PART ONE - The Halifax Crafters Market/If this was an album dropping, it would be called "I'm Getting On The Horn"...

I made fun of Beyoncé yesterday on Facebook and everyone's mad at me. ANYWAY... if you were in the city this weekend, you probably took a bunch of fliff-notes out of your bank account and stopped into the Halifax Crafters Market. The Halifax Crafters Market is where (mostly) way too talented people try to cash in their brainchildren for (mostly) way too few dollars. That's right. There were some D-E-A-L-S carving out property at this little pop-up fair. I am talking, of course, about cousin Rachael's coloring books (which are basically being given away for 15$), as well as her original hand-painted totes, apparel, greeting cards, and prints. What I am not, I repeat, not talking about the five-dollar cup of lemonade my "hangover self" (who always gold-digs my "regular self") forced me into buying. Sadly, not at all. 

Before you start asking yourself what my problem is with lemonade everything, please keep in mind I'm not trying to wage war on the cool cats (How does the old saying go? "Every time someone says 'I don't believe in hipsters' somebody sends back a fish taco at Lion and Bright"?). We all know you can't please everyone, and what is perhaps even more important to remember is that everyone can't please me. It's not anyone's fault, except probably mine, so offense need not be taken. On that note...

$2.00 too many...

I once complained (via email) to Maynards about a 
package of Sour Patch Kids I bought in the New Orleans Airport. As I pounded away on my keyboard, I discussed how my candies seemed "damp" and that it "didn't matter if they only cost a dollar" because "it wasn't about the price, it was about standards." Although I am sure that statement rings true for a lot of people, it doesn't for me. I polished off the whole bag sour-y sweetness before I could even hit send. Because of course I was still going to eat them, a little wet around the edges or not. Standards, As if. The truth is it's always about the money and within two weeks I had a cheque in the mail for a cool $1.49. Cha-ching. 

The point of my story is to demonstrate my history of being "cost sensitive". Five dollars for a cup of lemonade is too much. I should have just asked for the lemons instead. It may not have necessarily been more "bang for my buck", but at least it would have been "bang". I had to play along, though. The dog and pony act had me right where they wanted me and they knew it. Must've been my eyeballs doing their best impression of really thirsty red grapes that gave me away, but, if wasn't those two face raisins, then it had to have been the smell of last night's booze naturally off-gassing from my pores. Either way, they were waving liquids around in front of a vulnerable Saturday morning liquor zombie, so obviously they had my attention (which gives me an idea for an alternative album name: "Desperation Hydration: Struggles of a Waterless Parched Person").


Becky with the good hair...

They had some choices in the "flavor" department, so I decided to go with "SeaBerry" (or as I like to refer to it now, "Really?"). I watched one of the gals pump a squirt (ew - "pump a squirt" - no!) into my cup and then start cranking on the old-school-machine-squasher. Judging from the progress they weren't making, it was clear that some sort of short-cut would need to be taken soon, otherwise, I would have had to go back the following day to collect my drink. And take a short cut they did, because after about the second lemon they began topping off filling up my bevvie with water. A lot of it. 

All that water got me thinking: What am I paying for? The manual labor? The physical exertion of bringing the arm upwards and downwards for a maximum of twice times? I felt like some fool throwing bills around so two roommates could make money while they figure out how their hilariously expensive and so obviously unnecessary 16-piece vegan-metal hand-juicer works. (#FiveDollarsFiveDollarsFiveDollars) 

Watching them reminded me of when I was a teenager and used to carry around a little lantern with a lit candle inside to "get around in the dark". In my house. I could have turned on the lights, but I wanted to use the lantern because I thought it was cool, and even more so because I wanted everyone else to think it was cool. They didn't, and I retired that habit fairly quickly once I realized it wasn't catching on. It wasn't very practical anyway, ya know, and neither is the jig they pulled down at the Crafters Market. And on top of the "Why even?"-ness of it all, I just realized while writing this that lemonade isn't even a craft! It had about as much business being there as I have in complaining online about something I actually enjoyed - none! Jokes on me, though, because all arbitrary and unasked-for observations aside, I did buy the lemonade. And that can only mean one thing - the hipsters won Saturday. 

This whole post is essentially just one long tug on a couple of strangers' chains and is built upon only two facts - one being that the lemonade was damn delicious and the second being that I am a cheapskate. Which is why I give the price of the thirst quencher a 3/Harvey's ("three" being the amount of loonies I believe it should have cost) and the taste a 9/Harvey's because I love lemonade. I'm serious. I love it.

This isn't the end...

I have more on my experience at the HFX Crafters Market coming up later tonight, (#cleanspoons and #soap), so prepare for my usual flooding of your newsfeeds! And remember I am still campaigning for me, myself and I.  If you can, please share this link! If you want, please follow me on Twitter! And, if you haven't already, like my page on Facebook! 

