Vituperative Valentine’s Day

Today we reconvene at our solitary stovetop to pay all due respect to our favorite Hallmark holiday: Valentine’s Day.

While some are inclined to view Valentine’s Day as a couple’s holiday, we welcome its onset in much the same fashion we welcome the onset of an illness: as an opportunity to reflect—all by our onesy, of course—and feel vindicated in our abstemious abstention from the ensuing melee unfolding before us like freshly laundered towels being trampled by a dog from hell (alias Love, with all due respect to Charles Bukowski).

We must confess that when contemplating an alliterative expression that would give suitable vent to our relationship to the holiday upon us (the relationship to abstractions being the sole sort of relationship to which we are prone—barring, of course, inanimate objects and cats, and most certainly not in that order), we found ourselves deferring  to the wisdom of dictionary.com. While many words sprang to mind whose meaning we were utterly certain of—Vindictive! Vehement! Vile! Viral! Vicious! Virulent!—for reasons heretofore unbeknownst to us, it was “vituperative” that stuck in our collective craw. As our foundation in “vituperative” was less solid than, say, our foundation in “violent,” “vexatious,” and “venal,” we confirmed our suspicion that “vituperative” was the very word we were after based on the following definition, courtesy of this website:

vituperation  (vɪˌtjuːpəˈreɪʃən)   — n 1. abusive language or venomous censure 2. the act of vituperating  

vituperative   — adj

This established, the question is raised: where, among so many eminently worthy candidates, should we direct our vituperation?

This being Valentine’s Day, we could do much worse than to turn our attention to this rendering of that most tragic of archetypes: the Single Lady.

And this, dearish readers, is where we lose steam.

After all, isn’t this more or less apt?

Here we have all the essential ingredients of single ladyhood:

Flannel pajamas

Cigarettes

A couch (no doubt indelibly impressed with an outline of our flannel pajama-clad derriere, on account of we never leave it)

A remote control

Frasier reruns

Melancholia

An answering machine bereft of messages (and, with an extra twist of the knife, announcing this in French—no Jean Luc for you!)

Melancholia

Eighties power ballads

Melancholia

Vats of red wine

Vats of red wine

A sing-along for one

Vats of red wine

Melancholia

This, as we thirty-something ladies, devoid of attachments other than to abstractions, inanimate objects, and cats, well know, is more or less a day in the life. Pretty much the only thing missing is an abundance of carbohydrates, but this shall be summarily remedied by the end of this post.

Nevertheless and that notwithstanding, this Valentine’s Day, we would like to propose a bolder vision of flying solo, and corresponding anthem.

Let’s assess, shall we?

Kindly turn here in your hymnals.

First and foremost, there is the matter of the Danger Zone. What exactly is it? Clearly, the Danger Zone is that inhabited by thirty-something single women. Kenny Loggins says, embrace it! Take the highway right into it! Shriveling eggs be damned!

The brazen woman who rides into the Danger Zone is “Headin’ into twilight/Spreadin’ Out Her Wings Tonight”. You go, girlfriend! Don’t let anyone call you a cheap date!

After all, “You’ll never say hello to you/Until you get it on the red line overload”. It’s all about self-actualization, ladies! Or menstruation. Or self-actualization through menstruation! Cycles of the moon, a-whoo!

Remember: “You’ll never know what you can do/Until you get it up as high as you can go.” We believe the reference here is obvious; this being a family blog, we will avoid coming out and saying it (see: inanimate objects). The moral of the story: it’s all up to you, ladies.

Notice the *solo* that immediately follows this lyric, emblazoned across the black screen in bold red. The moral of the story: it’s all up to you, ladies. Ride into the danger zone!

Ride “Out along the edges/Always where I burn to be”. Sing it, Kenny!

[insert fist pumps here]

After all, as those of us relegated to the social periphery know, “The further on the edge/The hotter the intensity”.

And, as those of us relegated to the social periphery also know, there’s nothing hotter than hot intensity. Especially when flying solo!

So let’s hear it for all of us in the Danger Zooooooone this Valentine’s Day! Better alone than in bad company! And better in your own bad company than someone else’s!

