Pro Skateboards on Quinpool - A Lesson in Drink Order Shaming

This is not the Iced Hot Chocolate, but it is from Pro.

This is late, almost 8 months late to be exact,  so yeah, I guess you could file it under "old news", but it's just so good. It goes back to a blistering sunny day in the summer of 2015 when I found myself walking with my most reluctant partner in walking, Hayley Jean Parsons. It was just as I was purposefully transitioning from a person who drinks coffee to a person who is a pseudo-coffee snob, that is, I went off coffee in the most infuriating way I could think of: by kicking drip to the curb and very publically and deliberately waxing poetic on my inclination for only drinking espresso based drinks.  I still love watching people react to that sentiment. It's the kind of uncalled for pretension that makes people squirm, especially baristas.

On this particular day, I was trying to stay off all forms of caffeine, so going to a café was my first misstep, but I was also too damn hot, a sensation I fucking hate, so I needed something chilled and refreshing.  Without overthinking, or thinking at all, I ordered the first thing that came to mind:

"An Iced Hot Chocolate, please."

Oh no. What did I just say? Everyone is looking at me. Was that a bad order? What does that order even mean? What the fuck is an Iced Hot Chocolate? And then the girl serving us, who I actually really enjoy , gave it to me straight:

"So... you want a chocolate milk then...

Boom. I had just been verbally sucker-punched in my ego's boob. Oochie wah wah. No. No, no, no! I don't want a freaking "chocolate milk"! I want the drink I made up, and I want nobody to say a word about it. I could feel my fingers tighten around the edge of the hardwood counter, but as much as I pulled, I could not for the life of me flip it over to properly showcase my boiling anger. There was a pause, I could see my little sister was starting to break, and I said through a stone cold grimace:

"Yeah, that's right... an Iced Hot Chocolate."

 Of course, what I meant was (you might want to turn up that volume for this one):

She knew, that I knew, that she was right, I was wrong, and we were both going to have to let it lie.

The chocolate milk really was a good choice, but it's the intangible things we took away from that day that are most important: a long-running inside joke between myself and Hayley, and for my server, a story of an idiot guaranteed to slay any crowd, at any party, from now then until eternity. And because this was more of a pride-based tragedy than a failure in flavor, beverage volume or anyone's manners, I am going to give that employee a 7 out of Harvey's. That's for calling me out on not knowing what the hell I was talking about and for giving me a much-needed (but definitely not appreciated) lesson in humility. It's something I can never not think of when I walk by, and it's something I know everyone involved will hold dearly for the remainder of their lives. #IcedHotChocolate. The most stupid fucking drink order ever placed. If Rachael Parsons would have been there, she would have killed me.*

*This is grossly exaggerated for comedic purposes, but the order was placed, verbatim. It sure was.

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Sweet & Sour Meatballs: A Prelude to Karaoke...

Mouthwatering Shades of Bland.

Most people say "If it's brown flush it down", but I say (if it's brown), "No, you can't have a bite. Get away from me." I don't know what it is about that brown color wheel, but I can never seem to get enough of it in my diet. Whether it be from the gravy family, various cooked meats, potatoes, teriyaki-whatever, that coconut soup from Chabaa Thai, those vegan cookies from Planet Organic (or whatever it's called now), or simply hunks of bread ripped from an unsliced loaf, I gotta have it. And if you think I am over exaggerating my penchant for the dirty side of the rainbow, then just take a look at my cooking choices. Almost everything I prepare ends up being a sloppy, unsightly, and incredibly beige catastrophe. Case in point: Tuesday night's "Sweet & Sour Meatballs."

Even though meatballs are objectively the best, they remain somewhat of a perpetual unsung hero. Even Jerri Blank (Amy Sedaris) was embarrassed to admit to Mr. Noblit (Stephen Colbert) that they were her favorite food in Season 2 of Strangers with Candy, and Jerri is someone who shouldn't be concerned with saving any face at all considering she's a self-proclaimed "junkie whore". (See Video).

Luckily for me (and unluckily for Graham), I have zero drive to cook to any standard higher than my own (one which is virtually non-existent), so when I get meatballs on the brain, you better believe we're having them immediately and the recipe is going to be improvised (as George Costanza would say) "up the ying yang, baby!"  

But anyone who has seen the original MXC with Vic, Ken, the Captain, Guy LeDouche and the genius voiceovers can tell you that a crapshoot, especially one with a high risk of failure, is a crowd-pleaser. This is why a narrated breakdown of the few completely un-thoughtful and unclear steps I use to personally go from being someone without meatballs to being someone with meatballs makes the perfect think piece for my growing audience. Because who doesn't, however secretly or un-secretly, love manually shapen-ed meats? I mean, come on, "Hashtag Foodie" much?

