A Good Burger, A Giant Turd

Tonight I made a super easy, cheap and healthy dinner, a great alternative to the bag of Costco salmon burgers that are convenient but mega-salty. Drained one can of Alaskan salmon, dumped into a bowl. It's full of skin and bones, which I just mash up (the calcium is good for you) but you could pick it out if it skeeves you out. I added a couple of handfuls of panko breadcrumbs, one beaten egg, a blob of mustard, and a sprinkle of salt and pepper. I would have added some chopped onion but my onions were already decomposing, too gross to even toss into the freezer veggie stock bag. I formed them into patties, fried them in a bit of olive oil, maybe 4-5 minutes on each side, until nicely browned, then served with a mix of mayo, mustard and lemon juice on nice bread or salad greens if that's how you roll.

If you're feeling fancy, you can add other stuff, fresh parsley or dill, maybe some finely chopped carrots or sweet potatoes, whatever you have that moves you. Think of it as meatloaf, open to interpretation and pretty forgiving. This made four modest size burgers, so once they cooled, I put two in the freezer.


The giant turd of the night is the utter crap show New Amsterdam. I wrote about this last June after reading about the new Fox show based on the Pete Hamill book Forever. I predicted it would be terrible and well, it really is. What's freaky is that I just read in the Wiki entry that the writer of the show claims to have no knowledge of the Pete Hamill book, which is very very hard to believe. The show is so stinky, though, maybe Mr. Hamill is more than happy to be at distance.

Good Book, Think You'll Like It

While killing time at a bookstore, I picked up Not Quite What I Was Planning, a book of six-word memoirs, and couldn't put it down. Who knew that so much raw hope, joy, disappointment, and despair could be packed into six words?

Barrister, barrista. What's the diff, Mom? Abigail Moorhouse

My baby's name was Sydney James. Margot Bertoni

Mom blames musical theater. I disagree. Dan Sigale

Never lived up to my potential. Leslie Sterling

Share your own six-word memoir at SMITH Magazine. I have no idea why it is capitalized, but SMITH is dedicated to storytelling and what's not to like about that?

I leave you with:

Such small kitties. So much poop?

Flabby, pale, hairy. Hello bikini, Hawaii!

Gray Weekend

Last night it was raining and today it's pretty dreary so I thought these pictures might make me feel like I'm in a beach town in Mexico, enjoying a sunset margarita on the rocks, minus the accompanying worry about vile water-borne illnesses.






It's not quite working, though, maybe because these pictures are actually of Mendocino and my neighbor's front yard.

What's better is a pot of stock simmering on the stove, filled with long-forgotten items from the freezer, random chicken thighs and a big bag of onion skins and withered carrots I had started in more ambitious times. But now I'm glad I never pitched those frost-bitten orphans--my house smells so good, rich and vegetable-y. Not sure how I'm going to use the finished stock but right now I'm perfectly content, no margarita needed.

Catching Up

Dearest reader, I have so much I want to blog about tonight yet my house is a hovel, defiantly sproingy gray hairs are winning the land-use battle raging on my head, my sink is sinking beneath the weight of a thousand dirty dishes, I have no clean clothes and beloved Josephine has dropped another stink-bomb to welcome me home. In short, nothing a glass of Husch Pinot Noir can't solve! I'm all about home remedies.

First, in grievously shocking news: A 2006 study finding that 80% of lung cancer related deaths could be prevented by more wide-spread use of CT scans, and not, say quitting smoking, was funded by a tobacco company. We've all fallen to the ground in disbelief, yes? While we're at it, let's go ahead and drive blindfolded, that's what air bags are for! If there is any reader out there who is genuinely surprised by this, please take a sick day tomorrow to read Hooked and the entire archive of this blog.

I've taken the liberty of writing a note to your employer:

Dear (your supervisor's name here):

(Your name here) will not be able to come to work today. S/he is unacceptably naive about the degree of influence corporate interests has on the scientific community, and as such, needs dedicated time for self-directed study.

Sincerely,
Professional Critic

Next, if you haven't checked out The Cleaner Plate Club, at the very least read this post in which Ali cites a depressing statistic that 77% of grocery items in a typical store have no nutritional value.

This was very much on my mind today as I trolled the aisles of my local discount grocery store. Even offerings from Amy's, a label I definitely equate with health, had insane amounts of fat and sodium in many of their items--even those marketed for children. (A few weeks back I actually emailed Amy's. They make really good Palak Paneer, which is loaded with fiber and other good stuff--and enough sodium to keep an entire ranch in salt licks. They responded very nicely that their chef was working on adjusting some of their entrees to decrease sodium, so stay tuned).

I shop for myself alone, so I can take all the time I need in the grocery store. Most of the time I actually enjoy it. But it does get frustrating when so much of what looks appealing ends up being appalling. And, if only 23% of what you have to choose from is actually good for you, what are the chances that harried parents will be picking the right stuff as they race around the store? It's like gambling with the health of your entire family and the odds aren't so hot.

Fitting nicely into this, I heard a smidge of Michael Pollan on the radio last night. He was discussing his new book, In Defense of Food, which I haven't read, but the basic premise seems to be: eat real food. So simple. And so, so much of what's out there, is just not.

Not too much happening in celeb world today. Robin Williams is getting divorced. The caring, not so much.