Of course the keeping of one’s own company—whether bad or badass—is hungry work. Whether you intend to spend this Valentine’s Day keening about the fact that you’re all by yourself, or congratulating yourself on navigating the Danger Zone with grace and aplomb, you will need to do some serious carbo-loading.

We are aware that common wisdom currently holds that Carbohydrates are Satan. And this, fellow solo-flyers, is one of the many beauties of being single. We don’t have to care! After all, who’s going to judge you if you make a meal of mashed potatoes? Not your abstractions! Not your inanimate objects! And most certainly not your cats! It is in this spirit that we balefully bring you Danger Zone Mashed Potatoes.

Danger Zone Mashed Potatoes

Sufficient potatoes (Russets or Your Own Private Idahos) to fill a large pot (we used eight), cut into quarters; be the contrarian that you are and refuse to succumb to the common wisdom that you should peel them; the peels, after all, are where the nutrients are, and you, you solo flyer, you, are a lazy sod with no one to impress

An indecent quantity of butter (at least a stick—this is, after all, the Danger Zone)

Plenty of milk (we used soymilk)

Salt to taste, provided you have any

Boil the potatoes in salted water until tender, in stark contrast to your sensibilities. This should take about 20-25 minutes.

Drain the potatoes in a colander and return them to the pot over low heat. Using a potato masher (our preferred anger management device), mash the ever-living daylights out of them, incorporating butter and milk whilst doing so, until you have achieved a texture to your liking (as much as anything is ever to your liking). Salt as needed. Serve with additional, obscene quantities of butter, vats of red wine, and fist pumps. Vituperate any and all who would cast a sympathetic gaze in your direction for thusly spending your Valentine’s Day. Or, better yet, return the favor and gaze with sympathy on those befuddled civilians who would lament that you, you solo flyer, you, are All By Yourself: after all, not everyone’s cut out for the Danger Zone—those poor dears.  

Butter: more is more

More of more = even more! Everybody wins.

Some associate Valentine’s Day with chocolate. We associate it with bile—and butter.

Spinsterhood is a dish best served wine-soaked.

Have you ever noticed that wine openers (arguably the most indispensable inanimate object in the single lady’s arsenal, with flannel pajamas and a remote control coming in as distant seconds) resemble goddess figures? The moral of the story: it’s all up to you, ladies.

Hideous hiatus.

We lament to inform you that we will be both dour and dormant for the month of November due to the fact of our directing our acrimonious attention and withering words to the writing of a novel. November, as you may or may not know, is National Novel Writing Month, and while it would be difficult to think of something that runs more counter to our nature than being a team player, sometimes even the most recalcitrant contrarian gets sore gills from swimming exclusively upstream. And while we could attempt to poise our poison pen to maintain this baleful blog and spew a bare minimum of 50,000 words of petulant prose in thirty days, we fear the scope of such an endeavor would leave us even more bubbling over with bile than we currently are. Furthermore and moreover, our posts would be apt to resemble the following:

Go to the store (which you, as a solo diner, are far too entrenched in social entropy to have the energy to do). Purchase something that roughly translates to edible. We shall take edible to mean herein, “not requiring the pumping of one’s stomach.” Return to your desolate den and inadequately reheat your purchase. Wolf down and contemplate the parallels between your tepid dinner and your lukewarm existence.

Which, let’s face it, dearish reader, is not particularly illuminating or instructive.

In light of the above, we look forward to crafting further curmudgeonly kitchen chronicles when the winter of our discontent extends beyond the figurative to the literal. 

We would also like to bring to your attention that our (not so) distant relative (the one of which are slightly—or more than slightly—embarrassed) will continue to clutter the blogosphere here:

http://schadenfreudiananalysis.blogspot.com/

Spinster’s Spinach Salad

Today we fire up our fractious frying pan to bring you a Spinster’s Spinach Salad.

The general consensus about cooking for one seems to be that it isn’t worth doing. Those of us with no social abilities or prospects know that this mentality can mean a lifetime of mediocre and less than salubrious eating. After all, even spinsters need minerals, even if the only two they’ll ever be eating for is their split personalities.

Talk of spinsters invariably turns our thoughts to a most exemplary example of the genre: Flannery O’Connor.

