Who Cares

I decided to post a short story I wrote on here at the prompt of a friend.  So here ya go:

Pears are expensive.  I shouldn’t waste them.  Yet I just spent almost 20 minuets playing with my breakfast pear.  Slowly pushing the insides around with the skin still intact. 

It dripped on me.

This pear is organic too, so even more pricey.  Paying more for less, who would have thought?  Seems kind of shiesty to me.  But this pear was already brown in many places.  The stupid cashier slammed it around.

That’s a lie.

I probably slammed on my breaks too hard and sent the sweet bastard flying around the little blue horror that is my car.

I stab the pear.

I don’t know what to feel anymore.  The anxiety from earlier turned to relief, turned to confusion.

Life is confusing.

I fall in love with every poor sod I meet.

It isn’t lust, I don’t want for their bodies per se.  I guess I lust after their qualities, the minds, the thoughts, the voices, and the jokes.

I lust for beards.

I lust for hair to tousle.  I lust for warm smooth skin to rub.  I lust for a phone call from someone I want to speak with. I lust for a human safe in which to store my secrets.  I lust for understanding.

I lust for a warm body in a cold bed and a person in my life who’s more than just a face with a voice.  I lust for a stabilizer.  I lust for a compadre, for someone to be on my team always.

I lust for lust most of all.  And all this lust equals love.  I find love, or the hope for it around every turn.  Call me pathetic, call me estranged, I call this life.

I stab the pear a few more times but then I look up and see that it is almost nine.  Nine a.m., the bane of my existence.  Foundation drawing, and if I miss it again… well then it’s lights out for my art degree.

Does it matter?  Probably not.  I mean, it’s an art degree.  I’m probably going to end up as a janitor in a McDonalds.  I’m probably going to end up knocked up in a trailer with six screaming… bundles of JOY.

The sound of barking dogs makes me uncomfortable.  I’m in a hurry but I just can’t see driving to school today.  Its one of the last nice days we’ll  probably get before the treacherous months of cold and ice set in.  So I’m walking.  But those damn dogs, they get me every time.  To some a bark is just a noise, but to me a bark is a warning call.  It’s saying “hey look out, I’m here and if you come to close I’ll get you.”

They say the bark is worse then the bite.  They have never been bitten before.  Once when I was 6 my neighbor’s dog bit my leg.  I still have scars.  That dog is dead now, they put it down.  It was just a poodle, but man that thing had a set of teeth on it.  My mom and dad were both at work and my brother was “watching” me.  That pretty much entailed locking me outside while him and his girlfriend “watched a movie” in the basement.  To be fair, sometimes the movies were only a few minutes long and the she would leave pretty pissed off…

Anyway, my mom came home and I was in the bathtub in a bubble bath of blood.  We had to get rid of the tub.  The brown remnants of blood could not be removed, not even by the strongest cleaning chemicals.  Shame too, it was a beautiful round basin claw foot things.  Beautiful.

9:05.  I’m late, but not late enough that I can’t slip in unnoticed.  Mr. Hawthorne probably hasn’t even gotten here yet.  He usually waltzes in at about 9:15.  Even when he’s on time, he’s not really ever there.  Personally, I just think he’s stoned most of the time.  I mean come on.  He’s an art teacher.  He’s always decked out in tie-dye.  You do the math.

He’s nowhere in sight as I walk into the studio.  Everyone is just sitting on their drawing horses talking.  I sit down in my little tapped off still life spot next to Bennett and get comfortable.  Bennett is pretty much a tool, but as far as this class goes he keeps me sane.  I’ve never known his first name, and I don’t care too either.  If asked to describe him in 10 words or less, I would take the liberty of using more words and say he is a rich neo-skate boarder type who can be positively identified by his super Italian features, his iPod that constantly blares shitty radio rap, and his bright colored expensive skateboarding apparel.  Upon further dissection, he can generally be found spitting out his sarcastic and almost always rude witticisms that are more then likely directed at me, and or my drawings.

“Nice slippers grandma.” He chirps out as soon as I sit down.

“Nice Nike’s asshole.” I retort

“Nike’s are nice.”

“Yeah if you have an extra hundred buck laying around to throw towards child labor.”

Lucky for him, my triumph is ruined by Mr. Hawthorne bursting in through the big wooden double doors of the studio.

