Monthly Archives: September 2011

Adventures in Cooking or Booze Sauce

Tonight’s post is brought to you by Drunk Spinster Productions.

I’m trying to make a hula hoop.  I never learned how.  As a child, I was too uncoordinated to master the basic back and forth motion required.  (Funny story: a few weeks ago, the lady that tried to teach me told me that hula hooping is just as easy as fucking.  I guess that explains why all the little boys in my elementary school liked the girls who could hula hoop.  It also probably explains why I’m single.)  All the ones in Walmart are way too light for me to learn on, and the mastar hoopers charge more than I think one is worth.  This is the root of my industriousness.  I, Jamila Richardson, am cheap.

I already bought irrigation hose, but have been having a bitch of a time finding a coupling that fits. This is, in fact, the third Home Depot I’ve been to and I still can’t find what I need.  Why, I ask, would the silly bastards not carry the requisite fittings and accessories for their stock?  Angry and annoyed, I step out of the irrigation section and cross over to the plumbing aisle, and as I scan the boxes on the shelf, I realize something.  All this time, I’ve been looking for a coupling that will fit inside the tubing, when, in fact, I should have been looking for a nipple.  Damnit to all layers of freaking hell.  So I buy the nipple, work my magic on the tube, and tada! I now have a brand new hula hoop.  But, unfortunately, a brand-new hula hoop that is still too light for me to learn on.  I’m really annoyed at myself right now.  I want a drink, but all I have is gin and I don’t have a suitable mixer.  Also, I’m hungry.  I’m sure you can guess what happened next.


Why, yes, Virginia, you can put gin in spaghetti sauce, but only so much of it.  My last few tries at cooking had turned out pretty decent, so I was confident I could pull this off.  But while I may fancy myself a Rachael Ray, tonight’s little experiment informed me that I am, in fact, the Bob Ross of culinary arts.  A post-stroke Bob Ross with only one eye.  (Ok, Bob Ross never had a stroke, but it sounds funny.  Don’t trample on my illusions, dear readers.  Don’t.  You.  Dare.)

With the first pour, I had actually managed to add the optimal amount of gin.  But then I got cocky and poured in a second. Now, instead of slightly-boozy yet still delicious spaghetti sauce, I had horrible dry, ginny tomato water.  Yuck.  I tried to temper the taste with garlic, and when that didn’t work, I threw in some salt.  Then I added butter, more butter, black pepper, more salt, more garlic, basil and some rock sugar.  Now it tasted like spicy gin.  So I did what anyone else would have done:  I threw in some vinegar.

Vinegar is actually a pretty good save for a lot of culinary disasters.  Too much sugar?  Add some vinegar.  Too much salt?  Add some vinegar.  To much semen?  (Well, I haven’t actually tried that, but I’m sure vinegar would work, because semen is a base.)  But besides all that, I really, really like vinegar.  I also like Worcestershire sauce, so I added some of that, too.  And it worked.  My sauce was equally yummy and boozy.  Two birds with one stone, woo!

Moral of the story:  if you’re trying to cook with hard liquor, you should probably stick with vodka.


Idles of perversity

The phonetic “idle” is an interesting homophone.  Each word has a different meaning, but the implications are similar.  You can read an idyll, romanticize it, and idolize the things you imagine it to represent.  For those in search of a concrete oasis, you can travel abroad to experience a truly idyllic moment, or define your own and dream forever of finding it. In Japan, they have these “A.I. Dolls”, incredibly lifelike love dolls you can rent for sex.  (Clever play on words, isn’t it?  That’s one, two, three, four, five meanings referenced.)  Idle hands are said to be the Devil’s playground.  Cars may idle, but you, as a person, should not.  There are religious idols: the golden calf, the wooden cross; things that only lend more complexity to a jumble of beliefs.  Then there are your own personal idols, those people you worship who never manage to live up to your vision of them.  Maybe you know this, but most likely you don’t.  Taken singularly, they all seem to have their respective meanings and places. But all suggest an overwhelming ability to fantastically delude ourselves.

Be careful, warrior.