Question: Why should you be a spinster?

Answer: It will make you have that much more in common with Flannery O’Connor.

With such gems as “Good Country People” and “A Good Man is Hard to Find” to her name, we believe we can safely surmise that the never-married Miss O’Connor had at least the occasional misanthropic urge.

By way of example, we present you with this bit of dialogue from the end of “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” in which a murderer who goes by The Misfit (and who of course is by far the story’s most sympathetic character) says of one of his vile victims:

“She would of been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”

Lest you be inclined to yield to the popular perception of spinsters as a bitter lot, however, take note that Ms. O’Connor was far too perspicacious to be bitter. She knew better:

“To expect too much is to have a sentimental view of life and this is a softness that ends in bitterness.”

Which isn’t to say to she didn’t have her barbs:

“Everywhere I go I’m asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don’t stifle enough of them. There’s many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher.”

In the spirit of sharp-witted spinsters, the barbed-but-not-bitter, and misfits who still need their minerals, we present you with this Spinster’s Spinach Salad.

Spinster’s Spinach Salad

Sufficient extra virgin olive oil to coat the bottom of a large pan

2-3 minced garlic cloves, or more to taste (provided you have any)

1 package frozen spinach

A couple handfuls of dried cranberries (again, a matter of your perhaps hypothetical taste)

A handful of walnut pieces (see parenthetical aside above)

Salt (once more)

Heat the olive oil in a large pan over medium-low heat (# 4, electric stove owners). When the oil is warm, add the minced garlic and stir about until the garlic is lightly golden.

Add the block of frozen spinach and viciously stab with a spoon to until it defrosts (just because you never will doesn’t mean dinner shouldn’t) and fractures into as many pieces as you have problems. This is to say, the goal here is for the spinach to stop being a block and start being a thawed, and ultimately, lightly cooked bunch of greens.

When the spinach is heated through, add the cranberries and walnuts, and salt to taste. Turn off the heat and mix everything together.

Serve with a flair for Southern Gothic and a ring finger unfettered by metal bands.

Lamentable Lentil Salad

Today we ignite our belligerent burners to bring you a recipe that calls for our favorite ingredient: wine. You might call us a wino, were you inclined to thusly label anyone whose firm belief it is—as it is ours—that the liberal application of wine to one’s gullet is a fundamental component of cooking. And breathing. So imagine our dour delight when a recipe actually calls for wine in the actual recipe, which is to say, explicitly, as one of the ingredients, as opposed to implicitly, which we take to be a given. Imagine the derelict delectation that ensues when bottles of fermented respite must be acquired and opened for the purpose of preparing a dish, and of course the remainder judiciously disposed of, in the interest of not wasting things, through liberal application to our gullet, thus forcing our delirium tremens to take a rain check.

Speaking of winos, and first-rate misanthropes, we defer to the standard bearer: none other than Charles Bukowski. While we were admittedly more inclined to look to Mr. Bukowski for a life model when we were twenty-three (which explains so very much about the sorry, stunted state of affairs that is our life at thirty-two), the man must nevertheless be given his due, particularly when it comes to the topics of wine and misanthropy:

“I’ve never been lonely. I’ve been in a room—I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful—awful beyond all—but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me…or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with because I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude. It’s being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I’ll quote Ibsen, ‘The strongest men are the most alone.’…You know the typical crowd, ‘Wow, it’s Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?’ Well, yeah. Because there’s nothing out there. It’s stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I’ve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars, because I didn’t want to hide in factories. That’s all. Sorry for all the millions, but I’ve never been lonely. I like myself. I’m the best form of entertainment I have. Let’s drink more wine!”
― Charles Bukowski

And what goes better with not-loneliness than legumes? In the spirit of wine, misanthropy, and plant-based proteins, we bring you this Lamentable Lentil Salad.