                                                          

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Home Cooking - "Put down the spoon, you're killing you..."

When I was around 18, and my little sister was 8, we spent a lot of time on an all-ages educational website called Poopy-Joe.com. Poopy Joe had a lot going on entertainment-wise, but somehow we always found ourselves clicking on either "The Poop Machine" game or the cooky vid with a familiar poppy lilt, titled "Oops, I Farted Again". Sadly The Poop Machine is not able to be attached to this blog, but if you're ever looking for a way to kill a few hours (or you're drinking alone and don't want to get lost down the Facebook rabbit hole firing off unwelcome friend requests and private messages) feeding this virtual face and butt is a pretty ridiculous way to do it. Yes, the sound effects are uber-disgusting (mute is always an option), but the speeds in which each meal plows, or slugs, through the intestinal track are fairly spot on. I mean, the corn barreling down, only to jettison itself into the toilet to the sound of a machine gun? It was, and still is, very ahead of its time. 

As was the bathroom humor spin on Britney's billboard classic seen above, where she spends the bulk of the clip tooting out fancy-free and footloose flames. For users looking for the amusement value of the  "Poop Machine", minus the interaction, this is where it's at. The jerky, dated computer generated dancing  squatting and arm-flailing won't make you feel like "you're there", but considering the context, you'll be glad you're not.

Amazing, right? But wait, what does a cartoon shitter and a gassy pop princess have anything to do with this blog post? Well, it all comes back to the weird food our bodies can and cannot (or should and should not?) withstand. Poopy-Joe.com teaches us the fake risks of real indigestion, and the gambles we take on the stuff we're not so sure about. "Stuff" like my Tuesday Case Study: The meal I cooked (badly...) in March, that I am now going to try to eat in late April.

Frozen - Like That Song By Madonna 

I re-discovered the freezer months ago when I realized it was capable of solving my issues with never finishing, or wanting to waste, my dinner. You see, I have trouble parting with my leftovers (hence the word "my"), which is really just a nice way of communicating my distaste for sharing, and that's where the freezer comes in. The freezer "freezes" things, prohibiting growth and change - much like the way Scotiabank "froze" my account when I deposited that empty envelope as a teenager, or the way I "froze" in my snake costume after laughing so hard I peed my pants scaly unitard while performing in my elementary school's production of Marco Polo.  In this instance, "freezing" helps me pick up where I left off with a past meal by completely eliminating the chances of bacterial poisoning (something that usually occurs when it is stored in the favorable temperatures of anywhere besides the freezer).  I know. That's a lot of scientific jargon for a wordy blowhard like me. You must be wondering if I've always been this in touch with my savant-ness, and how well I actually knew Oliver Sacks - The answer, of course, is a shaking fist and me saying "That's enough from the peanut gallery!" I mean come on. Jeez... (RIP Dr. Sacks)

Anyway, after this game-changing brain wave, I started firing even the smallest amounts of uneaten food into the icebox...  and the most undesirable. Lone, half-gnawed slices of pizza can often be seen through the frost on the Tupperware containers, as can old sandwiches and noodles with varying toppings and sauces. The majority of this collection is seriously, seriously old, a prime example being the eyesore that can be seen in three of the next five photos. I made this particular concoction about three weeks ago, and yes, I plan on finishing it today. I know some people will think "Ew - gross - what even is that?" but don't worry, I know exactly what this is and where it came from. After all, I was the one that tried to make it, and then somewhere throughout that same process, ruined it. It's like that beer with the salt and pepper facial haired man and the name of that book says: "I don't always make shrimp teriyaki, but when I do, I don't." Wait, I think I am making Dos Equis and Don Quijote one thing instead of two things that are very different...

You never know when you've added too much sauce until you've added way too much sauce...


Yes, this is shrimp teriyaki. Or more accurately, this is what shrimp and too much teriyaki sauce looks like after it's been viciously overcooked and frozen for twenty-one days. I like shrimp, and since all the ones I eat have had a bit of a tough go (as in, they used to be alive, curling their way through the sea, and now they are mostly just dead and expensive), I have decided to incorporate more into my diet. Like a healthier alternative to beef, or chicken, or pork, or what-do-I-care. Too bad "eating well" doesn't look the same for everybody. I have seen shrimp teriyaki done properly, and I don't remember it making me question if a really sick cat mistook my rice for a safe place to empty its insides. The visuals speak for themselves. See that swirly dehydrated-anus looking thing? That used to be a crustacean, and I ate it. And I ate that Van Gogh's-long-lost-(allegedly)self-mutilated-ear-part-looking mushroom over there on the left, too.