“Good morning everyone.  You know what you’ve got to do so get to it.  I’ll be around to look at all of your drawings in a few minuets.”

I look down and notice the scab on my knuckle from where I cut myself with a can last week has opened up.  It’s gushing blood.  A few drops get on the floor.

“Mr. Hawthorne… I need a band-aid.”

“Ooooh Lily.”  He says in a voice that sounds like amused annoyance to me.

I get the band-aid and by the time I’m settled down and cleaned up, it’s break time.  As I walk out towards the door I decide that’s enough drawing for one day.  Mr. Hawthorne doesn’t notice anyway, he never has.

On the way home I see Sqintz, the homeless dude standing by the gas station on the lake.  I give him $20 and he goes in and comes out with a 12 pack of Yuengling.  I cram all of those sweet cans of fermented joy into my backpack next to the art supplies that weren’t even worth carrying today and I’m off to The Hill.

The Hill.

The Hill is not really a place that should have a name.  What I mean is no one knows about it except me.  I mean, other people go past it every day, but they don’t care about it.  They don’t seek it out.  I on the other hand love it.  It’s a little bit of a hike on foot because it is literally at the top of a giant, hillside, curvy road but when you get to the top… bam right in your face!  One of the most brilliant views you’ve ever seen of the valley and the lake.  Today all the leaves are different shades of red and orange and in contrast to the stark yet playful light and darks of the clouds it is almost more than I can handle.

I cry.

And then I drink.

And I cry some more.

It seems really queer to me to be sitting underneath such a vast and wide sky that takes no mind of me, crying.  It seems really queer.

After awhile, I’m pretty drunk.  I mean, I’ve downed 5 of these cans in the last two hours.

And now all I can think about is how I ended up here.  How I ended up being an artist.  That night I stole those awful $0.73 bottles of acrylic from Wal-Mart and the first thing I ever painted.  How a few months later, my best friends mom bought her an expensive oil paint set and she started painting and was better than me.  How she got into a better school.  How she stole my boyfriend and broke both of our hearts before she left and never talked to us again.  She didn’t care.

It’s getting dark.

The sun is falling behind the trees.  Screw this; I can’t sit up here in the dark.   I’ll pass on being eaten on a bear tonight.    I pack my bag back up and I’m off.  It’s pitch black by the time I get home.

I forgot to leave a fucking light on.  Now I have to walk vulnerably into the never-ending darkness of the apartment while someone could be standing there “Silence of the Lambs” style with night vision goggles waiting, JUST WAITING to blow my brains out.

I can’t go in.  I just can’t make myself do it.

Out in my car, I light up a smoke.

And another smoke.

I fish the flashlight out of my glove compartment, wading through the unpaid parking tickets, the bottle of blue nail polish that hides the scratches on my car, and the empty cigarette packs.  I don’t even know how it got in there, the flashlight.  What good is a flashlight in a car?  Well, I guess if you’re trapped on the side of the road at night and need to pee maybe you’d be glad you had it.

Drunk Logic.

I ready my pocketknife.

Opening the door of the apartment, I edge towards the lamp in the corner.  No. Sudden. Movements. And… BOOM.  Lights on.  Quickly surveying the rest of the apartment, I find no one.  No smelly mass murdering, girls skin wearing man hiding in a corner waiting to capture me.

Now I feel crazy.  Who does that!?

I open the fridge and move aside the SILK milk, the strawberries, and the half empty bottle of pino noir to make room for the beer.

By the time I get the 5^th beer in there, its pretty cramped.  The 6^th beer proves to be too much and the bottle of wine topples out onto my floor.

God damn it, what kind of asshole land lord gives anyone a fridge this small?! IT’S TOO SMALL!

No it isn’t.  It’s pretty big.  Certainly way bigger than the mini fridges  they get in the dorms.

Probably I should just clean it out more often.  I’m pretty sure the ball of fuzz hiding in the back used to be a half watermelon.  The lid on the Tupperware container on the bottom shelf is almost bursting from what I only can assume is similar fuzz.