Step 1: Have meat in, and make sure it's defrosted.

"Fresh" ground meat is smushy and disgusting, and pulling that tightly bound plastic wrap off of it always grosses me out. There is no way to get around the runny and severely off-putting blood/water melange that collects in the corners of the styrofoam. No matter how hard I try, it winds up all over my hands. All over them. Every time. Honestly, this makes me a little uneasy, because unlike most people's hands, mine are in a constant state of disrepair. I'm talking without fail, and I worry that my open wounds (the results of daily cuticle massacres brought on by incessant biting) are just begging to play host to a lethal dose of E.Coli. Death by my own two hands. It all sounds very Shakespearean doesn't it, but also, in a much more realistic sense, extremely unlikely. Anyway, enough about my beat-up old fingertips. Trust me, they don't need any more attention than I already pay them. Dinner, however, does. 

I have heard/seen people prepare these things before and when I sift through the totality of my meatball memories I am flooded with flashes of egg and bread crumbs, for what I can only assume is adhesion. But who has bread crumbs and eggs? Sounds like a recipe for the rich and famous, and we at this apartment are everyday people which, surprisingly, does not create a problem. You see, when you don't give a shit about your own cooking, and bring negative-pride to the table, there's no real need to worry when you're forced to sidestep ingredients and think outside the box. I am under the impression that these particular add-ons aren't really critical anyway - that they're there more to complicate things, and make meatball recipes seem harder than they are (or have to be).  If you ask me, anything baked or fried long enough will end up sticking together, a theory I have accidentally proven to myself many times over. So keeping that in mind I start grabbing fistfuls of meat with my unwashed hands and begin rolling away.

Quality Control

I aim for golfball-ish dimensions, but there are some fairly distinct indications that each attempt has missed the mark. Of course, this is a place where food habitually un-impresses, so I don't feel any pressure to push my molding capabilities to any new and unnecessary heights. They look the way they look, and if things go my way, they are going to be swimming in a runny rice disaster anyway, making their abnormalities virtually undetectable. That's how it's done people. Hide bad food in big sauce. Volumes and volumes of it. And if you screw it up to the point where no one is willing to polish off a plate, you can always fall back on old faithful. The one guy who will always appreciate your blood, sweat, and tears: the dog. 

Step 2: Rice, I guess.

People think rice is easy, and sometimes it is. But you know what? Just as often it isn't. I like my rice "al dente", which I think is Italian for "hard pasta". Graham, however, likes rice done "properly". For this non-occasion, I do try to make it his way, but again, you never know what you're going to get with rice. Rice is a gamble and nobody really cares about it anyway. At least, they shouldn't.

Step 3: Mix a mixture and call it "Sweet and Sour Sauce".

I ask my mother to text me the recipe for her sauce. From what she says, it looks like I need brown sugar, vinegar and something else. I forget. Water, I presume. Oh, and ketchup. That was the last thing. Vinegar and water aren't an issue, but upon light inspection, I realize I have no brown sugar and boy does she call for a lot. I contemplate using the white kind, but it doesn't seem "brown" enough.  I look in the fridge and think for a moment. I wonder if raisins would work, but it seems like a long shot. Then I spot the maple syrup. I don't know what sort of pressure and length of squeeze will equate to the one cup of sugar my mother says I need, so I just go with what feels right. I put about 5 seconds worth of maple syrup into the bowl and decide everything is ready to be fired into the oven. The meatballs look so gross with the sauce poured over them, and I can tell pretty quickly I have managed to get the proportions very wrong. It is way, way too watery, but like I said, anything cooked long enough will eventually stick together, even liquids. I hope.

Step 4: Pour a Vodka Soda and forget about the meatballs.

My friend Dianne Hatcher (who has guest written for The Regular Food Critic) got me into these Lime Cordial Vodka drinks, which are just soda water and you guessed it, lime cordial and vodka. They are pretty good at wetting your whistle, and in a remarkable twist of events, I actually have enough of each to make myself a tall one.  Yum yum. I even have ice. My ice always ends up having, like, dirt and hair in it. I never know why. I don't know what happens between the tap and the freezer but their contamination is so consistent, it's one of the only things in my life I can truly rely on. That and having to pop an Immodium about twice a week while in the most inconvenient places Halifax has to offer; like the changing room at Value Village or a BFF's birthday party where all her friends from out of town (that I've never met before) are filed into a two-bedroom apartment with one bathroom and zero ventilation. Not. A. Good. Scene.


