural chicken stock (reduced sodium works best)
1/2 cup risoni pasta (often called orzo to us Westerners)
1/3 cup Pinot Grigio
6 oz fresh baby spinach
2 eggs, fully whisked
1 oz of lemon juice (about 1 1/2 lemons)
1 tbsp shallot, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tbsp butter
3/4 tsp kosher salt
zest of 1 lemon
chives to garnish

*kaffir lime leaf (both segments) — Of course, this is not necessary but if you’re awesome enough to have your own kaffir lime tree growing out back (and I totally am) then it’s a total no-brainer to *BAM* this bad boy into the mix.

The Soup Trinity of the future, my friends... While the classic French mirepoix combines celery, onion and carrots for a standard soup base and the Cajun trinity substitutes sweet bell peppers for the carrot, this lemony-limey trio will earn its own street cred the first time you slurp down this recipe.

First things first: melt your butter over medium heat and quickly pan-sear your chicken breast, lightly seasoned with kosher salt and pepper. This is highly dependent on the size of the breast (awwwww yeah) so your best bet is to get the pan nice and hot over medium-high heat before you get going… The chicken should sizzle as soon as it hits the pan and you can begin to watch for browning around the edge – probably 3 or 4 minutes. As with grilling, don’t mess with the meat until it tells you it’s ready to be flipped. Once you see that browning creeping up the sides, flip it over and cook until the other side matches.

Because there's really nothing more embarrassing than an uneven tan…I mean, except being from Jersey………ok, except being proud of it.

Once browned, let the chicken rest in a sealed pouch of aluminum foil for at least ten minutes. Never, ever slice right into a cut of meat fresh off the flame without giving it a good 10 minutes or so to rest. Don’t forget your Haunted House Protocol. Yes, it applies to chicken too.

Gratuitous breast shot - right now, somewhere out there, Gonzo the Great is getting slightly aroused…and now you can't UN-imagine it.

…but in case you actually require a visual…

..........sup?

From here on out, this is actually a quick and easy recipe – by soup standards. Bring your chicken stock, covered, to a simmer with your shallots, garlic and torn or bruised kaffir lime leaf (I can confirm that, yes, it is possible to bruise a kaffir lime leaf – if you get in close enough enough for a solid jab…but be warned, they DO NOT play fair).

Once simmering, fish out the lime leaf (or reach right in and grab it if you’re a bigger man than I…though the odds are clearly against that) and stir in your risoni to cook for another 5 minutes. At this point, your base will likely already smell insanely good. This is natural. Do not be alarmed.

Drizzle a thin and steady stream of whisked eggs into the base and stir, constantly, for 30 or 45 seconds to cook the eggs into fine strands. Then mix in the wine, lemon juice, zest and salt.

Once well mixed, begin adding the baby spinach. Start with a small handful at a time, letting it wilt before adding more. Garnish with chopped chives and a tiny dollop of zest, if you’re feeling fancy, and serve up immediately or keep covered on low heat.

Perfectly complemented by the last of that Pinot Grigio you managed to save…or perhaps a glass of water and two preventive Excedrin if you actually slammed the whole bottle.

Serve with lemonade and I will snarl… Serve with lemonade and a smile, and I will totally punch you in the face.

…and why does the Dark Side always strike right in the middle of dinner prep? Am I right???

Is it because we’ve just put it through the fires of hell and we kind of feel bad about further harassing it? No. Stop being an idiot.

Well then, surely it’s because the juices are retreating like a frenchman from the front lines to the center of the cut, over-saturating it and leaving it ready to burst if cut into immediately…right? A common misconception…

Oh come on, Jacques... I tease my mother the same way and I mostly love her!!

…but not quite.

Now…with suspense properly built…let’s get to the bottom of this enigma in true Bossian fashion — by temporarily shunning simple bullet point methodology in favor of obtuse, meandering ANALOGIES…

…and SCIENCE!!

Come along with me as we pull our pimped out Mystery Machine up to the rusted and foreboding gates of the fabled Batshit Insanitarium, in search of answers.

The aromatic attendant back at the gas station may have shivered involuntarily and stared back through vacant eyes when told of our final destination this evening…peering from behind the tattered fringe off the worn bill of his RC Cola hat while projecting concentrated disbelief into our souls…warning us, in a warbling voice that hissed past his two remaining good teeth, that the Insanitarium is filled with evil energy and there ain’t dun been nobody up that way since his daddy was knee-high to a grasshopper…that survived…but we didn’t listen. We’re foodies who hunger for knowledge, damn it!! And while we know to never press down on our sizzling burgers, we will always press forth with our luck…

…and our paaaaaancakes!!