You know, sometimes people say that food, flavored or not, tastes like nothing and you think, "How the hell can that be?!" Well, it can be. This dish really tasted like nothing. It sure felt like something though. Like I was eating one of those "potions" you serve to your parents as a child, made exclusively of inedible ingredients. This particular creation has a texture of Barbie Doll head, along with a granular taste - like rocks that haven't yet gone through that Rock Tumbler you regret asking for last Christmas. It's different, and I appreciate the freak flag it's trying to fly, but all those things I just described, to me? Those are indicators that scream "Put down the spoon, you're killing you."

That look Jerry Seinfeld gives after he says "Nah, no-one's ever been shot in the city..."

 Into the compost it goes! Now you can appreciate all the vibrancy of the brown color wheel, which, as I have mentioned in the past, is a personal favorite. The way the broken plastic bowl plays off the garbage-ness of the contents almost convinces me to give this disaster another shot at being lunch, but then I'm reminded of my easy-to-prepare fallback: an incredibly bland, 4-piece handheld sammy. That's right, no plating required. It is a simple as one single slice of fake turkey, two lightly veganaise-ed pieces of bread from Organic Earth (doesn't matter what kind, just as long as they're tan-ish), and three rectangles of Old Cheddar. Sure, it may look like the kind of sandwich that could depress the "Target Lady", or prompt a kindergarten teacher to place a call to child services, but this is made by grown-up hands for a grown-up bod and it is my adult right to control my own malnutrition. Mine and mine alone.

Dog food and the wishy-washiness of leftovers...

Speaking of malnutrition, that pic with the rice, black bits, and the old coffee has reminded me I need to feed the puppers. Gully eats "whole foods" now - which means liver, rice, carrots, and whatever else I think looks neat in his dish, but regardless of the recipe it somehow always manages to look like the bottom of a green bin... or canned Irish Stew.
I know, I know - who cares!? My point is I need to wrap this up. I have to provide for this animal at some point this morning, so let's get down to info that actually matters, like the Harvey's Scale.  Today it has to be broken down into two separate ratings. The first travesty gets a big fat zero, all thanks to the fact that it sucked the first time I tried it, and it sucked even worse almost a month later. My "Trad-ish Turk Sam" (which is "cool" for "traditional turkey sandwich") gets a seven because of it's simplicity and it's ability to not make: 1) a mess, or more importantly, 2) me sick.

Oh yeah, and while we're waiting for fame and fortune...

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Seven Bays Bouldering & Café: PART 1 - The part where we aren't climbing anything yet...

The photo on the left was taken from 7 Bays website - on the off chance they
get mad at me for stealing it, I have the image on the right ready to take over.

I've never thought to myself while at a café eating a lunch, drinking a coffee, or writing a rambling: "Hey, you know what would make this place perfect? Adjacent indoor rock climbing "bouldering" wall(s)." I just haven't.

It's like Scott Aukerman (or whatever his name may be today) of Comedy Bang!Bang! says in one of my favorite sketches: "Maybe it's just me, but for me..." Yeah, for me? I don't think that would have ever been a naturally occurring idea, and for those of you who have met me, you know that says a lot. That's because I am a person who is writhe with ideas. In fact, I'm surprised/offended it isn't my nickname at this point. I mean, how many episodes of inventiveness does one need to demonstrate before it sticks in everyone's head as a defining quality? Have I told you about the "B-Safe-Let"? Have you seen "Plate Pants"? I think Kristin Wiig said it best while slaying an impersonation of Kris Jenner: "What do I have to do for attention, kill somebody?"


Anyway, enough about the misgivings of everyone around me. The union of rock-climbing and café-going isn't necessarily an "unholy" one. You could say it is out of left field, but I personally am partial to the left side of things anyway, being left-handed and all. So what if it isn't one of those "sure-bet" DTF on POF kind of matches? FRED on Agricola gets away with cutting hair just around the corner of their dining area. CUTTING. HAIR. AND. SERVING. FOOD. They might as well be grooming dogs, which is a type of hair I am never thrilled to find in my lunch, but at least am very used to. But regardless of what animal is shedding nearby, human or canine, somehow they've made it work. And you know what? The peeps over at 7 Bays Bouldering have made their niche market work for them too. Quite fabulously, in fact!

Make Parking, Not War

Let me start with the parking, because in this city, it's important. The parking here is amazing in that it exists, and there seems to always be an available spot. It reminds me of something that doesn't remind me at all of the concrete mind fuck also known as the new Halifax Central Library's parkade. I have cursed more and put more dents in my Jeep within the confines of that Queen Street free-for-all than anyone could ever imagine - unless you can imagine the number one. One dent is what I put into my vehicle while pin-balling towards the exit, but to this day, it still feels like a million. In other words, the parking here is (comparatively) a flirtatious, tall glass of water. Drink it down, drink it in.