The meatballs bake at the arbitrarily chosen temperature of 400 degrees Fahrenheit. I hear a lot of people say temperatures like "350 degrees Fahrenheit" or "450 degrees Fahrenheit", so I feel somewhere in the middle would be that sweet spot that cooks every dish to perfection. Timewise, I just kind of wing it. I give myself about 45 minutes of dinner not crossing my mind, and I sit back with my alcoholic beverage to watch Vampire Diaries. Oh god. I can't believe I am about to get myself started on Vampire Diaries, but here goes. This show is cuckoo bananas. I don't even know where to begin. Elena acts like she knows what's best for all the vampires and she doesn't! I hate her! And all I see is acting. I hate when I can't get the fact that a show is just a bunch of adults pretending out of my head. It ruins everything. And I always wonder about the kind of mindset it must take to be able to have someone say to you: "Okay, I need you to be painfully cool and sexy vampire. You're also really clever. Pretend your teeth are longer too... " and not pee your pants. If it were me, I would spend all hours, on set, sitting in a pool of my own piss. Everyday. Or at least until my inevitable termination. Actors, amirite?

Anyway. I peep into the oven to see how my brown balls are making out. Oh jeez, the sauce is so soupy. I don't know how I can still get surprised by my culinary failures. A herculean squeeze of uncalled-for maple syrup? What did I think was going to happen? I eat one to see how bad they are, and also fire one into a bowl for the poochie.  I feel bad that dogs have to eat the same thing every day, so I always let Gully have a bit of what we're having. He only gets one life, and he is 10 years old so I mean, come on. Let the dogs live a little. As far as what we're both ingesting, they aren't half bad. Half.

Step 5: When you hear the Pontiac Pursuit (or Percy as we call him) into the driveway, take the meatballs out and serve everything at once. Everything.

This weighs like, 5 pounds

Sometimes the most annoying part about dinner is having to interrupt your seated position to grab seconds. Graham hates this too, so usually we will serve up every last morsel between two plates and just hammer away at them.  Plating in this house takes about 1 to 2 seconds. There is nothing deliberate about any of it, except trying to not miss. And speaking of plates, recognize this one? It was featured it in my very first entry. Looks like it's up to its old tricks again!

This is the main man's portion, not to be confused with the contents of a restaurants slop bucket, or more accurately the unidentifiable rotting carcass myself and the dog once stumbled across during one of our always unpredictable and completely aesthetically displeasing walks through Exhibition Park. Actually, wait, we did figure out what that thing was. It was (once) a deer, and it looked as if someone had fed it a grenade. All hoofs and elbows. It was quite a scene I tell you, and if I hadn't cleared my phone gallery to make room for the shoddy clips I record for these blogs, you would've been able to see what I mean. Probably best I got rid of those though...

So many shades of rust

Mmmmmm. Look at those colors. I mean, I dig what I see, but I doubt any normal person's sensory organs would react well to this. It's a really, really, muted effort with explosive results excelling in the only place that matters: taste. Yes, it tastes like it's meant to and It is filling as fack. Graham eats all of his. His appetite has been insane lately, and I attribute that to his working too much and continually being fed meals with low-quality/ filler ingredients (also known as "my cooking"). He packs away that whole mess and let me tell you, it is a fucking mess. It reminds me of some of my own personal messes, and what they may look like if realized as food; like the time I was fired that second time from that same job, or my haircut/bang situation in Grade 10. I look at him with a raised eyebrow that says "Jesus...." but I am glad he's found it pleasant enough is to cram down his gullet in such total and timely fashion. He is so good at pretending to like what I do.

Otherwise known as "My big break..."

Listen I hate to end so abruptly, but as they say "another day, another dollar", which unfortunately doesn't apply here at all. It is, however, another day, another dinner and although it may not be a "turn of phrase", it fits. You know, as standoffish as those meatballs appear, they were actually quite inviting in real life, and there are no leftovers. I would normally love to elaborate further on that, but my attention has been stolen by the karaoke machine that just arrived at my doorstep. That's right, I bought a karaoke machine for my own personal/apartment use and ever since I opened the box 5 minutes ago I've lost all interest in this review. However, we do need a score. I give this a 6 out of Harvey's -  four points being lost for failing to bypass the whole endeavor in the first place and, well, just go to Harvey's. You know, I never learn. 

Please stay tuned to The Regular Food Critic for upcoming reviews on Barrington Street's Gingergrass and the spread backstage at last week's This Hour Has 22 Minutes taping!

