Noodle/Pasta/Rice

X’MAS MORNING SERIES: STUFFED GOOSE BEAST

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Every Who
Down in Who-ville
Liked Christmas goose a lot…

But the Grinch,
Who lived just behind the screen of Who-ville,
Did NOT!

The Grinch hated Christmas goose!  The whole goose without season!
Now, please ask him why.  For everyone quite guesses the reason.
It could be that the work looked a bit like fright.
It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight.
But I think that the most likely reason of all
May have been that his ego was two sizes too small.

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HIGHLY ADDICTIVE PARTY CIGARS

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Oh mah God… I haven’t been under so much pressure, yes, since the time when I realized I needed six more credits to graduate college (SIX!  “Professor, your otherwise gross beard appears unexpectedly dashing today”… just kidding)… and it is precisely the reason why, as much as I may seem to be an ideal candidate to host a dinner party, I shouldn’t be allowed to.  At all.  Because my management skills crumble in disarray when I’m cooking more than one thing.  There’s a large number of oysters that I’m pulling all strings to keep alive inside a fridge that lacks everything else to cook them with, and a whole scale-on, bone-in, head-attached sea bass that frankly… I don’t remember inviting to dinner.  On top of which, a 7 pounds limp-neck goose-beast is going to be dropped onto my doorstep like surprise! any minute now… could be like now!  Plus did I mention I’m supposed to make a tart?  That’s it, time for emotional breakdown.

Hey, nobody said my threshold for stress isn’t delicate at best.

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SPICY SALMON MINI HAND ROLLS

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Let me cut to the chase with this one.  Because along with what has officially come as the “holiday/party season”, also came a bubbling frenzy of ideas that harasses my otherwise unambitious nature to just relax through it all.  I mean really, really self-tormenting thoughts, such as the fixation on the idea of a Christmas goose (goose!… I must’ve lost my mind.), the racing finger-snapping sounds that repeats “hors d’oeuvre, hors d’oeuvre, hors d’oeuvre!” and then “cookies, cookies, cookies!”, plus a reignited and very unhealthy obsession to tackle the ever–evil, ever-defiant croissant dough which, let’s not kid ourselves, will end in tears (I wonder where that came from…).  All in all I mean, I’m busy.

But then, speaking of hors d’oeuvre…

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THE INCONVENIENT RAGU-TH

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I almost couldn’t wait to tell you all about this hysterically inconvenient ragu.  I started curating its debut so many weeks ago, impatiently waited for the temperature to drop and the first damn leaf to fall, until everything… every single elements in the atmosphere ready your hearts for the most glorious, madly delicious ragu you have yet to try.  I even prepared a number of high-impact vocabularies to describe its entire four hours of making, two of which involves you standing by the stove remorselessly scraping the bottom of the pot in the name of culinary commitment, because I was gonna tell you that there’s no compromise when it comes to what I call the art of harvesting caramel, and you’re going to eat it all up.

The recipe has been sitting in my cue for a week now and I haven’t been able to lift a finger.  Well… you know what happened.

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STREAMLINING PASTA

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I wholeheartedly thank everyone for their warm regards for Bado.  She’d be ecstatic if she knew how much attention she could single handedly bring in.  I’ve always knew that she beats buttered biscuits.

…I’m thinking, grief in its pure form is quite harmless, to be handled as a cold that wants nothing more than to run its natural course.  Crying in the shower… sniffing her toys, whatever, sooner or later it always does.  But unfortunately it’s now mixed with a toxic dose of regrets, guilt and self-blame and becomes a gust of acid rain, dampening every opening of a smile and making the lightest garment feel heavy… and sploosh!, melts me to the ground with it without warning.  The cold fact that we’ve failed our baby girl, and the meaninglessness of how all our hearts and efforts meant the opposite, really…, really.  Hurts.

I’m sure it all makes no sense what I’m saying…  To shut my brain up and spare us both, I started making some pasta that night.

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SALMON POKE-D YOU. YOU SHOULD POKE BACK

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Two weeks ago when I stood in front of the ordering-counter in the most celebrated poke (a Hawaiian appetizer mostly made with raw seafood and other seasonings) joint in Honolulu, I found myself deep, once again, in a familiar dilemma.  I could on one hand, dig through the baffling complicatedness for the source of the tuna without certainty on any given answers which would probably result in an ill-informed purchase anyways, or, I could entirely forgo the option of tuna as a food source just as I’ve been doing for quite awhile now.  After all, I hadn’t tasted a bite of tuna, raw, cooked or canned for let’s say… almost 3 years.

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PRE-DEPARTURE MICROWAVE MADNESS

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Despite the level of embarrassment that I’m sure will hit me the moment I get back from Paradise (Tuesday!), I still decided to send this truth out there.  The truth that once in a while, on some particular full-moons and/or… the night before a long trip away from home, there’s absolutely no excuse for my primitive behavior.  And if that’s the kind of entertainment that delights you, here it goes.

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STAINED GLASS NOODLE

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Ahum… so.  I was totally going to unveil my-first-time-ever… ground-shaking… storm-wieldingSALIVA-BURSTING TWO-TIER CELEBRATION BAKE that’s, gonna, rock, your, world!

But I fucked it up.  Yep.  Just, you know, the typical shit that happens to all of us, the cake batter crashing… buttercream breaking… bananas being bananas and the entire cake wiggling in a funky move like it was the 80’s and finally steadied itself in a very unattractive slant.  I’m not sayin’ this with disrespect cuz I’m angry and all… but seriously, you bakers out there are fucking crazy.

Thus, brings us to this.

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