Along with the love affair described above, you will notice upon your arrival a series of garage doors. You know the ones - they look like really wide and tall multi-paned windows. Okay. Although I have no confirmation on what this space was before 7 Bays settled in, I'm going to go ahead and guess that it was a CrossFit... "whatever"?  All signs garage doors point to CrossFit, because we are living in a time where it is more common to find a bunch of individuals running around and exercising really loudly behind these retractable passageways than it is to find the usual suspects - greased up mechanics getting their "lean on" inside the auto-body shop. Of course, none of these observations are relevant to this review since in this particular case you find neither. In this case, the big bad shutters keep the rock climbers safe from looky-loos like me (or, I suppose, the environment?), and have nothing to do with car repairs or people throwing kettle balls at each other. Because that's what CrossFit is... right? Cacophonous shouting and hurling gym equipment like a Real Housewives hurls her wine ?

The Café with The Elbow Room 

It's inconspicuous, it's spacious and it's got a one-room/one-toilet bathroom. JACKPOT). This is a good, no, a great place to grab a bite, to get a beer and to get a table (finally). However, it is not a safe place to get a London Fog. Jessie Redmond tried pulling that stunt and I immediately (and unfairly) teased her for being "so fancy", for the sole purpose of giving myself a cheap chuckle - unfortunately at her expense. Jessie - you and your London Fog. We both know I will probably never let you live it down, and that sure is ridiculous! Oh, friendship!

This is also the spot to be if you were hoping to see men in long, breezy shorts. That is, apart from the yoga studio, but at 7 Bays instead of getting and eyeful of dudes pinching their testicles in ways that make your own private parts cringe, you can watch them standing next to each other, looking at/talking about the rock wall they seem to rarely be climbing!
Seriously, there are so many long shorts in here. Some of the shorts are tolerable, but others are definitely made from hemp and possibly...oh man... by hand. Here's a pro tip: Thin material? Wear JOCKEYS. Women aren't men. We don't like to see the shapes and sizes of sensitive areas through your clothing. If you ask me, catching a glimpse of a penis form without warning evokes the same squirmy feelings I get when I hear the words "epic" or "sensual", or when the insides of a person's elbows somehow make their way into my line of vision (please. god. no.). But enough about free birds, let's move on to something that actually stokes the appetite as opposed to extinguishes it: Tea and good food.

Tea: Rooibos Ginger

This little tea is so cute! The mug reminds me of the ones that were used when I would serve tea at the Chester Legion. That was back when I was a better person/a little Brownie. If you're unfamiliar with Brownies, a Brownie is a tiny girl who is forced to do good deeds, such as brighten the days of the local seniors and participate in the Terry Fox Run. They also have to serve tea and triangle sandwiches to people a couple times a year and from what I can remember I was always stuck serving egg salad. Such an injustice. Do you know what someone eating an egg salad sandwich asking you (too closely) for "Another egg salad sandwich!" looks/smells/sounds and sometimes feels like? I cannot be around egg salad to this day. I'll never understand the public ingestion of the egg salad sandwich. It's so polarizing. Makes me want to cry for everyone involved. 

Rooibos is my favorite tea, and ginger is one of those buzz foods I've heard you're supposed to be having, so I thought it would be a smart choice for me. And it was, but here's the thing - tea is just hot water with maybe one spec, one teeny tiny spec, of flavor, and no matter what that "flavor" may be, it all tastes like wet loose-leaf the end. Wet loose-leaf that I have acquired one hell of a taste for, so when critiquing this beverage, as far as hot paper-water goes, this cup was everything I could have hoped for and more (taking into consideration the self-reflection brought by the glassware). Thumbs up for sure/Will order next time.

Dumplings and Spiralized Salad for Two (...for One)

I chose the furthest table away facing everyone's backs because I hate when people watch me eat stringy things/salad/tacos etc. That's messy stuff. Stuff that isn't easy to figure into perfectly bite-sized portions. Today it seems that one patron in particular couldn't care less about those feelings of mine. This "dude/dooood" has decided to come chat up his bro who happens to be sitting at the table directly across of me. And, and, he keeps facing me! Do you know how hard it is to eat spiraled vegetables? In a civilized way? In a way that says "I'm not 3 months old?" It can't be done! It's like what I imagine seeing someone trying to eat a slinky while driving alone on the highway might look like - insane. Trust me. I know. I once spun a slinky into a light fixture at the request of a man who was clearly deranged, just so I wouldn't hurt his feelings. There is no way that that didn't look nuts (it definitely did to my co-workers), and I can only assume a mouth half-full of similarly shaped bits leave me appearing no less certifiable. All issues aside (you know, a bib would have been nice) the taste of this dish makes it worth finishing in one sitting. The sauce is scrumtrulescent and the filling-ness of it was - I don't know - does "100%" mean anything to anyone? I was pretty full. On healthy stuff. That's hard to do, at least for me it is.