Lamentable Lentil Salad

***Note: the astute observer will no doubt astutely observe from the accompanying photographs that we doubled this recipe, as we prefer that our culinary battles yield enough food for several wars, and we harbor no objections to obsessively eating the same thing for many days in a row. Those disinclined in this direction will find that the recipe below yields a less daunting amount. ***

***Additional note: this recipe is based on one from some restaurant or other in Boise, Idaho—as we sadly lack the original copy, we regret that this pathetic attempt at proper attribution needs must remain pathetic. Please do not sue us, some restaurant or other in Boise, Idaho. ***

1 C. green lentils

Sufficient extra virgin olive oil to coat the bottom of a Dutch Oven or large skillet

1 carrot, peeled and diced (you as a solo diner are far too devoured by the drive for solitude and are thereby exempt from this bothersome task—we promise that skipping it produces no ill effect)

1 celery stalk, washed and diced

1 medium onion, peeled and diced

1 T. minced garlic

1 C. of the red wine that is your chosen poison

2 tomatoes, seeded and diced (you as a solo diner are far too mired in your misanthropy to be troubled by such annoyances as seeding and are thereby exempt; moreover, this becomes a virtual non-issue anyway if you opt to use Roma tomatoes)

Salt and pepper to taste (provided you have any)

1 T. maple syrup

Wash lentils three times in cold running water (we never bother to, but there is a good chance this is because we are disgusting, and we will generously afford you, dearish readership, the assumption that you are not). Cook lentils in three cups water over medium-high heat, about 40 minutes. Drain the lentils in a colander and keep warm.

Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat, or if you, like us, are a lazy sod who prioritizes the minimization of dishes, the same pot you used for the lentils. Add the diced carrots, celery, and onions. Cook until the vegetables begin to soften, about 10 minutes. Add the garlic and stir quickly to prevent any browning.

Deglaze with (a snooty expression for “pour in”) chosen poison and bring heat to medium-high. Add tomatoes, salt, pepper, maple syrup, and lentils. Reduce heat to low and continue to cook for 15 minutes, stirring sporadically. Serve with the remainder of your chosen poison and a steaming heap of misanthropy.

Bellicose Bread Pudding

Today we open our ornery oven to bring you a bread pudding we have prepared many times over, courtesy of those sly punsters over there.

As it is commonly known, those who can, date, and those who can’t, eat chocolate!

Bread pudding is not a looker, and, as it is commonly known, not-lookers tend to be not-daters, making this dessert the ideal date for the not-daters.

Speaking of daters, our thoughts inevitably turn to that well-established trope, dearly beloved in many genres, but perhaps none so much as the genre known as Young Adult, or, for those looking to save a syllable, YA. We speak, of course, of The Beautiful Butterfly Pinned to the Corkboard of Life. While this is more our esteemed colleague’s province than it is ours, we will visit the YA genre herein to note this ubiquitous trope as it pertains to John Green’s well-written, albeit in many respects lamentable, Looking for Alaska. Let us observe the character Alaska Young (take note of her surname, as it is heavy-handedly prophetic). Here is what you need to know about Alaska Young:

·         She dates.

·         She’s tore-up.

·         She’s hot.

·         The fact that she’s hot makes the fact of her tore-uppedness alluring to our protagonist Miles and his comrades. This is critical because anyone who behaves the way Alaska does who is not hot would have the boys reaching for the Maalox, or perhaps a nice big tumbler of bleach, instead of the Spanish Fly. Of course she only behaves this way because, wait for it:

·         She has a dead mother. What’s more is:

·         Her mother died of an aneurysm. And of course:

·         Alaska blames herself. We care because:

·         She’s hot.

Tore-up + hot + the sort of behavior that evokes the image of Patrick Bateman in a tube top = The Beautiful Butterfly Pinned to the Corkboard of Life: that mutant strain of teenage girl who has Problems with a capital “P” (and that doesn’t rhyme with pool) which make her hotness even hotter because there’s nothing hotter than a hot mess, especially if (SPOILER ALERT):

·         She dies young.

