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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

Go Get:
2 cups sushi rice
2 cups water
2 1/2 Tablespoons rice vinegar
1 1/2 Tablespoons honey
2 teaspoons salt

Go Do:
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.

 

© 2012, Genevieve P. Charet. All rights reserved.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2012 Genevieve Charet
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blah blah blah chicken and stuff.

 

I call this “Birthday Chicken,” not because I’ve actually made it for anyone’s birthday, but rather because The Boy told me he wanted me to make it for his birthday.  It should be noted that he just had a birthady.  Just over a month ago.  It should also be noted that The Boy says this to me at least once or twice a month.  I will never make all the things for The Boy’s birthday that he has requested for his birthday.  It would surely kill him.

 

I call this “homestyle” because I felt like it.  It just seemed right.

 

It should be noted that if you’re ever worried about chicken coming out dry, this pretty much removes all possibility.  Searing it with a flour coating makes sure that the meat bastes itself (what?  Don’t make chicken feel shame for basting itself–WE ALL NEED TO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR OUR OWN PLEASURE) with its own juices.

 

When I was a little girl, The Mother would have me help her make flour-coated chicken.  I’m pretty sure it didn’t have spices and stuff in it, but we were shaking and baking nonetheless.  And I was convinced that there was some magic that made an infinite number of chicken pieces come out of what looked like just a baggie of flour.  Every time I thought it was over, I’d close my eyes, reach my fingers under the surface, and pull out another drumstick.  And little 4-year-old BMG was all,

 

“OMFG, it’s fucking magic, Ma!”

 

Or something like that.  I can’t really remember, because shortly thereafter The Aunt attempted an at-home exorcism.

 

It was the same with gum from The Mother’s purse.  HOW DID SHE ALWAYS HAVE IT EVEN THOUGH THE BROTHER AND I KEPT EATING IT?!  Surely her purse was magically regenerating gum pieces.  Surely she wasn’t doing anything in the checkout line to aid this magic while we were busy convincing each other that we would die if we each didn’t get two new boxes of cereal and one Bubble Tape roll each.

 

EACH I SAID EACH WE CANNOT FUCKING SHARE EVEN IF I DID SHARE A WOMB WITH YOU FOR SEVEN MONTHS I SHALL HAVE MY OWN BUBBLE TAPE ROLL I SHALL I REQUIRE THREE FULL FEET OF BUBBLE PRODUCING RIBBON.

 

Where did grape Bubble tape go?  Do they not sell that anymore?  Virtual fishnet kudos go to the first misfit who can tell me where to find a roll.

 

Two rolls, that is.

 

We’ve matured so.  so much.

 

Homestyle Baked Birthday Chicken
Makes 1 whole chicken’s worth

Go Get:

1 cup flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon cayenne
1 1/2 teaspoons sweet Hungarian paprika
1/2 teaspoon dried onion powder
1/4 teaspoon dried garlic powder
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1/4 cup mild-flavored frying oil (I used sunflower seed oil)
8 ounces beer
1 whole chicken, cut into pieces (throw the giblets and chicken backs into the freezer for making stock another day–I do this with the wings, too, if I’m doubtful they’ll be eaten)

Go Do:

Preheat the oven to 400 F degrees.  Put half the oil in a large skillet and turn the heat on medium-high.  Toss the flour and spices in a gallon-size ziploc bag until it’s well mixed, then add the chicken pieces, seal the bag, and shake until they’re thoroughly coated.  When the oil is sizzling hot (wet your hand, shake the droplets into the pan, and the oil is ready when the pan hisses and the water dances and swiftly disappears), add half the chicken pieces to the pan with a pair of tongs.  (We’re doing this in batches for better browning and heat retention–lost heat means soggy, greasy chicken).  Don’t move the pieces around too early–you want to let them develop a good sear.  When the pieces are a deep golden brown on one side and you can slide them around easily, flip them over and repeat.  Don’t worry about cooking the chicken through–just go for that good sear.  When the second side is done, move the pieces to a roasting pan (skin side up) and repeat the frying process with the other half of the pieces.  When all the pieces are done and in the roaster, pour the beer over them.  Now tightly cover the roaster with aluminum foil or a lid, and move it into the oven.  Roast for 1 hour, or until the fattest piece is cooked through.  Let the chicken rest out of the oven for 10 minutes before serving–I always cut into the largest breast at that point to make sure it got cooked through to the center.  Serve and enjoy.

