Swiff It Good

Reader, you may recall that my disinterest in housework knows no bounds. I don't care if my shelves are dusty, my tub ringed, water spots speckle the toothbrush holder. I prefer that there not be cat litter in the bed, but I'll carry on if there is.

I have two cats living with me, who are incredibly messy. They throw litter out of the (covered) litterbox, deposit hair, whiskers and nail hulls at an alarming rate, toss their food all over creation. A few weeks back, I finally succumbed to the Swiffer. I resisted this for so long because it's disposable, expensive and why not just mop? But after spending what felt like forever mopping my kitchen floor one day only to have Gus muck it up later that day with wet food and a poop smear, I thought I am never mopping that fucking floor again. And bought a Swiffer the next day.

First I dry Swiffed. It worked fairly well; cat hair did cling to it as promised. But I still had to use the dust pan at the end as the bigger crumbs of cat food and litter didn't. The experience overall was marginally better than sweeping but wasn't transformational.

On to the wet Swiffer, which is basically a giant baby wipe that you attach to a mop head. This experience wasn't quite as happy. To begin, it smells simply awful. Like chemical-y room air freshener in "spring rain" scent which never smells neither remotely springy nor like rain. Why doesn't Simple Green or CitraSolve make these? Secondly, it seemed to leave behind a somewhat greasy film.

Alas, reader, Swiffer is not the magic answer to my sloth-ly housekeeping or my slobbini kittehs.


And proud of it

Rising Star: Parks and Recreation

Reader! The second season of Amy Poehler's Parks and Recreation just gets better and better. If you abandoned this show sometime during the admittedly mediocre first season, COME BACK!

This week during an office hunting trip gone awry, Leslie protects one of her own from an inquisitive park ranger:



This made me laugh so hard. Amy Poehler is such a fucking hero. Check out back episodes of Parks and Recreation on Hulu.

Happy weekend!

Taking Stock

What it is, reader! Today when I peered into the fridge looking for dinner, a nearly naked carcass from a Whole Foods rotisserie chicken stared back. Because it feels like such an indulgence to buy these when you could roast your own for half the cost, I felt compelled to squeeze out every drop of chickeny goodness; it was time to make stock.

After picking off all the meat, and there's always more than you think, I threw it all, skin, bones, the whole nine, into a pot and covered it with water. I added veggies, avoiding anything that smells farty when you cook it, as it will not make for happy broth. That means skip all the cruciferous veggies: broccoli, cabbage, brussels sprouts, etc. Think of the things that make the house smell nice when you're cooking them: onions, garlic, carrots, mushrooms. Potatoes fall apart and make the stock cloudy, so I would skip those as well.

I keep a big ziplock going in the freezer with those kinds of things and when I have a full bag, I go for it. But just using the limp stuff in the fridge is fine, too, just cut out the obviously moldy or rotten bits. Add some black pepper to the mix, herbs if you have them, bring it to a boil, lower to a simmer and walk away. Eventually, your house will start to smell like comfort and love; bask.

When you're good and ready, pull out the big stuff with a slotted spoon or skimmer. Then it's time to strain. You could go all kinds of crazy straining but I just pour it through a fairly fine wire colander a couple of times. If you want it super clear, consider straining through a chinois. Here are some options for your viewing/buying pleasure. What you do with the fat is your call. I like it, so I leave it. If you don't, let the broth cool and skim it off.

Because I am looking for just a little stock at a time, after it has cooled, I pour it into ice cube trays. After they freeze thoroughly, crack them open and put them into a ziplock. Voila, broth cubes, ready when you need just a bit of liquid but water won't do.

And in the word of the uber laid back cook Mark Bittman: worry less, cook more. Amen to that!

Apropos of nothing, this bottle of 2006 Bogle Petite Sirah is so damn good. I first learned of the joy that is Petite Sirah nearly a year ago during a road trip you can read about here. Those bottles were $35+, but this one was about $10 at Trader Joe's. What's not to like?

"...You Can't Just Show up with Inelegant-Looking Labia"

Reader, thank the Maker for the sanity of Kate Harding, who writes for Salon's Broadsheet. Today she jumps into the fray of labioplasty, an increasingly popular cosmetic surgery to change the appearance of the labia, i.e. teenage porn star. A recent British study came out against the practice. In shocking news, plastic surgeons disagreed with their findings. Harding writes:

"Unsurprisingly, Douglas McGeorge, past president of the the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons, told the BBC he thinks the concern is "over the top. Essentially this is just about removing a bit of loose flesh, leaving behind an elegant-looking labia with minimum scarring." Oh, well if that's all it is! I mean, obviously, if you want to be taken seriously at a job interview or get a decent table at a hot restaurant, you can't just show up with inelegant-looking labia."

