Every few months, The Boy and I pull out all the stops, visit a good Japanese fish-house, and make our own sushi.
What, is this not an authentic enough holiday season post for you fuckers?
I apologize. How was your holiday, misfits?
For me, Thanksgiving consists of, always, far too much champagne (or is it not enough?, I crow all night to anyone who will listen). When under the influence of it, I come to the conclusion that every sentence emanating from my lips is pure gold. I am infinitely quotable!, I tell myself. I am so charmingly wise!, I say. I triumphantly produce witticisms left and right, including gems such as, “As I always say, people are either home, or they’re not home,” while a clump of wet pie crust dough clings trembling to my left cheek. When it is announced that another bottle of champagne has been finished, I am off like a shot, outside in bare feet to find the extras I’ve stashed under a Tony the Tiger beach towel next to the firewood. In I run (yes, run, it is one of the thrice-yearly occasions on which I run), slowed only by a shard of something natureful inserting itself into my Achilles tendon. I scream, hydroplaning on the rain, an extreme slip and slide forming between the treshold of my door and the stove, continuing on into the living room, where I slide to a halt, screeching the whole way, punctuating my ride with what I am convinced is a graceful and winning smile, look at me, all of you, I am a magician I AM A FUCKING MAGICIAN, and The Boy says, what, what ARE you doing, why didn’t you put on your flippy floppies, and I run, needlessly penitent, into my room, shouting, FINE FINE FINE I WILL PUT ON SOCKS even though I hate indoor footwear, IT IS AN INVENTION OF THE MAN. Then I sneeze and ask The Boy why. WHY DID I SNEEZE, I JUST SNEEZEDED! And he says, you’re probably just getting sick. And I say, AM I DEVELOPING A LIFE-THREATENING ALLERGY? WHAT IF I’M ALLERGIC TO TURKEY am I going to die tonight WELL ANSWER ME AM I? And he says, no, honey, of course not, here, have some more champagne. And the half-Jew in me is quieted and the French is reawakened and for a moment all is well. But I will keep the Benadryl well within sight, I will, as The Boy takes on the task of entertaining The Family, listening to The Mother rant about how the concept of “free love” is such a crock, how she spent the sixties getting an education, thankyouverymuch, and The Brother is on his backup laptop and I am in my bedroom, secretly emailing him photos of Grumpy Cat HOW IS HE ALWAYS SO GRUMPY it makes me so, so happy and, god, so fucking impressed, too.
What did you do whilst inebriated on Thanksgiving?
So sushi. The Boy and I make our own sushi every now and then, and we don’t bother with any of that cooking rice, boiling syrup, sullying multiple dishes blah di freaking blah blah BLAH. One step sushi rice. Invented out of pure laziness. Because that’s just good time that could be spent drinking champagne and telling everybody about how I always say, a sugar cube saved is a sugar cube earned, don’t you know, and somebody hit my sugar cube with a little bitters and some more bubbly, and ohmigosh you guys, hit my sugar cube sounds like the cutest come on and NO STOP TELLING ME TO PUT ON SOCKS, I ALREADY PUT ON SOCK JUST ONE AND THAT IS ALL YOU’RE GETTING, YOU, YOU, YOU…FASCIST!
One Step Sushi Rice
Makes a bunch
2 cups sushi rice
2 cups water
2 1/2 Tablespoons rice vinegar
1 1/2 Tablespoons honey
2 teaspoons salt
Combine all ingredients except rice in a saucepan or rice cooker. Use a wooden spoon to thoroughly combine the ingredients, then add the rice and mix it up some more If using a rice cooker, simply turn it on and let it go. If using a saucepan, turn the heat to high, then when it boils, down to a low simmer, covered, until rice is done. Either way, give it a stir a few times while it’s cooking. After the rice is done but before using, stir it up thoroughly once more.
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