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Lion & Bright: The Place You Can Bring Your Laptop but Not Anymore, Kind of

There is a story in the Vagina Monologues where
a woman says her vagina is a garden. These
coffee flowers always make me think of that story. 

Lion & Bright is on Agricola Street and is somewhat the bane of my existence. Yes, I suppose that would mean I have a pretty cushy existence if a hipster pretentious café is the most antagonistic thorn in my side, but it is a "bane" none the less.

Let's start with how to simply walk into the establishment. Here's a tip, when you enter, keep your eyes down.  This is a place where everyone you don't want to see is probably working at their laptop on some artistic endeavour you definitely never want to hear about (and today I plan to be one of them), so if you can navigate without your eyeballs lifting from the floor, I highly recommend you do so. And yes, I know what you're thinking: "Wait a minute, don't I need to be able to see if there's a table available?" No, you don't, because guess what? There isn't.

Of course, eventually, you will get a seat. We do, at least. Today I have in tow two sisters, one nephew, and one Lardene Flart (no, that's not her real name).  We came to "work"; Lardene on some photo editing, me on this, but I decided coffee and snack would have to come first or else I wouldn't really have much to work with (although past poor experiences would have probably been enough). We sit down against the wall. I look around. It's fucking packed. Man, this place is always so fucking packed! You just know people love to be spotted here, and I hate that. It reminds me of Obladee. I bet they wouldn't have half the pull they do if there weren't those huge windows looking onto the corners of Barrington and whatever. Because, people go there mainly to be the people who are at Obladee, and of that, I am convinced.

Oh For God Sakes...

Anyway, Obladee is fine. Forget Obladee, back to today. I catch eye contact with some surrounding patrons, and I just know I am making days. One guy has even brought along a stand for his laptop. He wants his laptop and himself to stand out the most. Well buddy, it's working. I can't snap a photo of it, but I can find one on the internet. This laptop stand begs the question "Why?", but it's the non-rhetorical sort, because requiring an answer means opening up a dialogue and I have a feeling me and this man have less than nothing in common, except of course that we are both at Lion & Bright with laptops. Man, I kill myself sometimes, and not in a good way.

But I digress. Where was I? Right, the people are predictable and the tables are hard to get. You know what? They are also a little heavy handed in their distribution.  Graham and I watched the worst/best fucking movie ever a few months ago: Curse of Chuckie. The tables remind me a lot of a comment Chuckie made about a woman he was about to kill. He talked about her eyes, screaming about how they were "too fucking close together" right before his little doll hand and doll knife performed some involuntary ocular surgery (see video below, really, see it). These tables are like that woman's eyes. They are way "too fucking close together". I am literally brushing elbows (yes, literally does fit here, don't be pedantic) with the people next to us. In this particular instance though, I don't mind. They are kids and I love kids.

Anyway, I order a coffee. A mochaccino actually. The sisters and the Lardene order food. Here's what we're going to be looking at:

Hayley & Katy - Sharing a NINE DOLLAR mac and cheese (the special) and each getting their own side of leek and something soup.

Lardene - Having the fish tacos and side beet salad.

Basic Bitch, in The Best Way.

Our server. I know this chick is probably awesome, and you never know what is going on in someone's life, but there is something weird going on at Lion & Bright. I always feel as if employees are half agitated by my patronage.  It's like they've been instructed to go for an air that says: "Yes, I can take your order, but just so you know, it's not my job to serve you" (spoiler alert: it is). Our food comes pretty quickly, which is huge in my books. When people are hungry, every minute feels like a step closer to death. Our faces light up and the eats seem hot and edible, a great start.

The soup is soup, but it's cool that it's just soup you know? I always tell Graham we should open a place called "For Regular People, For Christ's Sake" because there really are so very few of them out there anymore. Places that when you order soup, you get soup, and when you order a beer, it's just a beer and not something that comes with a description including degrees of hoppy-ness and words like "infused with...", "enlivened by..." or "addition of...". Like, if there is beer in it, I am sure it's going to serve its purpose. And what the fuck is "hoppy"-ness? Do I detect levels of hops with my eyeballs or my earballs? You know what? I don't even want to know the answer. I'd like to exercise my right to refuse to be filled in.

