Crashing Partyman's Party

I am oblivious. I tra-la-la my way through life. So when Partyman Catering asked me to make pickles for an upcoming event, I was like, sure! (I don’t know why they thought I know how, maybe because I’m old. Old people do shit like canning and preserving.) I have done a few things here and there for them, and I love, love working with the awesome crew they have. Here is the oblivious part… I have never really thought about the final outcome of the kitchen frenzy that occurs there. Food goes out in really large metal pans, double wrapped in heavy duty plastic wrap, all tucked away in cute little mini food closet, pan carrier thingies. Tra-la-la. I guess they plop them down in the middle of a card table and everybody digs in. Tra-la-la. If they knew I was THAT stupid, they probably would have chopped me up, sauteed me in fresh garden herbs, put me in a large chafing pan (finally figured out it wasn't a sauce pan that gives you a rash between your legs when it is cold outside.) and stored me in one of their hot boxes. (Apparently NOT called a food closet.) So, after spending 4 days making pickles, you name it, I pickled it, it was time for the big event. Two tastings, and one VIP party at Camp Stella Maris on Conesus Lake - All in one day.  I decided to have a look around the morning of the big events. You know, check out the card tables… OH. MY. GOD. Can I say that one more time? OH. MY. GOD.

The dining hall had been transformed into a wedding kingdom that would put Cinderella’s ball to shame. I was speechless. The round tables draped with white linen tablecloths, were set with vintage china for ten people. Each place setting favored a jar of homemade bacon jelly, or an exquisitely boxed, melt in your mouth macaroon, made by Victoria, who is a graduate of the CIA. (The Culinary School, not the government spies.) The tables were numbered with hand painted blocks of barn wood, a six inch three layer cake, (form the baker, not the spy) and  amazing vases of curly willow. The rafters of the dining hall were draped with miles of white flowing material. Upside down black and white umbrellas hung, and the round paper lanterns over the bar area were the perfect touch. Each food station was set up with shabby chic vintage perfection. There was a garbage plate station sporting an actual road sign. Very cool. The bar had mini cones of homemade flavored popcorn, and candied nuts that were so sinful even Satan would feel guilty. The desserts were in My Grandma Hart’s dining room cupboard. (Okay, not actually hers, but she had the same one.)The drawers at the bottom were filled with plates of those addicting macaroons.

 

This is the baker, not a spy.

The pickle Bar – I was impressed, (and a bit nervous).

I was so amazed be the whole thing, I decided there was only one thing to do. Crash the VIP party that night.

The perfectly set wedding tables were replaced by cocktail tables. And oh my GOD was there food! Waiters and waitresses offering pulled pork sliders. (Yes, thank you.) Root Vegetable bruschetta. (Yes, please.) A carving station with tender flank steak and pork wrapped in pork. What is better than pork? Pork wrapped pork! (Well, maybe just a sliver…) Jambalaya, (Okay, twist my arm.) Guacamole, Pico de gallo, and hibiscus margaritas in little salt rimmed glasses. (I got busted filling my large glass up with it, but bribed the girl at that particular station with a bag of the candied pecans…) Steak and salmon being cooked on salt stone slabs gathered quite a crowd. We left before they started making homemade ice cream with liquid nitrogen. Wait, I forgot about the Marshmallows! There was a fire pit to make your own S’mores.

I have a food hangover today. I can’t say enough about the event Partyman catering put on last night. Book your graduation parties, your weddings, anniversaries and birthday parties. Retirement Parties, holiday parties and whatever parties. Or just pretend you know how to make pickles, sample your way through the kitchen for a few days, and then crash the party! 

Partyman catering is located in the old Annis Dairy building, East Avon, NY.

Check out their facebook page:https://www.facebook.com/partymancatering/  

Or their website: http://partymancatering.com/

VMA 2013

Since the VMA's are still vividly etched on that tiny part of my brain reserved for shit that should immediatly be forgotten, I'll blog about it.