Oh my God, and then there were dumplings. Dumplings are amazing, but before I get to them, did you all know that I used to work at the Black Market Boutique for my sister who is a now part-owner (where else could that slinky story have taken place)? 

Anyway, this particular night I was closing the store with my friend Ari. Suddenly, I began to sing an original tune, one for all the lonely women out there who, at times, find themselves spending the majority of their evenings in. Alone. Ordering take-out for two (for one). You know what I'm saying. We've all done it - made it sound like we're placing orders for two or more people, knowing full well the numerous Asian "combos" scheduled to arrive at our doorstep are for us, and us alone. Hence the song's title "Tonight, I'm Ordering in for Two (for One)".  It was a stunning display. Almost as if I had immaculately concept-ed a song not unlike the way Jesus was immaculately concept-ed, and the profound results of that evening are reminiscent of how I put my order in at 7 Bays. See how there is a paper bag there? Next to the dumplings? Yeah, I asked for those to be brought to me in a take out container. I, for no reason at all, pretended they were for someone else, and the chick at the counter believed me... that is, until she slid them my way following the veggie bowl of awesomeness. They just smelled so good, like the way the plastic lining of a fruit roll-up smells good, and before I knew it I was humming "Tonight, I'm Ordering in for Two (for One)" and ripping into them. They were, hands down, the best dumplings I have had in the city. For real. I know what you're thinking: "Were they really that good, or were you really that hungry?" Unfortunately, there's no way to tell. Sorry. Go try some and let me know what you think?

Yes, You Should Eat Here and YES WE ARE GOING CLIMBING

Everything I ate here was super, super Harvey's-esque, so I am giving it an 8 out of Harvey's. It was tasty A.F., it was fast and I had a whole seating area to myself (huge selling point). The rock wall is also on the agenda. That's right, myself and a few friends plan to tackle that thing this week and I will write the second part of this review upon its completion. There will be video, and I plan to wear one of those extra-thick, anti-incontinence maxi pads because I know for a fact I am going to pee my pants laughing. It's happened before, it will happen again. I guess that means I'll be joining in the breezy short brigade since a queen-sized panty liner isn't the easiest thing to conceal in a pair of knock-off Lulu Lemons. I just hope they have some new "fresh boulders"...?! Stay tuned, like usual!

For more books news, Regular Food Critic news, and just to listen to me ramble more frequently - follow me on Twitter and Like my Facebook page! T'anx again, peeps! 

If you want updates from "The Regular Food Critic", along with book news, 
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Planet Organic (or as they like to be called - Organic Earth): Vegan Cookies - can they really make up for your "Car Licorice"?

This is a fast and furious review (not to be confused with a review of "The Fast and the Furious". We don't "allow" that sort of "garbage" on here). It's going to be unfussy, and just the way I like my morning baths - quick and dirty. Actually, I don't know if you could technically call what I do in the tub a "bath", per se. It's actually more of a sterilization session if anything, where the water is scalding, and the traditional "scrubbing" is... minimal. But it all does go down "in the bath", and I think that may be the only criteria in order to constitute a bath being taken. So, yeah. The hell with it. Let's call them my "morning baths".

Anyway, apart from my body's entire disinfection via submersion into what is essentially a boiling porcelain cauldron, I have a few other rituals that I find help jumpstart my day and my version of daily productivity. Using the bathroom is one of them, but it's so hard to capture that whole scene with only words. It's the kind of experience that needs to be filmed in order to really be felt, but since we still live in a world where videotaping one's self in the middle of toilet-time is considered "taboo", or "disgusting, or an "audition for Two Girls One Cup", I can't really take the leap and publish one here. I can, however, go over the more "vanilla" details of my routine, beginning with (and really, ending with) getting coffee from Planet Organic. Sorry. Organic Earth. Jesus.

As my readers should by now be aware, I only drink espresso-based coffee drinks. What can I say, it's the L.A. in me (for the record I have never been to, or know anyone who has been to, LA.). To be more specific though, I tend to lean towards either Mochaccinos or Caffé Mochas. What is the difference you ask? Ask somebody else. I'm too embarrassed to admit my not knowing by having to pose that question to any barista, so I don't have the answer and it's safe to assume I never will. Now, I used to go to Java Blend everyday fir my fix, but the problem with JB is that it is really popular for coffee pickups. This means you can almost guarantee on running into somebody you know, somebody you kind of know, or the worst of all the offenses, somebody you barely know, while you're there. It really is murder having only seconds to decide how or if to acknowledge someone (Do I wave? Does this person even remember me? Do they think I should say "Hi"? Do people nod at one another anymore? Do any of these coffees come with a gun so I can just put myself out of my misery right here, right now?) and if it can be avoided, then you better believe I avoid it.