There is wine everywhere, but at this point I don’t even care.  I just leave the wine and go into my room and crawl into bed.  In the morning, I’ll be pissed that I did that.  In the morning I’ll have to scrub the floor.  Right now though, I just want to be in my blue room, surrounded by my clippings and my paintings and my collages and my sculptures.  I just want to sleep and dream in Technicolor of other beautiful and heartfelt things to create.  Tomorrow, I’m going to make something that somebody will care about.  I’ll find someone who will care.

Things I Try Not To Talk About and A Story About A Squatter

Today I saw a meme on Facebook that said “being a law abiding citizen makes you an obedient slave.”

I’m unclear if people don’t know the definition of slave or if they haven’t payed much attention in history class but I mean if they insist then yes, I am an obedient slave because I’m a law abiding citizen and also because I don’t own many guns and really don’t care at all if I ever own many guns, and I especially don’t care if I ever own many hand or semi-automatic guns.

Even though I do whatever I want pretty much all the time, and also have a great and happy life where I love my job (the job that I picked to have all on my own) and I also make money for doing work, and even though I own many things and have beautiful clothing and never worry about food, I think it’s fair to compare me and everyone else like me to a person who is owned by another person and who’s entire life is subject to the whims of that person and who is forced to work for no compensation ect. ect.

I mean, I don’t know. I’m probably wrong because history tells me many slaves don’t get a lot of education and even though I am allowed to and currently do attend college, I AM a slave so…

 

Seriously though, your political memes are totally changing the world.  But also, Facebook is probably monitoring you and documenting your political memes to use against you in a court of law when you go to jail FOR BEING A FUCKING IDIOT.  Okay I’m loosing focus here and just turning into an angry, belligerent mess.  Good thing I haven’t started drinking yet or I might punch my cat.  Actually, no, that’s a pro-slave move.  Since I’m trying to be less slave like, I think I would go buy the biggest gun possible (also preferably the one that could never ever be used for hunting or any other legitiment purpose) and SHOOT my cat i the head.  Pro-non-slave move. 

 

In other news, I live in a slum.  But no seriously, it is a slum.  I fell through the ceiling in the hallway of the building a few weeks ago.  Also, the upstairs is gutted but not finished and until recently had no windows but my landlord lets his “friend” stay up there.  Hi, excuse me.  EXCUSE ME LANDLORD.  If your friend is an adult and has been staying on and off (in the dead of winter) in a disgusting, unsafe, bird poop filled cold, powerless upstairs apartment for 3-4 years you should let him stay in the fucking hospital. 

Anyway, this man upstair, we call him “squatter”.  

He seemed harmless at first.  It was summer when we moved in and he would just go up there and chill and it was fine.

Then winter came.  Our landlord “kicked him out” several times. Yeah he kicked him out, except he didn’t get his key back or change the locks so… fail? No, EPIC FAIL.

So winter came and this guy is still up there.  And he’s a drunk, but so is everyone who lives/lived in this building ever including us so it was fine.  I mean being drunk all the time is the only way to deal with living in a place like this.  It’s that bad.  I literally just went downstairs to get a beer just now because I couldn’t take writing about it and not drinking.  

Anyway, so he’s a drunk, but it was fine.  Then two days before Christmas we hear him up there just YELLING.  Not crying, not screaming at someone or in fear, just fucking yelling.  Beligerant stuff.  Swearing.  And it’s like 1 or 2 in the morning.  So we yell up to him “pipe down.” and he doesn’t.  So we go to the door to the upstairs with a bat and creep up the stairs a little bit and say “SHUT THE FUCK UP DUDE.”  To which he responds “fuck you mother fucker, I’m going to kill you and that slut (I’m the slut I think)”.  This went on for another 2 hours.

Since then, not much trouble because he left.  But now he’s back.  I’ve taken to propping a spare (what?) traffic cone in front of the door to the upstairs when I come in at night because it’s funny to wake up to belligerent, mean squatters yelling about tripping and cones and stuff.  But my SO took it to a new level one night by propping a ladder and cinder blocks up against the door.  Dude didn’t make a sound coming out, but we know he did because there are scratched all up and down the door from the ladder.  And it’s moved slightly.  But it’s still there and we haven’t seen or heard from him since.  A.k.a he’s lurking and waiting to kill us.  If I never post again, please search for murder of two young folks in Philadelphia via psychotic squatter man.  

Oh and I’m sorry for talking about politics, but ya know, this is my blog.