Holy Mother of Interwebs

After 1.5 grueling hours on the phone with various customer "support" lines, my very own, paid for by me, not stolen, totally legit wireless is up and running! I'm too exhausted to even think about posting for real now, but I wanted to keep my dear reader in the loop about this important development.

To tide you over, how about some pretty pictures of Mendocino, where I am, sadly, no longer:

Interesting timing indeed

Is it just a coincidence that last week my cats were both suffering from diarrhea and now I am? Normally I would have said yes, that is truly an unfortunate coincidence, as cats do not pass diseases onto people but then I read this article about a woman's cat that infected her with MRSA, only one of the most terrifying illnesses out there, and now I am not sure if they're as innocent as they look.


Innocence propaganda picture

Gussie keeps his nails perfectly manicured.
The better to scratch the shit out of me and my furniture

They're both fine, and now I'm eating the diet I prepared for them: boiled chicken, white rice, and unsalted chicken broth. Delish. I don't really feel too much like eating anyway, so worried am I that I'll anger the unpredictably testy bowel gods.

One thing I have been able to do, in addition to laying quietly on the couch and thinking intestinally calming thoughts, is read trashy celeb mags. Today I caught up on OK! and Us Weekly. Nothing earth shattering happening in either, I'm sorry to report, so I was forced to watch daytime TV and read Perez instead so I could have something to tell you, which is:

The Mills-McCartney divorce is finally over--Heather Mills is to receive $50 million, which apparently she may contest. I would've done the same thing, truly. And Halle Berry finally had her baby girl after being pregnant for like three years.

Privacy

Two interesting stories about privacy this week. First, Eliot "what the hell were you thinking" Spitzer. Prostitution should most definitely be legal, but even illegal, his encounter with 'Kristen' was way less icky than Bill Clinton's dalliance with Monica or even San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom's romp with his best friend's wife, both of which were way grosser than Spitzie's transaction with a paid professional. But, as he said himself, if you make it your life's business to keep everyone around you on the straight and narrow, be prepared for a dose of your own bitter medicine.

Today, the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that a city cannot test all employees for drugs or alcohol and instead must demonstrate that there is a safety or security issue that necessitates drug testing. This makes so much sense--those wide brush strokes don't differentiate between a bus driver, whose intoxication can kill lots of people and a librarian (the fired employee in this case), whose intoxication at worst could prompt reckless erasure of late fees or highly irregular date stamping.

And since I've seen that damn Tide commercial at least half a dozen times tonight, let me tell you how creeped out I am by Kelly Ripa's over-muscled man arms.

Early Failure

Daily posting for the month of March is clearly not
going to happen. Damn. I had such good intentions, I
tell you. I blame it all on my uptight neighbor who
closed his open network. See, I told you I would
complain about it!

In other news, I read today that Patrick Swayze was
just diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. Sorry
for no link--I'm posting this by email and am not sure
how to do html. But it's all over the news, or should
I say "news that I read," since I do recognize that
some people don't turn first to Perez Hilton to find
out what's been going on in the world.

But back to Patrick. If this is true, I'm actually
sad about it, and a little surprised to discover I
have a little tender spot for Patrick. There has been
many a viewing of Dirty Dancing in my life, and though
at this moment I cannot think of one other movie he
has been in, though I'm sure there were lots, it sure
did imprint on my brain. Not perhaps to the degree
that Ferris Bueller's Day Off or Wayne's World did,
but pretty close.

This is very sad news for Patrick and his family, and
the gajillions of ladies like me whose early cinematic
thrills involved him, pre-rhinoplasty Jennifer Grey,
and some smooth moves in the Catskills.

Saturday Morning

Today has been an incredibly productive morning so far. After putting it off forever, I got the car smogged, which wow! was expensive. I'm sitting in a cafe right now because my free wireless days seem to have come to a screeching halt, for real this time. It was a good run while it lasted, and though I've no right to complain about my neighbor locking down their once open network, I think I will. That's what we're all about here at Professional Critic.

I've added Twitter to my blog, so you can keep track of me throughout the day. There are other Twitter-y things one can do, but I don't understand them yet. And even more exciting is that I can now post via email, which I hope will help ramp up the amount of posting I do. As you may know, my wellspring of irritation runs very deep. Sufficient outlets are necessary for good health.

Last night I was watching The Namesake. About halfway through I went into the kitchen to get potato chips (Trader's Joe's reduced fat kettle chips: so-so)and noticed a dirty streak on the floor. This is not remotely unusual, but this didn't resemble the usual detritus of cat litter, coffee spills, and sparkly threads from cat toys. In fact, the entire floor was covered with these smears and with a sickening drop of my stomach I realized the floor was dotted liberally with cat shit. I pulled the lid off the cat box; my brain could not comprehend the diarrhea explosion that had issued forth within the plastic walls. It was everywhere.

Gus and Josephine came over to investigate, as they always do when I scoop the box, and I spotted a blob of litter encrusted diarrhea on Gus' back. My first response, which was to strangle him and wail, or vice versa, quickly evaporated. Poor Gussie had an upset stomach! Even worse, he had a brain the size of a chick pea so whatever he ate could have been killing him as I stood there contemplating my shittified kitchen floor. But clearly he was fine, and to illustrate this point he proceeded to wolf some kibble, race around the house and knock over a floor lamp as I was elbow deep in his dooky.

Who knows what that was all about? But since on any given day I see him attempting to eat a variety of non-food items such as carpet lint, power cords, house plants, and globs of my hair out of the drain, I guess an upset stomach is bound to occur now and again.