Needless to say I had to find a substitute coffee haunt, and since for the longest time I vowed never to return to Pro Skate because of my pride and inclination to be disproportionally embarassed (I'm obviously exaggerating and love Pro and the peeps there- Hi Chantal!) I tested the waters at Organic Earth. And that is where I found myself this morning, with Hayley Parsons, ordering my stupid drink and getting two of my little favorites - the vegan cookie and the peanut butter ball.

I am not vegan if that's what some of my posts have suggested. I know me saying that implies that I think of the term as some sort of cruel accusation, but I don't. I'm just not. Even if I try to tell you I am when I'm drinking, I'm still not. I do like vegan food, though. A lot, and since vegans so desperately want the rest of us to hop aboard the canola-oil-powered vegan train, they make it a point to ensure their meal alternatives are f'ing amazing. Case in point: this vegan cookie you see on your right.

Okay. I forgot to take a photo of this before I started eating it. This cookie is only $2.50, maybe. I forget. Point is, it's so freaking good. They're big too, and dense as hell. As you cannot really see, there are seeds in there, there are chocolate chips, and there is a lot of brown (in other words check, check, check). I like to have this little bugger first thing in the morning to make up for my even more "first thing in the morning" snack - my car licorice. Car licorice is licorice you keep in your car to eat while you're on your way to get your "real" breakfast. It's yummy, often frozen, and really terrible for you. But like I said, you throw back a couple a vegan anythings after two or three Twizzlers, and everything kind of just sorts itself out. I'm sure of it.

To even further satisfy my sweet teeth, I like to grab a classic peanut butter ball. This one goes down fast, and since I want to save it for later, you won't be getting a good look at it. Though, I did take the time to set up a really stunning photo, incorporating such props as a mirror and natural light streaming in through a window. I tell you, it was quite a scene. I could barely get through this shoot without tearing up at the raw beauty of it all. The peanut butter ball is however much money, and is a gift from god. If you haven't had one, go buy one now. If you want to buy two, then buy two. And so on, and so on, and so on.

The coffee at this place is good. I think it's Java Blend so I mean, yeah, it is what it is. There is a super nice chick who works behind the counter with glasses and she is cheery up the wazoo. The debit machine can sometimes be a sticky wicket, but no need to be a dick about that. It's just a touchy piece of shit and that's life. The only reason it bothers me so much is because I have to hang onto it longer when it's screwing itself up. Hanging on means exposing my horribly hang-nailed thumbs to whoever is working. They are not a pretty sight, and it gives me anxiety thinking about the level of disgust that is being experienced by whoever lays eyes on them.


Anyway, that's about it. Organic Earth is pretty solid (though the groceries are hella-expensive) and I give their café a 6 out of Harvey's because that's the first number that came to my head, and my Mom always said when you're writing a multiple choice exam, you gotta go with your gut. She wasn't necessarily generous with the advice, so I have been forced to apply that to basically everything life hands to me. (Just kidding, she also told me that "There's more to life than just partying"...)

I leave you on this fine Tuesday afternoon with some killer dance moves performed by myself, dressed up as my alter-ego, 17-year-old male rapping/dance battling sensation Jonathan Mosher. This one is for the girls.

If you want updates from "The Regular Food Critic", along with book news, 
please follow my author page on Facebook and my Twitter!
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Burger Week: Sampling the Basics in a North End Kitchen/Oh Jeez...

If you're in Halifax, and have read any signage over the past few days, or picked up a copy of The Coast (however begrudgingly), then there is no way you don't know it's "fuckin' Burger Week, brah"! For those readers who are unfamiliar here's the 411: Burger Week is a 7-day totally "hot ticket" period.  It's during this time when almost every restaurant and their dog try to ham-burgle one another's thunder (and patrons) through varying combinations of extra-special paddies, toppings, condiments, and buns. It's culinary madness. People get mentally bent, using social media as a common place of worship, and some fliffer* down at "B.W. Headquarters" has even gone so far as to bestow upon our city streets some highly flamboyant, customized transport. That's right, you may not have a car, but the last six days, and upcoming one, do. Of course, it is a Mini Cooper, so it's more like having its own customized set of power wheels, but it's "a set of wheels" none the less. *For insight as to what "fliffing" is - see video below.

