A Valuable Cooking Lesson

It’s February. In Boston.

“Cold” doesn’t even begin to describe what’s going on up here. “Cold” describes how the toilet seat feels in the morning. Or the temperature of the faucet when you first turn it on.

We’re currently at the “bone-chilling/snow-once-a-week/five-foot-tall-snowbanks-in front-and-behind-your-car/long-underwear-is-not-just-for-skiing” phase. Frankly, I’m a patient person. And I don’t lose my cool easily. But this weather is F@#()ng ridiculous and I’ve had enough of it.

In my effort to roll with it, I’ve busted out my slow cooker a few times so far this year. Last week I made some chili and despite combining two recipes and adding some random things (spicy Indian sauce, dried chili pepper, beef boullion, and a beer, to name a few), I was excited to see how it would turn out.

The problem was that after 5 hours, there was a whole lotta liquid. So I thought I’d turn the crocker up and leave the lid off, hoping to get some to evaporate. Not so.

Then I had the idea to put the whole ceramic liner on the burner of my gas stove.

After a few minutes, I heard a “pop” and went running into the kitchen but couldn’t find anything wrong. So I returned to the living room only to hear another “pop.” At this point, I got scared and returned the thing back to its cradle. A few seconds later I heard another “pop” and some hissing.

Putting the pieces together, I realized there must have been a crack and the liquid I was attempting to rid myself of was seeping into the cradle.

I quickly grabbed the ceramic liner and on my three-step journey to the sink, the bottom literally FELL OUT and chili went EVERYWHERE.

It was midnight and I was faced with chili on my slippers. Chili on my cabinets. Chili in the cracks around the dishwasher. Chili water running in rivulets down the cabinets and pooling up at my feet.

So I did the only thing that made sense. I scraped up and salvaged what I could off the countertop (which I had just cleaned hours earlier after assembling everything).

The next day my roommate had a big ol’ helping and said it was the best chili he’d ever had and it’s not actually terrible. And hey, I did get rid of the liquid. It may not have been the most efficient way, but still…

LESSON LEARNED: slow cooker ceramics are not meant for high-direct-heat. Noted.

The Donkey Show

A few weeks ago, my friend Roxie and I went to see “The Donkey Show” in Boston. I knew two things going into it:
1.) A “donkey show” is a euphamism for a sex act involving a woman and a donkey in which the woman fornicates with said donkey, typically performed in rural Mexican cities. I know this because of Clerks II.
2.) The donkey show WE were going to see was some sort of 70s sing-a-long musical where people were encouraged to dress up.

Imagine our surprise as we stood in line (adorned in sequined headbands) to see a man wearing a rainbow wig and women wearing items like zebra-print boots, flourescent leggings, and shiny metallic shirts. We realized pretty quickly that we were pretty tamely dressed considering our counterparts. Immediately before the doors opened, two women with faces and afros like permed Jan Brady (but dressed as twin men, akin to Larry from “Three’s Company”) ran out through the line chatting up patrons.

Walking in to the Oberon theater, I was agog.

There were shirtless men in gold lamé hotpants with every inch of their exposed skin covered in glitter dancing on pedestals and railings to disco music.

There was a man painted flourescent green in a gold singlet, a cape, gold winged headband, and glow-in-the-dark-glasses on rollerskates who whizzed by and UP SOME STEPS.

There was a topless dancer with butterfly pasties and a cape dancing on the balcony.

As we grabbed some drinks at the bar, we tried to stand back and take in the scene, but found ourselves being grinded on by a skinny silvery glitter-clad dancer with a whistle around his neck.

When purchasing tickets for said show, we went for the cheapest option: floor seats. What we didn’t know was that “floor seats” meant active members in a show about a show. Essentially, we had cast ourselves to play the role of “audience member” and found ourselves in a conga line dancing across the stage with some glittery dancers. During the show, the pedestals were rolled (with dancers dancing) through the audience, the rollerskater jumped from the stage through the crowd, and the topless dancer was carried past us a few times.

Talk about front-row entertainment.

The funny part is that as we walked into the theater, Roxie said something like, “This looks like something out of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’” Little did we know, but the entire show was inspired by the Shakespearan story told through the magic of 70s disco anthems. Forest fairies represented by men in glitter; a queen as a topless dancer; and some magic dust replaced with the 70s version of angel dust.

So it was educational. Kinda. 

A Visit to Fantasy Nails

My friend Roxie and I were deadset to get a mani-pedi yesterday because she has an interview this week and I…have been gnawing at my fingers like there’s crack embedded into the nailbeds. This being Boston, the most Puritanical city in America, a lot of places are closed on Sundays. Luckily for us, Fantasy Nails was open.

Upon my entrance, I picked two colors from the wall of rainbow pinks, and was ushered to a pedicure chair where I quickly shed my knee-high snowboots and wool socks. As I sat down, the grandmother of the place turned on my vibrating chair and filled up the foot soak.

a.) I have no idea when the trend of vibrating chairs + pedicures started, but they go hand-in-hand these days. I am simultaneously thankful and a little weirded out. Mostly because this particular vibrating chair had a separate button for “seat vibration.” Yes, I tried it. And yes, I liked it.

b.) To every pedicurist I’ll ever see — I take showers so hot our smoke alarm goes off from the steam. Showers so hot I look like I have first-degree sunburn. Showers so hot I almost break the knob trying to get it hotter. So no, the water isn’t too hot.

Roxie and I somehow manage to get male pedicurists wherever we go. Not that they care any more or less about our hairy legs and cinderblock feet than a woman does (or so we hope), but it just somehow seems a little bit odd. And yesterday was no exception.

The two men who fixed us up were…well…they were like Asian Urkels. Sometimes I look at hipsters and think, “Wait, is that an Urban Outfitter nerd? Or are they really just out-of-fashion nerds?” Then I’ll catch sight of their Ray Ban sunglasses or an ironic tshirt under their plaid shirt and realize I’ve been duped again by an imposter. To clarify, these two guys were not hipsters.

As my vibrating chair prepared for liftoff, my dude got to work. Let me just state, I keep my toenails shorter than a lot of chicks. And I own and use a pumice stone to keep my feet soft. Yet…this dude took an hour just to prepare my feet for the polish. I had no idea my toes even have cuticles until this guy spent 20 minutes cutting them.

After 30 minutes, Roxie’s pedicurist (who randomly grunted and moaned) jumped up, grabbed the remote control, and turned on the TV. I was thinking this guy was going to watch “The View,” something on the “Lifetime” network, or reruns of “Grey’s Anatomy.” So you can imagine my surprise when Roxie and I simultaneously looked up to see a bullriding championship.

As my friend Justin would say, “Buh?”

The dirtiest, grittiest, redneck sport there is, and it’s the sport of choice for two nerdy Asian boys. We watched that for 15 minutes before he changed the channel to…the Celtics game.

As Justin would say, “Guh?” It just didn’t make sense.

Later, as I was getting my manicure, Roxie and I were chatting when her manicurist jumped up again and changed the channel to…professional men’s iceskating.

Andddddddddddddddd there it is. Apparently the bullriding championship was on the same channel and the time slot was directly in front of the iceskating.

Anyway, good times. I particularly liked the hatch in the floor where grandma went halfway through my mani-pedi to heat up some leftover food.