Ms. Lady Gaga... You went from a Nun-in-the-box to a mermaid. I respect your creativity, I think. In an attempt to find the germaneness between the two, I googled the song text. Surely the words will tie it all together... Unfortunately, the song is too new for your devoted Monsters to collage a YouTube video. Alas, I will wait.

Ms. Miley... You, my dear, went from wearing a Chuck E.Cheese costume to a pole dancer. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, you doggie-styled with Beatlejuice. And can I assume you were at a baseball game before you arrived? It's the only place I can think of to get a Fan Finger. I don't even know where to begin with that whole thing. I think Will Smith and his kids pretty much sum it up...

'Nuff said.

Mr. Justin - Thank you SO MUCH for saving the face of America. Seriously. You brought class to a show that would have gone down in history as Trashity-trash.

My sister watched Justin in awe last night. She all but whispered, "Oh my God, it's all of them." The lights were off, but I'm sure she had tears in her eyes. And then came my question... All of who? Who are they? Oh the shame. To have never seen the SNL Justin/Jimmy video Cock In A Box was tolerable for her, but to not know who these apparent Gods were, unfathomable. So I googled. Well, they can't be THAT famous, I found nothing but plumbing web sites for In-Sink.

I do have one question for Mr. Timberlake. Why was Miss Piggy one of your back up dancers? Did you owe Kermit a huge favor? If so, your debt is paid.

Strap-on Yoga

Today I went to the convention center to check out the slow food show. I'm not sure if it was someones idea of a joke, but they were also having a yoga show.  The stench aroma of sandalwood incense, and people who look like poster children of starving Ethiopians. Maybe it was my imagination, but a lot of them had black circles under their eyes. Lots of Vegan food choices. Mmmmmm. There was a line for the spinach shakes. One apple, one banana, a hand full of spinach, a pinch of salt, and water. I was a bit perplexed about the organic apples they were using. Aren't the worms in them technically meat? I'm just sayin... Then there was the yoga wall. Quite interesting, possibly arousing. The yoga wall was equipped with straps of sorts. Women were strapping themselves onto the wall, and then flipping upside-down, no, wait... that can't be right. Okay, I don't know how the women ended up the way they did. One was upside down, back against the wall, legs bent over her back,... no that can't be. Her legs were. well I'll be damned if I know. It wasn't right. Her head was not touching the ground, (remember the straps) and there was another woman who was kind of kneeling underneath the strapped woman supporting her shoulders with her knees. It was very kamasutra, and from the beet-red color of the woman's face, it didn't look healthy or zen like.
   I REALLY need to talk about Vogua. Not be confused with Vogue, Vogua is  vegan/yoga fashion.  Women under forty have barber shop haircuts.  Women over fifty have long grey hair with no shape or style or cut.  The ten years between forty and fifty are spent growing out their hair.   And I'm all for natural fabric and fibers. Linen and cotton are great, but linen and cotton dyed with beet juice and algae isn't attractive. especially when you border it with burlap. Burlap should never be worn. ever.
   Also, just a tip on hygiene. Go ahead and wear sandals, but for god sakes pedicure your feet. And do I really need to tell you to shave your armpits if you're going to be handing people plates of vegan goodies all day? Really?
I know I need to lose weight, and I know Farmville isn't considered exercise.  Lord knows I am just about the last person on earth to give fashion advice, but I just had to get this off my chest.  I have to admit, the shake did compel me to dust off my blender, and buy some fresh fruit. So I'm off to whip up a Margarita. Enjoy!

Goodbye Prozac, Hello Ganja!

Kathy's link caught my eye today on facebook...