Surprising to nobody, this is a problem for me. Listen, I love burgers, and I have nothing against "weeks", but I hate when the intangible get cars over people (specifically, people like me). As far as I am concerned, events do not need their own vehicles, but if I am wrong, and they do, then come on. I can think of so many more deserving occasions that have come and gone without their own "tribute joyride". For example, (in particular order):

1. Me, when I (in my opinion) pulled off cornrows at my rural high school graduation. 
2. Me, when I convinced Sobey's to reimburse me for a pizza I felt was "sub-par" by reporting that "its inability to rise had ruined my (non-existent) 7-year-old daughter's birthday party, leaving all the (make believe) guests in (equally make-believe) tears". 
3. Me, when once, at a friend's gathering, I successfully relocated my "number two(s)" from a toilet that refused to flush, to an undisclosed outdoor area in Chester, Nova Scotia completely undetected by other party goers, like the National Trainwreck Treasure that I am. 
4. And me, when I openly discussed that time (A.K.A. "The Purse Story" for those confidantes who are already familiar), at a friend 's gathering, when I successfully relocated my "number two(s)" from a toilet that refused to flush, to an undisclosed outdoor area in Chester. Nova Scotia and published those details on the internet for everyone to read (see "Number 3"). 

Yes, I have seen the similar recount of poo-toting which also hit the internet today.  May all the women who have taken (fecal) matters into their own hands stand tall and strong together - with light hearts and heavy purses. 

Are you picking up what I am putting down here? I should be driving a fleet of these 
things at the rate my milestones are piling up but hey, their dime, their rules, and let's be honest - that whip is kinda wack anyway. On the plus side, our eateries make up for the annoying parts of Burger Week with the ever elusive, economic unicorn: "reasonable pricing" (usually around 6$). A-ha, so this explains why the meaty contenders are only here for a limited time! God forbid we Haligonians be privy to really sick and affordable burgers the other 358 days of the year, because that would be absurd, right? "No one can be expected to keep up that sort of wizardry, at least not year round!" (someone has obviously and unfortunately decreed...)

Relax, Yo

"Do I look fat in this body?" #BurgerWeekProse

I know what you're thinking, "Give Burger Week a break, you stupid bitch!"*, and you're right. There is definitely more to this festive time than grinding the public's gears with its fleeting nature, adding to the antagonizing hashtag population, and that "dude" in the funky squirrel suit. I'm talking of course about raising money for Feed Nova Scotia. That is awesome, and a sentiment to which I do declare "Holla! Holla! Holla!" (which is Real Housewife of New York City speak for "Gettit Girrrl"). But guys. Guys.  "Do-goodery" does not "a great comedy make", so while I wholeheartedly applaud turning community-wide interest into bank for those in need, this isn't really the place to delve into those particulars. No, this is more of a place to dwell on less-important/unimportant observations; like how on earth I could interpret Burger Week as some sort of a personal slight, or how through a series of rash decisions in the kitchen I ended up "making it my own". So please, forgive me for putting a pin in the goodwill, but I'm just the Regular Food Critic, not The Regular Philanthropist.

*Sidenote: I've decided to take the term "you stupid bitch" back from the douchebags, and now Graham and I put it at the end of every sentence, almost like a term of endearment i.e. "Graham, can you ask for no whip cream on my Café Mocha, you stupid bitch?" or "Jill, the roads are really bad so be careful, you stupid bitch." It's a good thing, trust me.

Graham's Truth About Burger Week

Back to the subject at hand. The other night Graham went behind my back and had one of these Burger Week burgers. I am not saying it was part of a malicious agenda or anything, but wasn't it? Or rather, couldn't it have been? From what I understand, he and his buddy Matt McNair snuck off to Relish to scarf down a couple of real doozies, otherwise known as (see video):

Wow. Stop yelling, amirite? Now, I don't know who has and has not seen The Jinx, but let me tell you, looking into those black, beady, and I'm guessing astigmatism-ized eyes of Robert Durst whilst being interviewed by Andrew Jarecki has nothing on the cold and heartless stare of a man who has recently enjoyed a burger and fry combo without you. And did anyone else feel the scathing casualness in his tone? He's a little too laissez-faire, like he's got something to hide, which could only be the fact that he was really glad he stepped outside of the home for dinner. Ouch.

I could feel his allegiance to myself and my cooking weakening, and became overwhelmed by that "Not on my watch!" sensation I often get when my back's up. It was obvious this Relish person establishment had tickled my man's taste buds, given his figurative crank a helluva turn, and god knows what else. I had to wonder, what did Relish have that I didn't have? I mean, I pretend to be a foodie, I am fake-interested in quality meal options, could it be that I was underestimating the pull and power of Burger Week? Was this one of those situations where the phrase "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" actually applied? Growing tired of asking questions nobody cared about, I concluded it was. I had no choice but to spring into action, (food)-fighting back against public enemy number one, otherwise known as my boyfriend's wandering palate. And since I literally have the attention-span of a 32-year-old woman with a terribly short attention span, I knew I had to come up with my own creation fast - before I came up with nothing at all and just decided to watch some more episodes of Buffy.