Always,

Sheepgo2heaven

 

Dear M-Dog: A Love Letter of Sorts

Last night after many a tequila and rum drink, my friend suggested I blog about them.  I haven’t written in a while obviously, due to work, school, and just plain old lack of spark.  So why not make my come back by honoring a human who has made my life at least 20% more fun then I assumed was possible in addition to just generally helping me to survive.  This person has always been ready with a PBR, a shot of tequila, and a hoodie at a moments notice.  They continuously allow me to subject them to “questionable” music including but not limited to Ke$ha, OCMS, and Depeche Mode.  This person lets me fart openly in front of them.  This person is my bestie and my baddest bitch.

Dear M-Dog:

Do you remember the first time we met?  I thought you were trashy.  You sat behind me in math class first semester and not a Saturday morning went by that you didn’t reek of booze.  You always had every dude in a 10 seat radius entertained by your conquests of the night before.  I creeped your Facebook a few times.  We wouldn’t really see each other again after that for another 3 months.  

Valentines day 2011.  She-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless (from here on out referred to as SWSRN) invited me to hang out with you two.  You hated me.  You pretty much went to bed while I was in your house.  But it was Facebook official that night, we had started our friendship.

Fast forward to 22nd and Broad Street, where we really met for the first time.  We drank ourselves into debt that night on tequila and more tequila.  SWSRN picked us up in Rittenhouse minutes before we certainly would have fallen asleep on a park bench and woken up nakKed and penniless.  We were abuzz with plans of drinking more beer and I even punched SWSRN’s car, possibly because she took me home instead of to the beer.

After that, things were awkward.  Due to questionable sources, you thought I thought you had a drinking problem.  I thought you thought I was a sad lonely person with a drinking problem.  Neither were true.  We drank really disgusting (sorry, I lied and said they were good but diet soda is never good) rum drinks on your roof deck and confessed our friend-love for each other.  The rest is history. Sort of.  

You were one of my only city friends who came to my 21st.  You were there when I moved.  There was the time we both got our first real jobs in the field.  You holed up with us during the “hurricane”.  There was New Years, the nights in my creepy median park, and so much public urination.  The demon in the park, the night with your mom (there is literally no way to type that that doesn’t sound like I banged your mom).  There was Monday Night Club, the Power Couple, late night mcdonalds, the Sidecar, and always there has been singing.  Real songs.  Fake songs.  Good songs and bad.  We sing them all.  Day drinking, shake shack v-cards, nights where I passed out in my hallway with my keys in the door.  There have been nights where I hugged your brother, nights where I yelled at your brother.  Nights where people puked off your roof deck.  I could go on but I have to go to work so I’ll just leave you with a poem/rap:

Roses are Red

Violets are blue

Don’t tell me to do something when I’m drunk

Cause bitch, I’ll do it.  

Always,

Sheepgo2heaven

Lola

I know this is a long shot because most of my “readers” live… I don’t even know. Do I have readers? Just in case, my friend recently lost her adorable kitty Lola at 21st and carpenter in south Philadelphia.  If you live in the city and see her around, kindly capture her and return her to us.

#bringlolahome

Always,
Sheepgo2heaven

My first in Philly

No other caption is needed

Tomatoes, Turkey, and the Importance of Proper Kitchen Tools

Where to start?  Where to Start?  Possibly by saying sorry for getting your hopes up.  You may have been under the impression that I was going to be posting a lot more.  I’m not.  I’m busy.  Sorry cyber world.

Next: I guess I will start by talking about tools.  If you’ve ever met me (or looked at some of the picture on my blog) you might have noticed I’m a huge advocate for “doing what needs to be done” when it comes to cooking.  Yes, I’ve been known to use sewing string to truss a chicken, taped together cutting boards as a dough peel, and frequently used tin foil in place of everything from a baking pan to a funnel to a lid.  My personal favorite “improv” trick is using these babies for measuring (try to focus on the container, not the turkey thigh in the background):

If you’re a take out fanatic you should if nothing else revel in the fact that many places give you FREE TUPPERWARE WITH PURCHASE.  You can also use deli soup containers to measure things.  The tall ones are 4 cups (one quart), the medium ones (like above) are 2 cups (one pint) and the little ones are one cup!

That being said, lack of proper kitchen tools can also cause bad things.  Bad things like burning, huge messes, and serious injury.  (Need proof?  Read This.)