My point is, I like this soup because as you can see, it's a leek soup without bells and whistles, and let's be honest; a haphazard effort at garnishing. Finally, something I can relate too. A normal cup of soup for a couple of normal women. I wish I could have a slurp, but Hayley and Katy must've missed all the episodes of the Care Bear's where they shared their lessons in caring, specifically the sharing one with the popsicles.  If you missed it too, you can check it out below:

Two Forks One Cup

Moving on. Let's look at the Mac n' Cheese. That fork is touching the bottom of that plate. It is touching it. Judging by most forks, that has to mean this is one shallow ass depth. Listen, the taste is fine, it's really good actually, but dude, this is NINE DOLLARS we're talking about here.  I think they should rename this dish Highway Robbery.  Sisters are disappointed by the prospect of sharing now, and they pack it away fast, both driven by their fear of one getting more than the other. We're all a bunch of greedy guts, and that's okay.

Let's talk fish tacos. I have had these here before and they can actually hit the spot if you don't care about money or "bang for your buck".  They are drippy, and although some people might hate that, the drippiness is my favorite part of all tacos, fish, chicken, beef, whatever.

For Scale

But there's a big problem with this picture. That is an as served taco portion, but looks more like someone deep fried a witch's finger and plated it for shits and gigs. Granted there are two of these puppies, but for each taco to have that much fish, or should I say that little fish, I mean, there are no words. I had Lardene put her finger there for scale, because it really is super tiny. Guys, it's not that this isn't yummy, but it's almost insulting how minuscule that thing is. I keep expecting our waitress to release some balloons and reveal we're on a terribly Canadian hidden camera show where hipster pretentious restaurants hide behind claims of "quality/local" ingredients and see how much bullshit they can get away with before customers finally break. This taco portion has Lardene at a breaking point. And me for that matter, because the bite she offers up is ruined by the wrappy part being stale-ish.

Lardene is not happy, and I wonder if she is on her period. Women who are hangry and PMSing can be loose cannons and I am not ready to commit to making a scene about this meal just yet. It's not all bad though, the white stuff, whatever it is, is a nice line of sauce, and those orange grated things (carrots?) they are a colorful little addition. Again, hence the word "little". God I feel bad for this taco. It had so much potential. It couldn't have been great. It reminds me a lot of my middle school band "Tender Betrayal" (a name I lifted from my sister Lauren's Harlequin Romance novel), something that sounded like a sure-fire hit but turned out to be a pint-sized effort that was bound to, and did, go nowhere. Oh, Tender B.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

You know what I will get at Lion & Bright if we ever wander back? This fucking beet salad. When the cartoon female exec from The Simpsons first pitched "Poochie" to "Itchy and Scratchy" big wigs, she described him as not simply a dog who got "busy", but a dog who got "biz-zay". This, this here is a salad that gets "biz-ay". I don't even know what's in there, but damn damn-ity damn damn it looks fine. See Lion and B (as I like to call you)? You can do it! I like how that long plate is so long, and I like the idea of starting a meal at one end of a dish and having an end point even more. I didn't have a taste, but I have had this before and I remember thinking it must be the saving grace of the whole joint. If I had to guess how to make this, I would say um.... apples, beets, carrot things, I think I see cashews, and those leaves, I am going to say they are.....rosemary. And one looks like, um, I choose basil. Like I said, I didn't try it so this is me creating a recipe just from this photo, For the sauce, I would say grab whatever cream dressing you have in your fridge and add any green specs you have in your spice cabinet. At the very least, it should look like the one in the photo once you mix the two. Oh! And is that a red onion? Maybe there is red onion too.

The waitress came by to ask us how everything was. I said "Amazing!" with the sort of unbridled enthusiasm only a cock-eyed optimist like Billy Mumphrey could match. Of course I was lying, but I really, really hate to be rude to anyone in the service industry. The fish taco isn't her fault. It's not even the cooks fault. It's the people at the top. They are handing down the orders and those orders need some serious tweaking. When I look at our mains I don't see exquisite plating or scrumptious ingredients, I see many a pinched penny hiding behind the hope that people will interpret small garbage portions as high brow end dining experiences. But I am on to them, and as Marissa Cooper from the O.C. would say (yes, click video):

Once everyone finishes their meals, we leave to search out another internet café as we discover a new rule which grinds our gears has been implemented: no laptops at certain tables. I can feel my "You've gotta be kidding me face" forming and we grab our coats. I realize this is probably just to promote turnover, and it's they're prerogative to decide where we can and cannot set up shop, but it feels a little presumptuous, doesn't it?  A little too sure of their popularity.

Listen, Lion and Bright. I doubt this is news to you. I hope you laugh if you read this, and I hope you know no one can ever take away your most valuable selling point: proximity. Your proximity to everything, especially En Vie, gives you a 4/Harvey's. As much as I bitch and complain (or as I like to say "make fair observations"), my North-end-ness and your North-end-ness are bound to cross paths again and when that time comes I just might get the beet salad (which I am giving a separate rating of 8/Harvey's). And a beer. Oh for the love of all that is holy, please don't spit in my beer. Please.