Hence her surname and another resounding victory for Subtlety. As it is commonly known, nothing is hotter than dying in time to leave a good-looking corpse. Moreover, this gives the Beautiful Butterfly the added allure of being The Idealized Dead Girl: she who will forever inspire the sort of pangs that only the unattainable can, particularly when steeped in a heady mixture of Preventable Tragedy and Coming of Age. Accordingly:

The Beautiful Butterfly Pinned to the Corkboard of Life + The Idealized Dead Girl = The Uber-Hotness

At the risk of this post being overly math-heavy, we are afraid we must introduce two more equations to illustrate an inverse relationship, so as to effectively impress upon you, dearish reader, the extent to which hotness cannot be over-estimated when determining whether a troubled teenage girl is a Beautiful Butterfly Pinned to the Corkboard of Life—and therefore a dater—or a Revolting Fly Stuck to the Sticky Paper of Life—and therefore the sort who stays home on Friday nights and prepares Bellicose Bread Pudding. Or gets buckets of pigs’ blood dumped on her at the prom.

Hot + Tore-up = The Great Perhaps

Not Hot + Tore-up = The Great Uh-Uh

And now, dearish readers, without further ado, we bring you Bellicose Bread Pudding.

Bellicose Bread Pudding (perverted from the Chocolate Chile Bread Pudding recipe on epicurious.com)

***Note: those observing the original recipe will perhaps notice the conspicuous absence of two ingredients in our perversion thereof: the sugar and the egg. We have made this recipe multiple times according to the dictates of the original and found that the omission of the egg produced no appreciably detrimental effect (although if you are inclined to view a denser texture as a detrimental effect, you may respectfully—or not-so-respectfully—disagree). We omitted the sugar because we find that the sweetness conferred by the chocolate and vanilla are perfectly sufficient, particularly if you pair this dessert with vanilla ice cream, as is our wont.***

2 T. butter, plus more for greasing your chosen bread pudding repository (we opted for a hideously inappropriate molded cake pan with indentations of the state of Texas and Bluebonnets; in the event that you, as we are, are a member of the non-ramekin-owning set, muffin tins work well for doling the dessert out in single servings)

2/3 C. heavy cream

4 oz. bittersweet chocolate (we used a Ghirardelli 60 % cacao baking bar), broken into large pieces with your bare hands like the barbarian you are (you as a solo diner are far too consumed by your existential lacuna to bother with chopping chocolate)

1 t. vanilla

½ t. cinnamon

¼ t. cayenne

Pinch o’ salt

2 C. (approximately) bread cubes (we used two large, pillowy white rolls obtained from the bakery department of our chosen grocery purveyor)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Egregiously butter your chosen bread pudding repository.

In a medium pot, add the 2 T. butter, cream, chocolate, vanilla, cinnamon, cayenne, and pinch o’ salt. Stir relentlessly over low heat (that’s # 3, electric stove owners) until chocolate is just melted (no lumps). This process will take approximately 1-2 minutes. Remove immediately after this occurs unless you wish for your chocolate mixture to resemble the burning wreckage of your interpersonal life.

Fold in the bread cubes and let sit for five minutes.

Dump this oozing mess into your chosen bread pudding repository and bake for 15-20 minutes (we err on the side of 15), until the edges are set but the center remains moist (just as your callous persona belies the hot mess you are on the inside).

Let sit for five minutes before serving (dessert, after all, like revenge, is a dish best served not-scalding—although we can see, actually, how scalding would work for revenge).

Accompany—optionally, of course, but extensive tests conducted on our part have led us to conclude that this cuts the dish’s richness and offsets the heat conferred by the cayenne—with vanilla ice cream.

Be certain to prepare this on a Friday night when you are not dating and are firmly entrenched in the Sticky Paper camp and not the Corkboard camp.

Tempestuous Tempeh

(Look! A tempehst is brewing!)

Today we stare down our obstreperous stovetop to bring you a tempeh dish prodigally pilfered from this well-adjusted person’s website for the purpose of bringing it down to our maladjusted level because, damn it, even those of us who are Failing at Living (with apologies to the estimable Ms. Gonick) deserve tempeh. 

And, oh look, it’s vegan, which inevitably turns our thoughts to Noted Vegans, which inevitably turns our thoughts to an Especially Noted Purported Vegan, none other than His Purple Badness: The Prince Formerly Known as a Symbol. Prince of course inevitably turns our thoughts to the piece of cinematic excellence known as Purple Rain, featuring the notorious triad of The Kid, Apollonia, and The Kid’s Hubris.