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/11/06/amendment-64-passes-in-co_n_2079899.html

Colorado, here I come!  Not because I condone the use of pot, but I do see the side effects as a multi-million dollar chance of a lifetime.  The Munchie-Mobile is going to make me rich. It’s going to be like the ice cream truck, driving around suburbia, ringing not a bell, but rather, playing reggae music. I’m going to target upper-middle class neighborhoods where frazzled mothers will have replaced their $40.00 dollar a month Prozac prescription with Panama Red.  A neighborhood where the husbands and children of those house wives will be ever-thankful to the government for replacing the nagging semi-psychotic woman with a laid back, mellow-yellow wife and mother.  Round about nine in the evening, after they have had their glass of Merlot and joint, I’ll be rounding the corner.  My specialty will be brownies with pretzel nuggets baked into them.  Frosted, natch.  And homemade French fries with vinegar like they used to make at Long Point Park.  Will their husbands mind if they pack on a few extra (hundred) pounds.  Doubtful.  A happy wife = a happy home.

Thank you, Kathy for the link...

Look before you leap, umm I mean spray

I'm Home! America, land of the free, home of the sprays. My sister has a LOT of products. Mostly sprays, but the creams and lotions run a close second. The trouble is, I'm blind. Well, not legally, just in dim lighting. So far, I have waterproofed my hair with suede and leather protector and Febrezed my arm pits. Neither one mattered because it's hot and humid here. My hair hasn't frizzed, and I smell like fresh ocean breeze. I've been using a facial cream that wasn't too bad, until I saw my sister smoothing it into her hair.
And last, but not least, I deodorized the bathroom with Raid wasp and hornet spray. I suppose the black color of the can should have told me it wasn't apple cinnamon Glade.

That's it for now. I'll be blogging more about my stupidity soon!

SCBWI Scrawl Crawl 2012 - Stuttgart, Germany

Our first point on the scrawl crawl map is Starbucks – Hauptbahnhof. The first point over in France is the Eifel Tower. I’m not complaining, mind you. Folks come from all over the world come to see the famous train station of Stuttgart, Germany. Really, they do. We’re going to take the elevator up to the platform where we’ll have a bird’s eye view of the city. I’ve been here 22 years, and have never been up there. (Actually, I didn’t even know you could go up there.)

SO, as I sit here and scrawl in front of Starbucks, people watching, I begin to think about Stuttgart 21. I never really thought it necessary to rip down the train station and put it all underground, but I don’t feel strongly enough about it to wear a button, carry a sign, or slap a bumper sticker on my car. Certainly I feel bad for the park, and the trees. But not bad enough to camp there, or sit in a tree for a week.

I am the (German) Lorax, (Lorax-le in Schwabenland…) I speak for the trees. Where will all the drunk – saüfer-loots, in their saüfer-loot-suits go? Or the Swommee-swans? Most of all, Mr. German Once-ler, (Herr einmal-ler ) what will happen to all the train station pigeons? These aren’t country pigeons, these are bad-ass Hauptbahnhof pigeons. Peck your eye out for a crumb of your Starbuck’s cinnamon swirl bun – pigeons. They’ll flap that thousand calorie cup of vanilla latte right out of your hand just for fun. They nest in the swill of Rowdies. I’ve even seen a few with shaved heads, wearing little tiny black arm boots. Where will they go??? I think I might have to take a stand. If for no other reason but to keep the pigeons underground, lest we have an Alfred Hitchcock movie on our hands.

We’re up on the platform now. Our Scrawl Crawl leader, Kirsten, has a mission for us. We have each chosen a focal point on the street below. We are absorbing our focal point with each of the five senses. Sight, sound, smell, taste, and… wait, I think it’s just four. She has us close our eyes, and is mesmerizing us with her voice. Hear the city…, taste the city…, smell… Okay, you get the idea.
     Rattle, rattle little u-bahn. You have to make it back to the station by dark. Rattle, rattle, BEEP, HONK.  Rattle, rattle little s-bahn. Past Berlitz, and Bosch. Through Baden-Württemberg, no time to stop for a Dinkelacker. Rattle, rattle all the way through the sticky breeze, and stale Carmel Macchiato to the Hauptbahnhof. Rattle to the sound of Die Neuer 107.7 Bester Rock und Pop.