 

                                                          

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Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire: What. Does. That. Even. Mean. (Annnnd We're Back!)

Holy shiza, it's been a dog's age. The Regular Food Critic has completely fallen by the wayside, an oversight which just sucks and begs such questions as How could I? or How dare me? But, fear not. The hiatus was never intended to last forever, or intended at all.

As I once said to myself during an exceptionally difficult period which I'm sure we've all experienced, you know the one, that agonizing moment between finishing a family sized bag of chips and opening another: "All good things must not come to permanent ends." My summer hibernation has wound all the way down (which is a more poetic way of saying "I've run out of Netflix shows that interest me") and since everyone is watching fucking Gilmore Girls this week, now, more than ever, is the time for me to be distracted from television and Facebook. Fucking Gilmore Girls. That's a more apt title, wouldn't you say? This show leaves me so utterly and begrudgingly speechless, and not because I wouldn't love to go on and on about how the duos beat-for-beat, who-can-use-the-most-words-to-say-nothing rhetoric absolutely kills me, but because the show very literally leaves me with no words to do so (yes, there really are no words, Rory and Lorelai have taken them all). And might I add, that whole style of dialogue has only ever worked once and that was in a little town called Capeside where 30-year-olds played 15-year-olds and everyone had access to the same thesaurus.


Now, I know I'm going to get flack for that shade. I don't mind. I like Justin Bieber. Not just like, love. So if you can't understand why anyone would slight two women from Stars Hollow who are just trying to make it in their crazy fictitious world, use that little insight to get to your "A-ha" moment. A moment which will probably read like "What? Seriously? How can anyone not like Gilmo - oh. Oh! She's a Belieber. Oooooooo...."

Christmas is Coming. Christ. Mas.

Moving on to the reason I am writing today. Christmas is coming. Says so just two sentences back. I like Christmas because I am incredibly materialistic and cheap, and that makes receiving gifts the perfect way for me to be myself. But there are other reasons too, and they have everything to do with holiday menu items. Well, item.

Because life is characteristically unfair, more often that not the things I enjoy the most occur seasonally. In the summertime I'm living for tans, finding and keeping other peoples' sunglasses, and Iced Hot Chocolates (see past review on Pro Skates in Halifax for an explanation on that). In the winter I look forward to over-sized sweaters to bloat in, not having to explain why I want to stay home all the time, watching Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer (because it really is so strange), and last but never least, crack-able mixed nuts. Oh. My. God. Mixed. Nuts.

She Said I'm Cuuuuuuuuuute!

Before I get into my brief critique surrounding the nutshell boneyard I have at my place right now, I wanna give a shout out to my favorite character from Rudolph. I'm talking about the mammalian hussy that makes Mae West look like she navigates her sexuality about as efficiently as Juliette Lewis does as the other sister in The Other Sister.  This is a jezebel who understands how to work a bow, a breathy voice, and lash extensions: I'm of course talking about Clarice, Rudolph's flirtatious/slut-atious love interest. See video below:

#ForwardMuch? I couldn't find any solid information on what our little Horny Spice has been up to over the last few years, but I think it's safe to say that if it's not starring in porn videos, it's definitely working for that "Pick Up the Phone/Cat Got Your Tongue" sex line we all remember so fondly. She's got that same timbre that drove Kramer crazy for Jamie Gertz on Seinfeld. Or "Jane" as she was called in the episode. You know, the woman who couldn't "spare a square". And if you feel like investigating Clarice any further, or you don't want to be lonely (as the jingle prescribes), here's the number: 011-592-1913. Let's all give those girls a ring together.

Most Nuts Good/Some Nuts Bad

About nuts. There are four different nuts that make up a "trad-ish" mixed nut net: hazelnuts (which are simply acorns without the little hats A.K.A. very polite acorns), walnuts, almonds, and the bad ones. The bad ones might be pecans, but I refuse to look into it any deeper because I've already tried and it's actually been hard for me to confirm.  Whatever they are, I really hate them. I tasted one yesterday just to make sure I wasn't having one of my exaggerated or just plain false memories, and yes, I do confirm a distinctly terrible flavor. Like burnt dirt. Or what I imagine a fire pit might taste like if I were to fall into it face first and confuse my next series of decisions by putting "choosing to eat" before "choosing to get up". The point is, don't even bother. Unless you're over 80 and 90% of the intel you're receiving from your sensory organs is muffled to a point of almost complete silence, you're going to want to throw these away. Into the fire. Make more burnt dirt.