Apollonia is the sort of girl who will never end up alone: she’s pretty! She’s nice (in that nothing so irksome as a spine ever rears its ugly head in her dealings with The Kid)! She performs “Sex Shooter” in her underwear! In public!

For all of the aforementioned reasons, she wins the Grand Prize in the form of a tempestuous—look, there’s our theme!—relationship with The Kid. And his hubris! Let’s take a brief inventory of the many benefits Apollonia reaps from this association:

·         Being persuaded to dunk her naked self in the waters of Faux Lake Minnetonka

·         Creepy first encounters in clubs that we suspect are supposed to portray The Kid and his hubris as Enigmatic Artists, but succeed primarily in portraying The Kid and his hubris as creepy (Sunglasses indoors? Really?)

·         Scandalous barn antics

·         A guided tour of The Kid’s (and his hubris’) doll collection!

·         Dangerous motorcycle pranks

·         The kind of roughing up that says “I love you” like nothing else can

Oh, Apollonia, you might not own a spine, but you will never own cats, either. Better a tempest than a shrew, yes?

It is in this spirit that we present you with Tempestuous Tempeh.

Tempestuous Tempeh (mal-appropriated and maladapted from 101cookbooks.com)

1 C. orange juice (the original recipe calls for freshly squeezed, but you as a solo diner are far too absorbed in the screaming void that is your existence to trifle with such things, and are thereby exempt)

1 T. minced ginger, or more to taste (we probably used about 3 T.)

2 t. soy sauce

1.5 T. mirin

2 t. maple syrup

½ t. ground coriander

2 large garlic cloves, crushed

8 oz. package tempeh

Generous smattering of olive oil

Lime (optional)

Measure out the orange juice in a measuring cup. Add the minced ginger, soy sauce, mirin, maple syrup, coriander, and garlic. Stir ingredients and abandon for greener pastures (as you have been many times over).

Greener pastures, in this instance, concern chopping the tempeh into bite-sized pieces, which is a refreshing change of pace from a twenty-two-year-old secretary. Or so we hear tell.

Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat (that’s # 6, you electric stove owners, you). Add tempeh and cook for five minutes or until the bite-sized underbellies are golden. Flip the tempeh and repeat the process with the other side, cooking for five minutes.

Come crawling back to your orange juice concoction (you bastard) and beg its forgiveness. Allow its refusal to fall on deaf ears and use it to douse the frying tempeh. Simmer this hot mess for ten minutes or until the orange juice concoction is distilled into a lugubrious glaze.

Serve to the Righteous One (the Righteous One invariably being oneself) with a smattering of lime juice, if so inclined, in honor of purification by the waters of Lake Minnetonka.

Pugnacious Pumpkin Soup

Today we brave our contentious cocina to dabble in macrobiotics by way of a recipe adapted from this site, which its tag claims is macrobiotic, and far be it from us to argue with the wisdom of the internet.

In Muriel Spark’s The Driver’s Seat, volatile spinster Lise, while on her quest to fulfill her death wish, is plagued by a practitioner of the macrobiotic diet named Bill who says such vexatious things to her as, when explaining Regime Seven, “You take such very little liquid that you can only pee three times a day if you’re a man, two if you’re a woman. Regime Seven is a very elevated regime in macrobiotics. You become like a tree. People become what they eat.”

In response to which Lise sagely inquires, “Do you become a goat when you eat goat’s cheese?”

Bill, undaunted, continues to harangue her for the duration of the story. Good heavens, can’t a girl self-destruct in peace?

As poetic justice would have it, he ends up in a prison cell, “…equally beyond suspicion [in Lise’s demise] and the exercise of his diet…”

In a rare stab at seasonal appropriateness, and in honor of Bill’s fitting fate, and of course volatile spinsters everywhere, we present you with Pugnacious Pumpkin Soup.

Pugnacious Pumpkin Soup

Generous pour of extra virgin olive oil

2 or more garlic cloves, minced

1 small yellow onion, minced

2 15 oz. cans pure pumpkin puree (NOT pumpkin pie filling)

2 C. soy milk

2 C. water

Salt & pepper to taste, provided you have any

2 or more t. curry powder

1/4 t. ground nutmeg

1 pinch ground cinnamon

2 T. maple syrup

Heat the oil in a large pot over medium low heat; when warm, add the garlic and onion and cook until lightly golden.