From the fleshy, uncooked Mystery Machine (a metaphor for our glorious cut of meat in this exercise) emerges a motley crew of characters. First, the spastic and always spooked Shaggy and Scooby…

...and this raises another point. You're an enterprising and supposedly bright group of kids and you've got a TALKING. GODDAMN. DOG… I mean, honestly…NOBODY in this super team ever thought for even a second about starting up a roadside circus or even an exploitative TLC Channel reality show and banking ungodly Scooby-Dooby-Dough? At least enough to fix up that rusted-out death trap they drive around in???

"Well, we've got the world's only known talking canine - and he's rather charismatic too…what to do, what to do…? I've GOT it... Let's go buy a VW bus and fight crime!! Yes, do let's!! Grab the flower decals and shag carpeting and let's go now!!!!"…Idiots.

(Wow, my therapist was right… This blog has really been a catharsis. I wonder if there’s a support group out there for fellow sufferers of Late-Onset Latent Scooby Resentment Syndrome)

…followed by the ever-cool Freddy Jones and his off-camera friend, P. Diddy. Now there’s a bromance you didn’t see coming…but stay with me – this is science.

"Just friends…swear. With fashion sense like this, I can barely keep the chicks off me..."

And finally, to make this a suitably respectable tale of horror, there’s the omnipresent sorority of busty, half-drunk college girls.

Hey, I don't MAKE the rules… Don't like it? Go write your own story!!

Anyway, don’t get too attached to the girls – they died gruesomely in a horrific thong-related accident while you were ogling the photo. Tragic.

Buuuuut, we can’t grieve forever, so moving on… In the distance, a single clap of thunder electrifies the heavy night air…yet the soulful wail of a solitary wolf comes from much closer, nearly eliciting a Shaggy accident — but that part comes later…all part of the science. Eager to sink their teeth into this mystery, and because prolonged Diddy cameos don’t come cheap, our gang of remaining paranormal food investigators dashes into Castle Batshit like a moth to a flame…a big, juicy, mouth-watering moth… Crap, I’m sorry… You’ve got to be almost as confused as I am by now…

STOP THAT!!

Ok, ok — so our gang of stoic adventurers represent the internal fibers of your regal cut of steak…a blank slate of succulent bovine nirvana…mmmmm…just bursting with possibility…and possibly e. coli, but we’re gonna take care of that shortly.

The Insanitarium will stand in for your average grill or stovetop pan. And it’s actually not an entirely inappropriate analogy, if you’re anything like me… The culinary learning process seldom comes without its share of collateral damage and I’m sure my pots and pans still bear the haunting, inaudible shrieks of terror from kitchen failures long since gone from this world…

…been there, honey.

So, anyway… Freddy and Diddy commit to investigate the middle level while Shaggy and Scooby brilliantly decide to split up and investigate the attic and basement — where the paranormal action is hottest (see where I’m going with this?)…

As the evening grinds on, the spooky activity increases to the b(r)oiling point…but Freddy and Diddy maintain their composure, keeping their cool and barely even breaking a sweat. Why? Well, sheer badassery aside, the center zone they are in has taken longer to heat up (with otherworldly activity) because, as we should all know, ghostly activity always localizes in the extremities of a structure before radiating inward to the core. (You really didn’t know that? Dude, I can’t do all the research for you.) If a ghost were to slice into Freddy right now, nothing would come out but an Old Spice-scented *whoosh* and a gentle island breeze. Diddy might ooze traces of chilled bitch-slap-flavored Ciroc but that’s pretty much it…

Meanwhile, both above and below, Shaggy and Scooby have been spooked right down to their basal ganglia due to the direct (supernatural) exposure. Nerves on a razor’s edge, and suffering severe traumatic stress, they are barely holding onto their kool-aid as it is… So when the ghouls start to rough them up, at the very peak of panic, you just know they’re gonna — *ZOINKS* — lose their shizzle all over the damn place…and that untimely release of fluids will just ruin the whole damn night, I assure you.

Had the ghosts just waited to attack until everyone got back outside and mellowed out some in the back of the van…a van with customized floral print detailing…and no windows…

yeah, you know what I'm talkin' about…more than one "Puff Daddy" in this little saga. I can't be the only one thinking it.

…for, oh, say, about ten minutes, then Shaggy and Scooby would have had ample time to relax back to their natural state, more in line with the rest of the gang. At that point, the whole van could be leisurely tormented, without the offensive spilling of liquids.