Also you could look at this  picture:

And this picture in no way documents what the table I opened it over looked like.  It also in no way documents how freakin’ happy I was that I was not wearing a white shirt or planning on going anywhere tonight.  (IT EXPLODED ON ME IN CASE YOU DIDN’T PUT THAT TOGETHER!)

How did this happen?  Well the sad truth is that I actually own anywhere between 3 and 7 wine keys at any given point in my life.  Unfortunately that number is directly reflective of how much I love wine.  And when you love wine THAT MUCH you tend to get pretty waste face and loose things (like wine keys) which is great if you’re being a drunk fool and think opening another bottle is a good idea at 3 am when you have to work in the morning but is bad news bears when you are actually trying to be a productive member of society and you can’t. HOLY RUN ON SENTENCE!

Long story short, I’ve actually become pretty skilled at popping corks with a pairing knife (don’t try this at home kids).  Unfortunately, sometimes this happens.  My point?  Don’t be me.

Moving on:

Have I even mentioned the fact that I was once a vegetarian (for 5.5 years)? That is a lot of years of not eating turkey on thanksgiving.  In fact, it’s a lot of years of not eating a lot on thanksgiving. Thankfully, this was before the whole bacon revolution where people put bacon in everything imaginable, but you would still be surprised at the places animal products lurk at thanksgiving.  Anyway, I just recently had turkey again.  And now I am mildly obsessed with it.  It is so much better than chicken.  I want it in everything.  So in lue of making my classic pork ragu  I made TURKEY RAGU.  Okay, full disclosure I actually wanted to make duck ragu but do you know how expensive those b^$%*es are?! Anyway, slow cooked turkey ragu is the perfect meal for a cool autumn day.

How I did it:

1 T canola oil
2 large turkey thighs
1/2 cup diced onion
1/3 cup diced celery
1/3 cup diced carrot
3 cloves of garlic
3 T tomato paste
1 cup red wine (I used a pinot noir)
3-4 cups chicken stock
2 cans of whole peeled tomatoes
2 tsp dried rosemary
2 tsp dried oregano
2 tsp dried thyme
1 tsp red pepper flakes (more if desired)
salt + pepper TT

Heat oil in large pot/braise/rondo.  Brown turkey thighs on both sides and remove from pan.  Add celery, carrots, and onions (mire poix) to pan.  Reduce heat to medium/medium low and cook until onions are translucent (don’t brown!).  Add garlic and some salt (maybe 1 tsp) cook for another 1-2 minutes.  Add tomato paste and cook for another 2 minutes.  Add wine and cook until reduced by half.  Add stock and tomatoes (you can crush them ahead of time if you like but it is not necessary).  Add turkey thighs back into pot and continue to add stock until they are just covered.  Add herbs, salt, and pepper. Cover and let simmer for 1-1.5 hours.  Remove turkey from pt and pull the meat.  Return meat to pot and simmer uncovered for an additional 1.5-2 hours, or until desired sauce consistency is achieved.  Taste and re season as necessary.

Serve over pasta and enjoy immensely.

Lastly:

I feel it is important to let everyone know for my sake and theirs that I have come to terms with some canned products.  I’ve even accepted them to be better than fresh in some cases.  WHAAAAA?! Yes.  I’ve always been the person to scoff at those who used canned products when there were fresh ones to be had.  Specifically, I am talking about tomatoes.   I had the mindset that fresh is fresh so it HAD to be better.  Although nothing can beat the deliciousness of a fresh summer tomato from the garden, sometimes that isn’t the flavor you’re looking for.  Furthermore, in the winter months you will gain next to no flavor using fresh tomatoes anyway.  Canned tomatoes are harvested at their peak period of deliciousness so they are packed with flavor and tend to have a fairly consistent flavor throughout the year.  They also add a beautiful color to sauces that is lost many times when a fresh product is used.  You don’t have to switch over to canned by any means, but if you were or are like I was all I’m saying is give canned a  chance.  If you aren’t convinced, wait until February and buy a tomato at the super market.  Then pop open a can of these bad boys:

Eat one of each.  I would bet money that the canned one had more flavor and made your mouth happier.