Add the remaining ingredients, stirring to blend, and heat through. Observe that this recipe is, as those prone to such parlance might say, cruelty-free (noting simultaneously that nothing in this life is altogether devoid of cruelty). Marvel at the failure of consuming cruelty-free foods to quell one’s cruel inclinations, for instance, toward one’s Nefarious Neighbors, who are at least three-fourths harpy and accordingly incapable of communicating in your hallway (the acoustics of which are lamentably excellent) sans screeching. Engage in machinations for a recipe of a less cruelty-free bent, say, Buffalo Harpy Wings (ask yourself: would the consumption of such render one a harpy?). Be as lurid in your mind’s eyes as the need for catharsis dictates.

If inclined toward thematic consistency—some might call it redundancy; we call it fermentation therapy—accompany with sufficient pumpkin ale to dim the din of the incessant harpy droning.

Romantic comedies and old maids.

Today we adjourn to our cantankerous kitchen to make stovetop popcorn, which is to say, for the benefit of those upon whom subtlety is wasted (which is to say, the dismaying majority of humanity), popcorn popped on the stovetop. We do this because:

It’s cheaper.

It’s ridiculously simple (much like the dismaying majority of humanity).

Life is sufficiently subsumed by insufferable artifice without bringing the abomination of radioactive-colored, powdered butter-substitutes into the mix.

Most importantly, it tastes better. It’s the difference between packing peanuts and little clouds of bliss eclipsing the sky of unrelenting despair that typically constitutes our emotional landscape (such as it is).

Furthermore and moreover, as even those upon whom subtlety is wasted are doubtless aware, popcorn is inextricably linked with movies (we refuse on principle to refer to them as “films” because we find that our refusal to do so tends to alienate precisely the right kind of person).

Movies, as even those upon whom subtlety is wasted are doubtless aware, come in many different genres. For our particular intents and purposes, we shall turn out attention to—what else?—the Romantic Comedy, popularly referred to as (and there is truly no arguing with popularity) the RomCom.

While the fact that this genre tends to breed like cockroaches on fertility drugs provides us with a vast pool from which to choose, we shall focus, for our intents and purposes, upon our personal favorite Romantic Comedy: The Silence of the Lambs.

The Silence of the Lambs, as even those upon whom subtlety is wasted are doubtless aware, utilizes all of the essential tropes of the genre to breathtaking effect:

Boy meets girl (behind bars).

Boy accurately discerns the type of skin cream girl uses via his sense of smell.

Zany shenanigans ensue, including but not limited to, pickled heads in jars, ladies trapped in wells, risky DIY fashion choices, and—inevitably, for this is, after all, a RomCom—night-vision goggles.

Boy stages prison massacre, extricates himself from confinement, and informs girl via long distance international phone call that he has no plans to call on her because the world is much more interesting with her in it. What we have here is a classic case of The One That Got Away.

When we endeavor to watch a Romantic Comedy, we require proper nourishment to fortify ourselves against the pheromones and endorphins and other stupid-making chemicals associated with romance that waft from the screen in a vain and pathos-inducing (were we the kind inclined toward pathos) attempt to make our hardened heart skip a beat. Little do the directors of Romantic Comedies realize, the road to our heart is through our entrails, which we accordingly do our very best to line with the remnants of comestibles it pleased us to ingest.

To this end, we give you Old Maid Popcorn: “old maid” being the designation for those blackened kernels at the bottom of the bowl that threatened to pop and never did (which, as even those upon whom subtlety is wasted are doubtless aware, is the best part).

Old Maid Popcorn

1/3 C. popcorn kernels

Too much coconut oil (This is important. Coconut oil makes all the difference here, and you must use too much of it. The kernels must be bathing and not water-skiing.)

An inordinate amount of kosher salt (This is also important.)

Heat the coconut oil in a large pot over medium-high heat. When possessed of an electric stove, we tend to find the “6” setting suits our intents and purposes.

(As with the good doctor, an unsavory first impression belies impending deliciousness.)