Bwahhahahahaha! Love her! You can catch the whole article here.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, there isn't one female body part that's just fine as is. Just so we're on the same page.

Greetings From The People's Gaypublic of Drugifornia

What it is, reader! The relentless march of the holiday season has begun. Thanks to genius marketing, we no longer have a series of discrete celebrations but rather one long holiday that begins after Labor Day, HalloThankChristYears, the purpose of which is to buy all manner of shit.

After going out for Chinese with some friends this Hallo, we decamped to a nearby bar to watch the World Series (obvs I was not driving this agenda), Lucita's. Lucita's wasn't a "dive" bar populated by white urban hipsters but was just sort of seedy. Tended by a platoon of ladies costumed at various stops along the sexy continuum: nurse, cat etc, there was a surfeit of cleavage.

Shortly after we arrived, two men dressed as cops came in. Except they were really cops, as it turned out. They posted themselves directly in front of the entrance, such that you would not be able to enter or exit without their physically moving out of the way. Odd. At the same time, we also noticed a steady stream of men going up a half flight of stairs at the back of the bar, then returning a few minutes later.

It did not take an especially fertile imagination to conclude we had stumbled onto a police-protected sex ring. The cops were essentially bouncers--your tax dollars at work! I was semi-outraged.

Turns out, San Francisco has a rich history of police-protected prostitution rings, as documented in Erotic City: Sexual Revolutions and the Making of Modern San Francisco by Josh Sides.

Might those busty bartenders have been B girls, who receive a cut of drink sales that they entice men to buy with their wiles and wares? Additional sleuthing yielded this review of the bar. The writer, a bit of a sexist ass, did seem to pick up that something was amiss in Lucita's but neglected to notice the sex work happening all around him. Perhaps it was just the timing of his visit. If at some point the SFPD gets interested, since hey, they can't seem to solve any homicides, tell them you read all about it on Professional Critic.

In other news ...

Stupak Amendment: What. The. Fuck?

File under: Late to the Party but Sure Am Glad I Made It: Cashmere. Reader, why did it take me thirty eight years of life to start wearing cashmere? Soft, light and delightfully warm, cashmere is indeed God's gift to woolens. If you feel so inclined to buy your favorite blogger a HalloThankChristYear present, do consider this one from Restoration Hardware.


Hi future robe!

The first minute of this episode of 30 Rock still makes me howl:



The suck known as Trauma has been canceled. Not surprising. Here's a taste of Trauma:



Yes, it's all that bad.

Oh, SNAP!

Celebrity chef/rake Anthony Bourdain has some choice words for Bay Area foodie extraordinaire Alice Waters: "annoys the living shit out of me." For the icing on the cake, calls her "Pol Pot in a muumuu." Although Bourdain's machismo chef shtick can be a bit much at times, this comment made me laugh out loud. Possibly the only thing more irritating than Bourdain's swaggering is Waters' rarefied preciousness.

However, to her credit Waters has put her considerable influence behind improving school nutrition with her Edible Schoolyard project. I can't seem to find anything Bourdain has done to advocate or promote the quality of food in this country. School lunches may not be sexy but they'll do a hell of a lot more to address the epidemics of obesity and diabetes in this country than Bourdain eating organ meats with a local. But! Bourdain never pretended to be a social reformer. He's an entertainer and entertains he does.

Read more here.

Josephine Summons Forth the Deity

Reader, an irksome fact of life at Chez Professional Critic is my ongoing inability to adequately capture Josephine's cuteness on film. Her brother Gus, while not as adorable in reality, is ridiculously photogenic:


Strikes a pose


even mid nail-chomp.

If this was a season of America's Next Top Model, Gus would be the average-looking girl whose pictures knock your socks off. He is fierce, brings it, works it AND owns it.

Josephine would be the real-life stunner the judges reluctantly boot off after the fourth episode when they realize she simply cannot smile with her eyes.


Camera brings out deeply suspicious nature.

But I keep trying. The other day as Jo lolled on the bed in the glowing late afternoon sun I grabbed the camera. I got this:


Demented

And this

Stoned

And then, this:


Saint Josephine!

I love that she's bathed in this beatific glow, surrounded by thousands of points of colored light. Makes up for the fact that you can't quite see her precious little face, almost.