Always,

Sheepgo2heaven

I Denounce Restaurant Week

Earlier this year, Marc Vetri (a person hero/unknowing role model of mine) wrote this:

Marc Vetri Dose Not Like Restaurant Week

In case you haven’t read it, or feel like not reading it for some reason, he pretty much saying you’re going to spend the same amount of money you would eating a nice dinner someplace, but the restaurant is going to make more money off of you because you can only order a few things (which happen to be things they costed out to be super cheap and easy to make).

This is only my second year living in a place large enough to have a real restaurant week, and last year I recall being overwhelmed with the options.  I remember thinking not that I was getting “such a great deal” because even then I knew I was probably getting smaller portions or cheaper ingredients for $35, but that I was going to be able to eat at all these HIGH END places and that I could then say that I ate food from THOSE chefs, and THOSE restaurants.  As a poor college student it seemed like my one and only shot at being able to go to some of these places.  I unwisely ignored the words of Mr. Vetri.  I’m telling you here and now, if Marc Vetri tells you something, you should listen.

I ate at Le Bec Fin.  It closed down shortly after. (and is now re opened)

This year, I looked at most of the menus and thought “why?” and slowly but surely that article came back to me.  I felt like I should still participate though.  So I picked two restaurants that I had never been to that seemed to have interesting menus. Then I heard some things about the one place that curdled my culinary blood.  It pertained to a particular restaurant that consistently bounced checks and avoided unemployment by not paying taxes.  I was not about to support that.

The place I ended up going won mostly because it is a mere 3 blocks from my house in addition to having fois gras as an appetizer (I could NOT resist).  Sorry animal rights people, you can’t deter my enjoyment.  Go back to making your misogynistic ads and leave me alone.

Anyway, I sorely regret my choice now, $144 dollars later.  What’s that you say?  $35 a person?  $70 for two people?  I’m sorry this particular restaurant charged $11 a glass for a half sized portion of a crappy pino noir.  And $11 for cocktails that came in barbie sized martini glasses.  And did I mention that my server was wearing yoga pants and a cami with no bra (it was not that kind of place)?  And that she only came back to my table 4 times the WHOLE night?

All of that mistreatment aside, we surely would have had 2 drinks each at nearly any place we went.  But thinking back on the last time we went to Amis (a Vetri place that falls into a similar price category) we only spent $130 ish after leaving a more than 20% tip (the people there are great).  If my server tonight had been wearing a bra, I would be embarrassed to admit that we did not even tip 20% at this place.  But she wasn’t, so I feel no shame.

This is also not just a post to give praise to Vetri.  In the past two months we have eaten at Fish, Little Fish, Amis twice, Supper twice, Han Dynasty, Rex 1516, Mixto, The Dandelion Pub, and The Twisted Tail.  Most of these places have been as good if not better than the meal we had tonight and every single one has been cheaper than the meal we had tonight.

As much as I wish I could sing praises to a week that gives so much business to so many restaurants, after my experience tonight (math included) I just cannot suggest anyone go anywhere to eat this week with a $35 prix fixe menu.  Take your money and go where you actually want to go and eat what you actually want to eat, even if you pay a little more.  The experience will be so much more enjoyable and memorable.  I promise.

Always,
Sheepgo2heaven

My New Toy (and why buying a knife is like being Harry Potter)

I’ve been lugging around a 6″ Wusthof chefs knife for a few years now.  I tried endlessly to keep that bad boy sharp.  I religiously used a steel on it and semi-frequently used a stone.  I even had the blade professionally sharpened on a wheel in case I had rolled my blade at some point (something that can happen to a knife, especially German steel knives which causes your knife to suck pretty bad).  No luck.  I really don’t understand to this day why my knife was so crappy, but it was.  I have known others with Wusthof knives who claim to have NEVER sharpened their knives and their knives were still sharper than mine ever was.

Finally after shamefully being told by my chef to never bring that knife into his kitchen again, I broke down (a combination of pride and shame) and went knife shopping.

I ended up with this bad boy:

I tried to make this picture as dramatic as possible. Success?

William-Sanoma did me good.  The sales lady there let me hold every single knife in the case and play with them for roughly an hour before I decided on the Shun Kaji 8″.  She’s a beauty.  She cuts through onions like they’re butter, can cut a perfect edge on a piece of paper, and can even cut through a mushy tomato with ease.  Chiffonade anything no problem. Horse carrots can suck on the power of my new friend.