Analogy: ACHIEVED.

So, as you can see, it really comes down to a three-point breakdown: 1) put something (or someone) under tremendous stress and anxiety, 2) sneak up right next to them while brandishing a sharp knife, and 3) watch it (or them) quickly evacuate their fluids.

Since you don’t want this happening to your perfectly grilled filet – spilling its juicy and hard-earned awesomeness all over your plate – giving the entire thing time to rest will allow the outermost fibers to cool back to their ideal temperatures and allow for much better moisture (and flavor) retention throughout the entire cut.

The final scientific analysis: Unless you want a high-strung talking dog pissing on your kitchen floor, wrap your meat in foil after cooking it and just walk away for 10 minutes before cutting in.

See, you just learned something. I’m so proud of you. Now go forth, my Bossian friends, and properly char some animal flesh.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go see a (french)man about a dog…

Stone. Cold. Wrong, mon.

“What’s that, Boss?” you say, dripping with impressively contrived concern…”for the love of all things holy, please tell us more!!”

Well, ok… I’ll try…by channeling the world’s most awesome theoretical physicist (if your brain didn’t just paint a picture of scientist-slash-rock-god-slash-national-treasure Michio Kaku then you’re no friend of mine). Imagine a very large truck leaves the township of Common Sense, carrying an original film reel of ‘Groundhog Day’. This film reel, of course, possesses magical powers and must never be looked at directly, lest your face explode — Spielberg-style.

Wait for it… Waaaaait for it…

The truck loses its power steering, as often happens in these conveniently convoluted real world depictions of inconceivably complex quantum physics issues. It veers off-road and plows directly into an Imax-sized screening of ‘The Exorcist’ (now in 3-D)… Defying absolutely everything we think we know about science, a cataclysmic explosion occurs, spewing forth an infinitely-expanding wad of self-replicating idiocy in all directions at 186,000 miles per second…sullying all radiance and good will in the perceivable universe with a fine coating of dark energy.

Mr. Hawking, you know where to find me. I mean, your theories are good and all but THIS…this could change EVERYTHING... I know things about 'stupid'.

So, yeah… That’s pretty much been my February. Between that and Black History Month, I just didn’t have a moment to myself… How you guys been?

Anyway, surely you know me well enough to know I’m all about turning a negative experience into a bit of positive energy so consider this my glorious technicolor bounce-back. Today, I stop wilting in the shadows… Today, I take my life back.

Yeeeeahhhhh, mon!!

And not being one to show up empty-handed as I beg you to take me back, I eagerly present the latest twisted recess of my lovably misdirected mind: my debaucherous and lascivious “Drunken Quickies” Recipes category.

...pervert.

Inspired by that euphoric rush of aroma that never fails to enliven and sophisticate the air in that fleeting moment when alcohol hits searing metal, please consider this  series as a digital manifestation of my culinary liquor cabinet…soon to be filled with recipes – from one-off simple sides to elaborate productions – all enhanced and adultized (no, it’s really a word. I was surprised too) by the “moderate” addition of C2H5OH.

Now you and your loved ones can continue your rampant alcoholic tendencies under the guise of true foodie passion. I just hope you alkies really like to eat…because I’m probably gonna alienate everyone else along the way.

“Sauce” Boss, indeed!!

........I don't get it, mon.

Granted, the shackles were figurative and the light of day idiomatic but I could not deny the vastness of potential quite literally at my fingertips.

In the stoic style of warrior poets before me, I couldn’t help but think, “if the pen is mightier than the sword, then surely the self-indulgent blog is mightier than the finest damascus steel.” As one who thrives on sharing my own experiences every bit as much as I live to learn from those of others, the possibilities are truly beyond limit.

Still, true damascus steel… To this day, I’ve never owned a damascus knife…and it IS the holiday season (German-forged…with 8″ European-style, laser-etched 22-degree cutting blade…and a sweet “SB” monogram…oh my god, I’d look SO hot…)…

$1,695.00 at Williams-Sonoma...I'm sort of already registered.........I Love You.

I accepted the opportunity with a gleeful skip in my step, ferociously embracing the chance to learn so much about the craft and myself along the way – and it certainly wasn’t long before the whole thing paid off with Epiphany Number One.

You see, there comes a time in the tender young life of many a burgeoning foodie where you come face to face with a rather startling, ages-old realization. Perhaps you have experienced a similarly blinding moment of enlightenment in your own past, though yours likely came long before mine. In typically dramatic Sauce Boss fashion, I was a late bloomer – but, hey, I did bloom.