Add the popcorn kernels; place lid on pot (unless you are seized by a catastrophic bent that can be slaked with a small-scale kitchen indiscretion, in which case, do not).

Wait. Roll eyes as needed.

When popping begins to ensue, periodically shake the pot gently so as to avoid burnage. When the popping slows dramatically, immediately whisk the pot away from the stove. This is important. A few lax seconds with respect to this task culminates in a pernicious pot of blackened husks (most decidedly not of the Old Maid persuasion).

Pour the popcorn into a bowl. Sprinkle with the kosher salt. Butter may be added if one is so inclined, even though—or perhaps especially because—in this case, the application of such is excessive. After all, there is gilding the lily, and then there is girding it.

Serve with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Curmudgeonly Curry: a Mission Statement

Howard Roark was not a team player. The redheaded protagonist of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead would never use the expression “think outside the box,” because he would have been the first to suss that anyone who says that is not doing it. He refused to show up to the architects’ party dressed as his favorite building, flagrantly flouting the soiree’s theme. And thus, in honor of that intransigent (albeit fictional—aren’t most of them?) individualist, we (employing the Royal We, of course, as the thrust of this blog is, after all, Eat, Drink, and Be Solitary) shall endeavor not to cook outside the box, but to flatten and reshape it to suit our own hopelessly trapezoidal proportions by cooking like the damned, one doomed dish at a time. We shall eschew family-style dining, embarrassing proclamations of love for the significant other we do not have, musings on the beauty of little birds flitting outside our window, and solemn declarations to savor each and every precious moment of each and every goddamn day. Because, let’s face it, friends, life is very long.

Which is why we need sustenance! Even those of us who own cats.

Thusly, we give you Curmudgeonly Curry: a red-sauce dish in the spirit of our favorite wayward Randian redhead.

Curmudgeonly Curry

***Note: as the careful reader will undoubtedly observe, this makes an obscene amount of food for a solo diner. Now is as good a time as any to bring to such a reader’s attention that we are possessed of an inordinately long attention span when it comes to leftovers, as well as the firm belief that effort, when not avoided at all costs, should yield appreciable results for some time to come. We also had occasion to observe that this tastes much better the next day. Nevertheless, this could be halved and still yield multiple meals.***

Sufficient coconut oil to coat the bottom of a large pot (we tend to overdose on the fat factor, especially since we’re eating for one)

1-inch piece ginger, minced

3 garlic cloves, minced

24 oz. tomato puree

Salt & black pepper (it is generally advised that the latter be freshly ground, but you as a solo diner are much too consumed by falling ever-deeper into the abyss to be bothered with such niceties and are thereby exempt)

2 T. garam masala or curry powder, or to taste (provided you have any)

1 t. cumin, or to taste (see above)

2 14-oz. packages firm or extra-firm tofu, pressed dry by placing a plate, cutting board, or the weight of your emotional baggage on top of the blocks for a spell, and sliced into bite-size pieces

24 oz. package frozen pea-and-carrot mixture

1 can coconut milk

Heat the coconut oil in the pot over medium-low heat. When the oil is hot, add the minced garlic and ginger. Cook for a couple minutes, until the garlic is pale yellow (note: pale yellow is NOT brown).

Add the tomato puree, salt, pepper, and spices. Cook until everything is heated through. Add the frozen vegetables and tofu; cook for about five minutes. Add the coconut milk and bring to a boil, stirring erratically. Nip the boiling business in the bud and adjust seasonings to taste (if existent).

Congratulations, you’ve made dinner. You’re still going to die someday. Meanwhile, serve with the packaged Naan that is fairly easy to come by in most supermarkets (prepare according to package instructions, brushing the bread with a smattering of olive oil prior to placing in the oven) and enough beer to take the edge off the fact that the residents of your apartment building are congenitally incapable of not slamming their doors many, many times each day. Contemplate approaching the leasing office with the idea of conducting a workshop series entitled “It Can be Done! How to Close a Door Without Taking it Off its Hinges.”  Suggest to the leasing office that attendance of this workshop be compulsory for all residents. Determine beforehand the remuneration you will seek for services rendered. Congratulate yourself on being a visionary. Recall once again that you’re still going to die someday. Drink more beer. Repeat as needed.