I went there thinking I was going to purchase a Wusthof Ikon, but after holding it and feeling what I perceived as awkwardly heavy back weight, I just couldn’t make myself buy it even though in theory it was everything I was looking for.

I was forced to eat my own words, as I have frequently refereed to Shun knives (specifically the classic series) as over priced show pieces.  And here I was falling in love with a Shun.  It took some serious swallowing of pride for me to buy that knife.  But I’m glad I did.

The thing is though, every knife on the market has its place.  For some, the back weight of the Ikon might be perfect.  For some, the Kaji 8″ might feel like the blade is too deep or too light.

Which brings me to the title of this:

(I hate myself)

In the first book (and movie) Harry has to buy a wand.  All young wizards do.  And as much as they might want a certain type, they have to hold each and every wand until they find the one that is made for them.  Buying a knife is the same way.  The knife chooses you, not the other way around.  (I know this isn’t the most solid analogy, but play along).

Sure, I could have just ordered the knife I thought I wanted online for much cheaper, but when I got it I would have ultimately been disappointed which the purchase.  A year from now, I would have found myself buying a new knife, I’m sure of it.

My point is that just because I happen to love this knife and will sing its praises to anyone who will listen for at least another month does not mean you should blindly buy it.  It’s Japanese, meaning more upkeep and higher chance of chips and broken tips.  However, it is also sharper and the blade is thinner meaning better precision cuts.  The blade holds an edge longer because of the “sandwiched” steel (powdered steel in between stainless steel).  And plus Damascus steel always looks cool.

If you plan on investing serious money in a knife, reviews and recommendations can be helpful to a point, but only in addition to your own testing of the knife in your hand.  Nothing can replace that, not all the reviews in the whole world.

But my real point is I will no longer be laughed out of the kitchen for all my parsley turning dark around the edges (a sign of a dull knife) and when someone uses my knife now they have nothing to say (but sometimes they say “wow this is awesome”).

And as a final note, don’t buy a knife you won’t be able to maintain.  If you’ve never used a stone before, or a steel for that matter, don’t buy a knife that requires excessive care.  If you go to a good kitchen store (one where they aren’t just trying to sell you on the most expensive knife in the case) and are open to suggestions (i.e. do not be embarassed by indecision and lack of knowledge.  I just told you I spent over an hour in W-S) than you can find the knife that is right for you.

Good luck and happy knife-ing!

Always,

Sheepgo2heaven

I promise I’m done.

For anyone who has been reading recently, I probably seem like sort of a nut.  I realized today how many times I have said the word honest in the past month on here and in Yelp reviews.  But I promise I’m not a nut, and I’m not into fad diets, or extraordinarily healthy eating.  In fact, I eat pretty horrible.  HONEST.

Why am I thinking about this?  Well I was seconds away from formulating a review for yet another Philly “healthy fast-casual” place who’s name starts with Pure and I thought “why?  Why am I doing this?  I am not even this kind of person.  Why am I drinking a non-dairy smoothie right now and how is it possible that I am able to compare that to 4 other “healthy” places with smoothies?  I love eating 2 lbs of bleeding steak.  I love cheese.  I love salt.  And most of all, I love burgers!  I eat burgers at least twice a week.  And not turkey burgers, or veggie burgers, I eat bleeding burgers that hurt my jaw to bite into because they’re so massive.  Why am I not telling you about all the burgers I eat?  Why did I spent $11 on coffee, a smoothie, and a muffin?!  And why do I feel the need to talk about it afterwards?”

The answer is simple, and yet strangely complex.

The short answer: It is impossible to ignore healthy fast casual because it is EVERYWHERE now.  Without even thinking I can name Pure Fare, Honeygrow, Freshii, Jar Bar, Saladworks, Pure Tacos, HipCityVeg, and Rice&Mix.

None of those places are that amazing.  I mean they’re okay.  And if you asked me to rank them against each other, I certainly could.  But how does one city full of people with roots in honest blue collar living, cheese steaks, and scrapple support so many expensive, mediocre places?

