We're big time now!

An email write-in campaign to get an Olive Garden? It saddens me. And not even because I want to write about the food in this town. Just because of what Olive Garden stands for in terms of expanding culinary experiences. I'm not trying to be holier-than-thou, god knows I shop at Target and eat at California Pizza Kitchen, but why launch a whole drive to get one? Is it that spectacular? And why does that mean that a city has "arrived"? To get an Olive Garden?! That kind of means the opposite -- you're on a downward spiral to Big Boxville.

So there's a story in today's Record about it, and this quote is my favorite:

Stockton's appetite for an Olive Garden could be a product of the city's
restaurant landscape - "Stockton is such a gastronomic wasteland," said Ken
Albala, a food historian at University of the Pacific - or a product of its
Middle American attitude about food: "They're not terribly concerned with
quality. They want, just, a lot of food."

So sadly true. Olive Garden serves "Italian," but it's a cheesy bastardization of what true Italian is - simple, with focus on flavors such as herbs and vegetables.

I know enough to know I don't know that much about international food, and who am I to say Stocktonians should be deprived of their love for this stuff? That's why we have free will, I guess - so some people can indulge, and others have every right to run for Whole Foods.

If only I'd known before I got that bird on my ass.

Well, it's not technically on my ass, but close enough that it's hidden. Anyway, it was one of those things where I'd wanted it for a long time (it's a bird, and my name is Robin, ha) and around college graduation time, one of my friends was like, "Hey, I have this flower I want to get, but I don't have anyone to go with." (Tattooing for girls is more social than for guys, I think.) So I volunteered, and I ended up passing out in the chair. I was breathing too shallowly, and ended up getting lightheaded and twitching. Not my finest moment. So now I have this bird, and it's fine and cute and usually I forget about it, but sometimes I wonder if I had an easy way out, would I take it?

Now, at least for future tattoos, I do. Freedom2Ink is this thing where the dye is encapsulated with plastic or something, so when you want it removed, it can be done completely with one laser treatment. The laser blasts open the capsules, and the ink is reabsorbed into the skin.

But part of me thinks that's lame. The whole idea behind tattoos is that they're permanent, and that makes them more of a statement. Like, "I love you so much I'm willing to put your name on my body for all eternity!" Not so much impact: "Let's get tattoos of each other's names for tonight!"

"Keep doin' what you're doin' with that Easy Bake oven!"

When a job doesn't even feel like work, you know you've found something good. I got to step away from the computer and into the role of chef for a couple of hours last week, and it was fantastic. I brought my little toaster oven to work (no test kitchen) and all my supplies, and took it all to the photo department to prepare for a photo shoot.

I started by covering the entire workspace, about 2 square feet, with aluminum foil. Because that floor is gross. I tried to keep all the food in some kind of container to prevent contamination, but I wasn't as careful when touching the floor to get up (yeah, I was sitting cross-legged on the concrete the whole time - awesome) and then cutting something. Whoops. But whatever, I shared everything I cooked and everyone came to work the next day. But anyway, I was cooking the prosciutto-wrapped figs, and that whole place smelled sooo good. Seriously, I was the center of attention for a while, and I didn't even have to do any public speaking.

So everything's going fine, and then the timer dings and I go to get the figs out of the oven. Except all I have is my hand. So not happening. I begin to panic, but then see the whole package of mini pitas (for the pizzas!) just sitting there. Good thing there were extras. So I grabbed one, gripped it to bend it in half, and presto! Instant pot holder. Just call me MacGyver's bitch.

Here's how it turned out.

Dude, you're not even sniffling.

I went to the pharmacy today to pick up a prescription, and the guy in front of me wanted to know if they had any Sudafed, the kind that's now kept behind lock and key. Not that weird. But then ...

I went next door to the grocery store. I got my soda, then got into line behind ... the same guy. Hmm. Coincidence. So we're waiting behind an old lady writing a check (always!) who had questions about every item on her receipt, and I notice there's a super annoying loud chick in the line next to us. Like, she's almost a parody of annoying people on their cell phones in line.

"Girl, I know! She told me that I had to give her the whole bag. She said it was for gas money! That's crazy! I told her to just take me back to my house 'cause that ho crazy."

Anyway, she stopped talking long enough to ask the cashier if he had any Sudafed. The guy went to look (yeah, I'm still waiting) and he said they were out. "How about Claritin D? You got any of that?" Again, no.

So the guy in front of me finally gets to the cashier, but he doesn't have anything on the conveyor.

"Do you guys have any Sudafed?"

A ha! Meth fiends!

I hate this town.

The Delicious Bowl!

So for my next food story, I have to actually adapt recipes. It's so much harder than it sounds, because there's tons of trial and error. Pizza wasn't cooked in 12 minutes? Well, would it be cooked in 15? Possibly, but you have to start from scratch, because you can't just punch in another three minutes on the timer since you lost all the heat in the oven when you opened it at 12 minutes. Argh. But when you finally get it right, the feeling is so amazing. Like reaching a mountain's summit. I hear.

On my Valentine's Day menu (theoretically, for the story) I have: prosciutto-wrapped dates with parmesan, tuna crostini with tapenade, mini margherita pita pizzas, and kiwi-strawberry nut cakes. If I were Rachael Ray, I'd say, "Deeeelish!" But I'm not, and I really don't like her, so I'll just say, "That better get me some."

The dates are amazing. Honestly. Sweet and salty and chewy. Read the story and use that recipe. That I totally made. Love it! And this is how they look:

Kind of funky, yes, but so good. The tuna crostini were decidedly less photogenic:

I realized after I'd started eating that I hadn't taken a picture, so this is the best I have. But they were really good. I have to cook them again, so I'll try to get a better photo.

I'm having a little battle with the pita pizzas. Should I put the cheese down first, or the tomatoes? Should the tomatoes be crushed, or in slices? Since they're not in season, I'm thinking canned. I think I'll just make four, and try one each way.

This is why my pants are tight.