I was barely into my personal pre-blog Dionysian ritual – jazz wailing, java percolating, lava lamp flowing – when it struck me. I had spent years laboring, toiling even, under the misguided and illusory burden that I was an obnoxiously picky eater when that was never the case at all. Turns out, I was always just a snob!!  It’s not that I only appreciated food in a limited capacity. No, quite the contrary. The fact was I savored the subtleties of food so much that when I disliked something, I disliked it with an unholy magnification.

My heart practically sang as I dropped to my knees and basked in the glorious illumination of the newly-opened heavens; a high voltage hum of utter relief tinging the air around me like a cacophonous choir.

RE-ENACTMENT:

Not pictured: Beethoven's 'Ode to Joy'

Well…that’s how I remember it, anyway. It was a couple days ago. The core point, however, is simple: good food does not have to be fancy, though fancy food can, indeed, be amazing. What makes a meal superb and memorable are the elements that go into it; the ingredients, the attention, the process and the execution. With those weapons in the arsenal, a raging lack of natural talent can be readily overcome. A perfectly-cooked slab of quality 80/20 chuck on the right toasted bun can stop the show every bit as effectively as the most intricate offering. But therein lies the problem – who puts the time and paranoid effort into a “basic” burger anymore? Well I do, and you should too, but that’s a topic for another lecture…oops, entry.

My [long-overdue] point? When we come to tolerate mediocrity as an elemental component of a meal…when we routinely “phone it in” due to laziness, disinterest or a general lack of confidence…then it becomes increasingly difficult to get excited about food on any deeper level. Rather than fighting this pattern and demanding better, many of us slouch our shoulders in defeatist acceptance and begin to migrate toward those foods that suffer the least from this self-imposed mediocrity – flagrantly selling out our taste buds to the lowest bidder in a gustatory race to the bottom…I’m looking at you, fast food joints and boxed mac & cheese.  In such an apocalyptic nightmare, how can the palate become anything other than a jaded, disenchanted wanderer, increasingly reliant on a decreasingly broad selection of culinary preferences which it can still consider relative safe havens?

Still, accepting that as an end result is a cop-out…and The Sauce Boss doesn’t do cop-outs.  Cooking is, above all else, an art…and what is more exciting than re-discovering a lost one?  There is no dish too modest to impress if you really want it to, and every dish is worthy of a re-visit. Let’s just call that Epiphany Number Two.

So the next time you cross paths with a misjudged pariah or some lonely soul brandishing the tell-tale sunken gaze of a castigated “picky eater,” reach out with a warm smile and an understanding handshake… Heck, give them a big hug (unless you don’t know them, but that sort of thing’s really got to go without saying… Seriously, don’t repeat my painful mistake… I blame myself, really)

What we can tell you is who The Sauce Boss is not: he did not shoot J.R. and our research verifies he did not kill Laura Palmer. To our British brethren still in search of the Stig, we can offer no answers… The Sauce Boss has never toasted Poe and, despite the rumors, he is definitely NOT The Batman. We can even confirm that he was never sent to prison by a military tribunal for a crime he didn’t commit and was never a “guest” at theBastille, despite sharing fashion sensibilities with one of its most famous and infamous former residents.

Artist’s Rendering:

Left to Right: three people The Sauce Boss has no relation to... Sorry.

That said, The Sauce Boss is a flawed perfectionist, a solitary amalgamation…a contradiction in the truest sense of the word. But then, isn’t that precisely what lies at the heart of every aspiring cook – an internal need to master the universal skills, delicately balanced with a reckless compulsion to recombine the infinite palate of flavors into something new, something that puts their own small mark on the culinary pantheon?

“Boss” is driven by one delightfully rhetorical question: do those who eat merely for sustenance ever fully appreciate the vastness of experience they leave on the proverbial table? It is said that man cannot live by bread alone but, more important, why on earth would he want to? If a phenomenal meal breathes life not only into an event but into the people attending then should every dish not be infused with a passion and sense of edible adventure that honors both the chef and the ones served?

The Sauce Boss believes that food need not be the stable, innocuous bedrock on which we build pedestrian memories and bland conversation. Food can (indeed, often should) be seismic shifting ground that brings strangers together, forges unlikely friendships and makes folk heroes out of culinary mortals.

…Obviously, The Sauce Boss can be a bit of a drama queen and for that we apologize.

Still, his obsession is lovable, his perspective unique, his wit somewhat skewed and his abuse of ellipses rampant…and with that in mind, we make our introduction…

Sauce Boss, the World… The World, Sauce Boss…