I don’t even like salad, or juices, or quinoa in my baked goods (seriously, if you can show me one person who PREFERS their muffins to be oddly gritting and crunchy with no regard to nutrition, I will show you a person who is fucking insane), but I find myself constantly eating at these places and leaving unsatisfied and unimpressed.  But then somehow a few weeks later, I find myself thinking “everyone is talking about this place, I should eat there.”  And then after I eat there I find myself thinking either:  “Wow this place is a lot better than X” which logically makes me say it’s good or on my more honest days “this seriously blows, I can’t believe I paid $10 for this.  It’s better than X but X sucked too, so that isn’t really saying a lot.”

Is it guilt that makes me and hundreds of other people frequent these places?  Is it this an awkward transitional phase into people eating real food again where the average person doesn’t realize that real food can taste awesome and still be good for you?  Is it just a stupid fad?  Or is this the ultimate and final downfall of society?

I can’t tell you honestly.

I can tell you that I believe this trend came from the success of many small, local businesses all over who made it work making healthy food and charging a little more.  However, those people also were not looking to open a chain, not looking for a massive profit margin, and really believed in what they were doing.  Also, they probably didn’t spend most of their start up cash trying to make their place look like an edible Apple store.  Yeah, these new “healthy fast casual” places are all opening with the intention and business model to be chains. Sort of shitty (and by sort of I mean massively).

What do you think about this trend/movement?  What do you know about it?  How much does it exist where you are?  Comments are appreciated as I am genuinely intrigued by this.

Also, a quick poll:

Always,

Sheepgo2heaven

Diners

Midtown II Restaurant (my favorite Philly diner)

One of my favorite things in life is eating at diners.  Why?  The food is just honest and unpretentious. (and cheap).

In a world so concerned with healthy, natural ingredients, and freshness it is amazing to me that diners still thrive and it makes me realize that diners are the cockroaches of the food industry (in a good way, not in the gross way like cockroaches in your food).

Yes, diners will truly never die.  And not only will they not die, but they won’t change..  Not for anyone, no how, no way.

The other night, the boyfriend and I went on a late night bike ride to our favorite 24 hour diner.  The waitress was a little rude, and my water was served to me in the exact same style of ripply plastic glass my chocolate milk was served to me in when I was 5 at Perkins.  The food was certainly not good for me.

Ripply Glass

“Hurry up and order, the kitchen is closing in 10 minutes for an hour.  Cleaning crew is pulling up now.”

“How often does this happen?” I ask.

“Oh once every 3-6 months.  You would NOT want to see that kitchen right now, I’ll tell you that.”

Words that inspire sheer confidence in a customer.

Seven minutes later our food arrives.  And five minutes later, we’ve devoured all of it.  Because seriously, it’s a diner, who cares?  I’m eating a grilled cheese with white bread, American cheese, and the least organic, hot house tomato ever.  And it’s 2 am.  And I’m drinking no-name coffee and a beer simultaneously (one thing that rarely happens in NY.  Props to PA for that bit of legislation).  And some lady I’ve only ever met a few times (i.e. on other late night bike rides) is calling me honey.

And I also think she is a bit of a misogynist, or at least assumed my boyfriend was paying the bill because they “ran out of fries” after one order and even though my meal was smaller, and even though I ordered first, he got that one order of fries.

If you know me, you know this would generally be grounds for me to grandstand, but it is a freakin’ diner.  It’s so American, that instead of being pissed about that, I just started bleeding red, white, and blue. (and also the bf shared half the fries with me because he is fabulous).

I guess there is little to no point of this post except to remind myself (and anyone who may happen to stumble upon this hell hole of a blog) that sometimes food is just about filling your belly with stuff that tastes good.  No matter how many delicious, expensive, well reviewed places you’ve been to, the amount of cheese you’ve eaten in France, the amazing bread you might be able to make if you spend 3 hours slaving over your Kitchen Aid, the beautiful organic tomatoes you can get if you drive 15 miles to that Amish farm, sometimes down that alley, in that nasty Formica coated eating establishment, you can find pure bliss in a disgusting, hydrogenated, fatty, fried meal.

I smiled the whole time (but to be fair I maybe was slightly intoxicated) and didn’t overdraft the $10 that was in my account.  I would call that a successful meal.

In short, I hope (and know) that 20 years from now, I will be drinking water (or chocolate milk) out of the same ripply glass in a diner somewhere.  And I’ll be happy while I’m doing it.

Always,

Sheepgo2heaven