 

© 2012, Genevieve P. Charet. All rights reserved.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2012 Genevieve Charet
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Hi, everyone, it’s me, The Boy!  I just want to take this opportunity to say,

 

“Skittles.”

 

Because I think Gen would really enjoy hearing her manly man say something so effeminate.  I would also like to go on record as saying that her cats are sooooOOOOOOOooooo CUTE OMG OMG!

 

HAVE YOU SEEN THEM?!?!  NO, REALLY, HAVE YOU?!?!?!!?

 

They’re the bestest.  So furry and sweet and with such excellent manners!  London always wipes her paws before dinner!  Basil would never wear tuxedo cufflinks with a double-breasted suit!

 

And on that note, I never think it’s weird that my girlfriend takes care of feral cats.  I think the fact that she used her hard-won time and money to build these wild cats that she’s deathly allergic to a heated greenhouse for the wintertime is a testament to her big heart, and not at all a sign of certain mental fragility!  Anyone who says otherwise is gonna get beat up.  BY ME!  In a huge display of manly manly manliness involving a leather jacket and a candy cigarette and liberal use of the phrase, “Now you listen ta’ me, Pal!”

 

In case you were wondering, Gen is the most beautiful and bestest!  When she orders a big beer that she can’t finish and then leaves the last third all flat-like and asks me to finish it, I am not secretly disgusted and judgmental.  Why would I be?  It’s a pleasure and a privilege to drink her warm, rejected beverages!  Also, her cats are soooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOO CUTE!  HAVE YOU SEEN THEM?!?!

 

My favorite thing that we’ve done lately is when I sat on the couch next to her enjoying a beer and some South Park on Netflix Instant and she asked me to pause it so that she could show me the 29 different doormats with snarky phrases she’s considering for the front of the new place and I was so riveted but then Gen did the most endearing thing where she got frustrated and slammed her computer shut and rolled around on the floor and saying something I couldn’t quite make out but which I’m pretty sure had something to do with having too much responsibility on her shoulders and how all she wants to do is eat cheese fries and drink G&T’s and never work a day again in her life, and then she asked me to hold her nail polish bottles straight for her while she tested colors.

 

The best part?  WE STILL DON’T HAVE A DOORMAT!

 

Finally, I would like to take this opportunity to put in writing, in a legally binding fashion, that I forgive Gen for a whole host of embarrassing –CHARMING I MEAN CHARMING–incidents that we shall not mention here lest I remind him MYSELF I MEAN MYSELF MYSELF, including that one time when she told all the people at that one Starbucks that their new travel mug had a clitoris (EVEN THOUGH IT DID HAVE A CLITORIS Gen was right it totally did have a clitoris and I completely get where she was coming from now how could I have ever questioned her, clearly the woman who wants to fictitiously start a fictitious tea house named “Cuntea” is an expert on the intersection of vagina and beverage accessories!

 

Love you, Babe!

 

Okay, misfits, bye!

 

The Boy.

 

No, really, I swear, it’s me!

 

HAVE YOU EVEN SEEN GEN’S FUCKING CUTE-ASS KITTENS?!?!?!

 

 

© 2012, Genevieve P. Charet. All rights reserved.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2012 Genevieve Charet

For those of you who may have been thinking, “God, Gen is really into baby cats.  Is that all she ever talks about?”

 

The answer is no way, fuckers.  Sometimes, I talk about baby dogs.