And then there are walnuts. Walnuts are good. They can be a very humbling nut to crack since many of your attempts will fail and you'll end up getting super down on your lack of strength, and even more so, on how quickly you're willing to give up on cracking them altogether (#WeakBitchQuitter). However, when you do get one opened, watch out! These babies are like mini-pinatas, not colorfully decorated or full of sweets, but man do they burst. If the Honey I Shrunk the Kids laser ever connected with an Amish community, these little guys would be the perfect thing for a couple of oppressed stick-wielding kids to beat the shit out of at some super-drab party. So expect pieces to go flying. And don't be afraid to eat them off the ground, the couch, or if you're snacking on them in the bath, the bath. You deserve the whole fruit of your labor and the 3-second rule need not be enforced here. Need not, but mostly cannot, because everyone knows that this rule has had only one true monitor since 2012, and that's Lisa Gail Allred. Oh, you don't know Lisa Gail? You don't know the song "3 Second Rule"? Well, if you like sassy older ladies who sing in a key you've never heard before and seem to be pushing the boundaries of traditional/enjoyable harmonies, this is your lucky day. I mean that. Oh man, do I mean that. See video below:

Why is she so amazing? Love her. Anyway, Almonds are okay too, but they're so popular and they make me roll my eyes the same way someone does when they tell me not to talk about the Gilmore Girls reboot, making an ass out of me and them for assuming I even watched it. Why, whenever December rolls around, are we so quick to forget that everyone has these in their houses all the time? One of my friends even has a bag of almonds in her Jetta! I've seen it! And are they even that great? Or special for that matter? "Oh, it's that festive time of year again! Finally, I can get my fill of... almonds..." What common everyday grocery item will be the next must-have-for-no-reason holiday staple? Has anyone looked into the idea of Christmas rice?

Nut Jobs

I. Love. To. Get. Off. Track. The main reason I wrote this was to acknowledge the polite acorns. I'll be honest, when given the chance I opt for the bag of only hazelnuts and leave the mixed ones to individuals in possession of a more indifferent palate than mine. I can't get enough of them. In fact, they should eradicate popcorn and serve these nuts by the refillable-bag-full in theaters, or as I like to call them: "the only places left in the world where you can have an awesome time littering with your friends". Seriously, I don't even go there for the movies anymore. I go to Ciniplex to satisfy my primal urge of throwing garbage and having fun with it.

Buy this.

In closing, I would like to encourage everyone to buy some nuts (which I just misspelled as "buts" three times before I could wrangle my fingers properly around my "n" key). I also really hope you guys watch Lisa Gail's complete video on YouTube.  I'll leave the link here, as well as the link to her second single "Coffee, or Tea, or Maybe Me". It is a treat and she is a treasure. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if I've already mentioned her in a Regular Food Critic, but I'm too lazy to go back and check. And so what if I did, it's all gold anyway. I couldn't make those tunes up if I tried, but because she can and did, I want to be around her all the time. Oh, right. The food. 9/Harvey's goes to the mixed bag. Harv's/Harv's goes to the solo performance of the hazelnut. Peace.

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PART TWO - The Halifax Crafters Market/"Clean Spoons"

So it's been like three days since I had that lemonade, and I feel a mixture of "over it"/"could use a glass right about now". Like Miley Cyrus says on the last track of her "Miley Cyrus and her Dead Petz" album: "What does it mean? What does it mean? What does it mean?" The answer, in this instance, being: "Nobody cares. Nobody cares. Nobody cares." 

"Ex-squeeze me? Baking Powder?"

After downing my glorified citrus water, I made a quick stop at a soap booth. It had a pretty straight forward presentation going on; there were some shelves, and the soaps which the chick had made (or so she says...) had been displayed in an attractive manner. Or maybe it was just a "regular" manner. It's not like she had dumped them into a pile on the table and been like "Perrrrfect". They were spread out carefully and deliberately. Maybe to "showcase" them in a desirable way, maybe to satisfy OCD tendencies, who knows. But now that I am thinking about it, I'm starting to like the idea of a "dumb, unorganized heap" look. Yeah, I believe that would have been a welcomed twist. It takes a lot of confidence to do absolutely zero set-up at a craft fair, or any fair for that matter, and a "like it or lump it" attitude can only mean that a product is so good that nobody has to do shit to sell it because it sells itself. That, or it means someone is lazy and they suck. Probably something I would have to decide on a case by case basis, but an interesting spin none the less.