Making My Burger Week Contribution with Whatever the Opposite of "Imagination" Is...

I don't know if you've picked up on this from reading any past reviews of mine or Graham's cooking or not, but we don't really have like, a lot of "ingredients" per se. There is some food in the house, but food and ingredients are two different things. Food is like: I have an orange, I have rye bread, and I have flaked coconut - I have food. But when I have ingredients I have like: noodles, butter and that dusty parmesan that comes in the shaker - I have the ingredients - for one of my favorite meals, which I call "Noodles, Butter, and Parmesan". And speaking of parmesan, I heard through the Google grapevine that the powdery-est versions we keep as kitchens staples are more wood pulp than cheese. Isn't that nuts/the best? Those crafty Krafty kids, they really got us didn't they? As "Mark" from the makers of "Jeff" wold say: (see video)

Buns? More Like Zzzzzzz....

Anyway, anyway, my point is that we aren't operating with fully stocked cupboards or fridge over here, so thank god for my innate inventiveness. If you ask me, in order to make something remarkable, or at least to create a buzz, you need to pinpoint where everyone has laid down their comfort zones and face-plant outside of all of them. Case in point: traditional loafy, puffy, boring buns. Snoooooze-fest. George Costanza once said that toilet paper is the one thing that had never changed in his lifetime, and probably would never change afterward.  He was only sort-of right (which means completely wrong) but you know, I see what he was getting at. I think the same could be said for hamburger buns.  Why haven't we pushed for further development? And for god sakes, don't say using a leaf of lettuce is a viable substitution. It doesn't count. On the other hand, something that does qualify is one of my old favorites - Premium Plus Crackers (Salted Top Edition).


Crackers are good for holding in your hands and making low-budget sliders, as will be demonstrated in a few moments. They also make great buns because they are the same color as buns, and they are almost the same shape, in that they are a shape - so close enough. They are hard but not too hard, and they are crumbly but not too - well actually yeah, they are too damn crumbly, but you have to pick your battles carefully. That's why. when I noticed the 50 sleeves of saltines we had tossed into the back of our kitchen cabinet, and nothing really surrounding them in terms of "other options", I knew they would (have to) be the perfect foundation for my Burger Week burger. Fingers crossed...

Paddies? Might as Well Be Frosted Tips!

In terms of the literal "meat" of the thing, I wanted to keep it flimsy and gross. Luckily, I was in possession of some 50% off, "teetering on the edge of expiration" deli meats, which were no doubt meant to be my burger substitutions.  And to elevate the gourmet-ness of it all, rather than offer only one type of animal source, I was able to offer up two: turkey and roast beef. They both have that characteristic slime shine, and they are wet, so you know they're ... wet.  As you see in the photo, my signature color scheme and style came through fairly effortlessly; muted fleshy/beige-y/bready shades on a yard-sale worthy place setting, and as I could smell, something in that mix really belonged in the garbage. Apart from that, the visual is spot on and after mulling over the idea of adding anything else to, you know, bring some (or any) flavor to the dish, I decide toppings and sauces are very "been there, done that" as far as Burger Week burgers go and call "cut".

Eat. Gross. Yikes. (See Video)

It's a minimalistic masterpiece, and a triumph in terms of prep time, which has got to be under 1 minute. Reflecting on the many victories occurring across this meal's journey to fruition, I realize I have probably broken records along the way for something and/or anything and am therefore in the running for some non-descript award The Coast will likely be taking votes for later this year. Because how can you not love this burger? With no ingredients set in stone, it's essentially the sandwich equivalent of a "choose your own adventure" (Do I got with the pink or the brown meat? Two crackers or open-faced?), and I don't know about you, but that sounds rad.

"Kudos Elaine, on a job.... done." - J.Peterman

In terms of taste, the beef version was okay. The turkey however was, well, the turkey was what should have been thrown away in the first place. I had one bite and was like "Oh my god...where's the dog?" (just kidding our dog only eats whole food now... and tampons.) I give this meal a 2/Harvey's for having two chances to taste good and not really getting any of them right. That being said, would I make them again during a non-"Burger Week" week? Sure. Do I think I could get other people on board? Never, but that's someone's loss (I will let you decide whose exactly). Please check back to The Regular Food Critic as Gingergrass and Wild Leek reviews are being picked away at, so. freaking. slowly. Someday. Someday they'll be done. 

If you want updates from "The Regular Food Critic", along with book news, 
please follow my author page on Facebook and my Twitter!
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