 

My friend Max had the best intentions of fixing his dogs, a devoted, super-intelligent lady Border Collie named Rita and a…slightly less ambitious English bulldog named (phonetically, as this is Polish) Tuptush.  Apparently it means something akin to “tiptoes.” I just like that his dog is named something-tushy.  And I have told him this.  And, one day, he will appreciate this revelation.

 

Well, anyhow, time got away from him and she went into her first heat a little early.  He’d read that it’s healthiest for a dog who’s gone into heat to have a litter, so he decided to let Mr. Tushypants (I did not get his permission to call Tuptush Mr. Tushypants, full disclosure) have a torrid affair with Rita.  Which they did, about five times.  Max calculated the due date and waited for his svelte little Rita to swell.

 

And swell she did.

 

 

The day before her due date, Rita showed Max where she wanted to give birth, and he prepared a bed for her.  The morning of, she became very clingy and began labor breathing.  Max had to go to work for at least a few hours, so he did and then counted the hours until his next cigarette and lunch break.  He ran home, and saw this:

 

 

Rita was deflating at an alarming rate!

 

She wasn’t done, and Max never did make it back to work.  Rita gave birth to 7 puppies in all, one of whom was stillborn.  Despite our collective sadness over this news (I say collective because I was getting blow-by-blow text updates…what?  WHAT?!), we were just so damn impressed with Mama, who tried to puff air into his mouth and drop snoutfuls of water onto his face to revive him.  She eventually moved on to care for her other babies and I decided to focus on the positive.

 

And so did they!

 

SEE?  Positive!

 

Which is totally exhausting work!

 

They look dead in that photo, right?  Like massacred by each other’s cuteness.  And puppies that have been massacred by cuteness ARE EVEN FUCKING CUTER oh my god my epiglottis just exploded.

 

I have been told that when they get an ouchy, they cry and gasp and snuffle like children.

 

Oh, there it is.  There.  IT.  Is.  That surge of BMG estrogen we all knew was coming.  Snuffling Puppy Estrogen should be the name of a band or something.  A DEATH METAL BAND. With a trombonist.  Are they called trombonists?  I digress.

 

A few of the puppies have already been claimed, starting with the little girl in this blurry photo, who’s being held by her new owner, one of Max’s good friends:

 

I know, I know I KNOW.  That face!  That squat little body.  She’s a sugar pie, all right.  And I AM GOING TO BAKE AND EAT HER IN THE CUSTOMARY MANNER OF PREPARING SAID VARIETY OF PASTRY.

 

 

So the babies are happy, snuggly, clingy, smart, and, I’m told, EXCRUCIATINGLY talkative.  Mama is going for runs and getting into the best shape of her life.  And Daddy?

 

Well.

 

He’ll get over it.  Eventually.

 

 

© 2012, Genevieve P. Charet. All rights reserved.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2012 Genevieve Charet
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Unlike last year’s potato harvest, this time there were no pirate hats, accidental Mexicans, or dead bodies.

 

There was, however, a steep drop in productivity.  I don’t think I need to tell you whose fault that was.

 

 

Fugly-looking plants after I’ve taken away their support system.  GIVE US BACK OUR SUPPORT SYSTEM!

 

Never.  I’m going to cripple you emotionally and then eat you.

 

Things started off slow…

 

But then I got some “help.”

 

“I’m helping, I’m helping, look at me fucking help!”

 

Yes, my kittens say “fuck.”  What of it?

 

Then things started to really pick up speed.

 

No thanks to London being all, ooh!  This is not potato patch!  BMG, you are mistaken!  This is red playtime ball factory!

 

Of course, once one of them gets interested…

 

“May I?”

 

“What’s that, you said no, I don’t care.”

 

Some heavy lifting…

London photobomb! (bottom-left corner)

 

Don’t give me that coy face IF I FIND A HAIRBALL IN MY MASHED POTATOES SO HELP ME GOD.

 

So yeah.  Despite the fact that these vegetables have been stepped on?  It was really nice to have help.

 

© 2012, Genevieve P. Charet. All rights reserved.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2012 Genevieve Charet
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