FIRE!!! There are fire trucks down there. What if the fire is at the train station. What if the only safe place is the roof? Within minutes, hundreds of commuters will cram up here, invading my Scrawl-Crawl-space. We’ll wait for helicopters to come and save us.
   “SAVE YOUR JOURNALS!” – Shouts Tiffany.
   “We only have room for two more,” the man says into his megaphone from the chopper above us. 
   “Take my dogs, PLEASE! SAVE MY DOGS!!” Kirsten sobs. “I can parachute down! I have one      in my excessively large handbag!”
As all of this plays through my mind, I glance over to see Kirsten watering down her dogs. I know she is doing it because it’s hot up here, and her dogs are old. But maybe, just maybe, she too saw the fire trucks below.

HOLY CRAP! How could I have NOT seen the gigantic Mercedes star turning above my head. Seriously, I worry about myself. I am so glad I didn’t actually say Holy Crap! Look at that! Out loud.

I didn’t crawl very far, nor did I scrawl very much, but I did have an awesome time. I met new people, and saw old friends. We ate lunch at an outdoor café next to the castle and those amazing fountains that Kirsten said she always wanted to sketch, and finally did. And although we weren’t atop the Eifel Tower, Stuttgart has endless things to write about and draw.

What's worse than an old person driving...

Years ago, my Mother’s husband, God rest his soul, would go to the YMCA for a work out, maybe a swim, a sauna, or a friendly game of racket ball. He always stopped off at his favorite watering hole on the way home, lest he dehydrate from such a strenuous workout. ‘Round about 6:00 o’clock, Joe would come home, drunk. My sister and I loved to do our comedy spiel…
“Hey, Margaret, what’s worse than an old person driving?”
“I don’t know, Liz, what?”
“A drunk old person driving.”
One day, while Joe was playing racket ball, he was hit in the eye. It was serious enough to need a pirate patch, and he eventually lost the sight in that eye. Margaret and I, being the sick little puppies that we are, added to our comedy routine. The punch line is – an old, blind, drunk driver.
Today, I was invited to lunch with my friends, Franz and Trixie. Franz is 83. Or is he 84? Well, anyway, I remember about a year ago I drove with Franz, and SWORE I would never drive with him again. Ever. He floors the gas, and PUMPS the power breaks. Brakes haven’t needed to be pumped on any model of car after 1952. Full gas, brake, brake, brake. Full gas, brake, brake, brake. Alas, today Franz drove. I made Trixie sit in back so I could make it there without puking. But she was very firm with Franz. “Now, Lovie,” she said, “Lizzy gets car sick, so take it easy.” And he did. He drove nice and slow, and didn’t gun it or pump the brakes. Our lunch was delish. They both ordered trout, and except for the fact that the decapitated fish heads were staring at me from the bone plate, it was great. Franz ordered a small beer, Trix and I had soda. After lunch, the waiter offered us a schnapps “on the house.” Well, by all means! After a beer and a schnapps, Franz started to go back to 1940-something. As I listened, I was thinking what nice eyes he has. They’re a baby blue. They’re milky baby blue. They’re – holy shit, they are old-man-cataract-blue. It was then I remembered our joke. In all fairness, Franz was not drunk. Not even tipsy. Old German men have a tolerance of about – Oh I don’t know – six beers, four shots of 60% pure grain, and a few glasses of red wine. So, Franz was fine to drive. HOWEVER… He was thumb driving. I CANNOT stress to you how much I hate thumb drivers. My husband thumb drives, and looks out every window of the car except the one IN FRONT of him. Ten o’clock, and two o’clock. That’s where your hands should be on the steering wheel. Not your left thumb at seven o’clock. I knew if I said something he would, without hesitation, ask me if I wanted to drive. And not in his nice voice. And while asking me, he would look at me, (and not the road). So I kept staring at his thumb, which wasn’t even on the wheel half the time. It must have been too tiring, because he kept resting his hand on his lap. In my head I kept screaming like a crazy person… “We’re all going to die! Do you hear me, Thumby, we’re ALL GOING TO DIE!!”
We didn’t die, because here I am writing about it. What’s worse than an old, drunk, blind, thumb driver? Nothing, that’s what.