Sadly, there was no "favorite imaginary mess". Her area was pleasant, and I was happy to have found it. I like homemade soaps because they're cheap and who cares/whatever, which happen to be the only two pre-requisites that must be met before I commit to any purchase. I asked the girl with the glasses how much they were (aren't they all "the girl with the glasses" these days? I know I am, and I don't even have a prescription). "Six dollars," she said. Awesome. She cleared that hurdle with a bit of height to spare (I would have also accepted "7 dollars"), and I hoped she could keep it up as I continued on to my next questions. She didn't. Instead, she and I got all tangled up in the following exchange, and before I knew it we were in a non-consensual discussion about my breakout:

Me: "So are any of these for like, face washing?"

Girl: "Yeah, this one here. It has charcoal, blah, blah, blah..."

Me: "Oh, neat, and is it good for..."

Girl: "Acne? Yes."

Me: "..."

Me (again): see video clip

Woah. I think Jerry summed it up perfectly in one of Seinfeld's nightclub intros when he said, "Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, that's not gonna work at all." You see, I was going to say "sensitive skin", but my friend here judged my book by its cover-up, and went there. She was doing that thing creative types sometimes do so well: making normal people really uncomfortable through a series of way too honest and unfiltered observations. As soon as the "A-word" was out of her mouth, I began to feel myself move through all the stages of unexpected embarrassment:

Here's a tip - never ever draw attention to someone's bad skin day.  It's about as bad a SNAFU as misidentified sausage poisoning (otherwise known as "asking a woman who isn't pregnant about her pregnancy"). If there is something going on with my face, I am usually the first to know. Like I said, my glasses don't even need the glass parts! I can see! I am aware! Here's the good thing, though, and I mean this - this girl (unbeknownst to her) has given me a great story. I really like her for that. I know she didn't mean anything by jumping the gun and assuming I wanted to talk about "pizza face". One of her friends mentioned that she gets asked about acne-prone skin all the time, so it totally makes sense. Still, it was what it was, and every time I think of it I die. In a good way, because to me, it's amazing. Sometimes really painful moments turn into really funny moments upon further examination, and now when I think of this awkwardness, I wouldn't have it any other way. I wish I would have gone back and told her my version of our conversation, and how I am now almost certain it's going to end up being the highlight of my month. Maybe she would have laughed? Or maybe she would have stared blankly at me with that "evil intellectualism" these artsy types sometimes pour on ya. I'll never know. (Oh - and P.S.- the soap is "fleek". Will buy again. And again. And again.)

"Clean Spoons"

Speaking of highlights of the month, there was another contender that occurred within the confines of the Olympic Centre last weekend. While looking at some pottery at the end of our rounds, a dude (Cherakee - might have been your broseph-in-law?) noticed something "funny" going on with little Hayley Parsons' mug. You see, the crafters market has coffee you dispense yourself, and they also have clean cups for everyone to use. The evidence also suggests they used to have clean spoons, too. That is until apparently (as the guy pointed out) Hayley swiped that mug mistakenly to serve as her "cup of joe", leaving all other patrons with only a "dirty spoons" selection. The guy was losing it after we confirmed that yes, that was exactly what happened, and so were we. Hayley was majorly hungover that day, and it was a classic hangover move, as hangovers rarely read and have little to no attention to detail. I was and still am so glad this didn't go unnoticed because it's the kind of gift that keeps on giving (in the form of Hayley's new nickname: "Clean Spoons"). 

Move over General Hospital, there's a new soap in town...

Like I said, my purchase (although a bit prickly) was a success. Me love the soap, and even though it's not a snack, it still deserves a Harvey's rating. A good one at that - 9/Harvey's - for the laughs and the product itself. 

Oh, for crying out loud. I almost forgot the real snack that I had - Lure Caramel Co. toffee. Holy shiza. This stuff it addictive. It was like Hanson's first album was playing in my mouth, and no one is telling me to turn it down/off. What makes it even more incroyable is that the fact that it is hand-made! By Kate Melvin! I cannot wait to go to Lure in Indian Harbour and make myself sick! Just ask Natalie how fast I eat at a chocolate shop! Yum! Thanks, Kate! Harvey's out of Harvey's! And now that that's all wrapped up in a nice wordy bow, I am going to peace out and make lunch. It's almost 2:30 for god sakes, and I still haven't made any of my daily cheese-based meals! Pull it together, Tuesday! Is it Tuesday? I never know what day it is...

If you want updates from "The Regular Food Critic", along with book news, 
please follow my author page on Facebook and my Twitter!
Show me you care, even if you don't:

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