Upstairs, in the bedroom, after work:
Beast: You know what I was thinking about today?
Foodie: What’s that?
Beast: How we’ll never have gender equality as long as it’s impossible for men to feel comfortable wearing long, chunky sweaters synched at the waist by a nice belt.
A recent work assignment landed me on board the Disney Fantasy for a seven-day cruise. Here is the text exchange that the Beast and I shared while I was away. (This conversation has been edited for clarity, length and so I don’t get fired.)
Beast: Scorsese biopic on the Dali Lama is on Youtube. I am going to watch it tonight. Miss you so much already.
Beast: Have you decided if you’re getting cornrows on the cruise yet? I think it’s something you should decide before you step onboard.
Beast: Can you believe that “how do I become the physical embodiment of jazz” was the #1 Google search from our IP address in 2015!?! Astounding.
The Beast and I realized that his dad has probably seen Nick Edwards more than we have this year, which hardly seems fair.
We enjoyed both their company at the Beast’s dad’s pop-up art reception. A few of Nick’s illustrations are included in the show; specifically, illustrations from Bumble Bear, a children’s story that the Beast wrote years ago.
Posted in At Home
Tagged A&W, David Gadke, historic hotels, Key West, Nick Edwards, Pines and Palms resort, South Beach, Steve Jobs, teen burgers, The Angler's Hotel, The Gardens Hotel, Versace mansion
About a year ago, maybe longer, the Beast decided to turn a left-over ham bone into a soup. He found the recipe on his own. It called for both split peas and brown lentils–I’m guessing less than a cup of each.
But he brought home two-kilogram bags of each. That’s four kilograms of dried legumes.
Foodie: I just love the combination of ham, scalloped potatoes and cabbage salad all in one bite!
Beast: You realize you’ve said that three times since we started eating, right?
Foodie: Oh have I?
The Beast and I blinked and there went summer, without a vacation together to speak of.
So, last week, I took three days off work. Friday and Saturday I spent with my mom. We did the usual: Costco, Walmart and the Superstore. I got her all stocked up with supplies. At Costco, a woman did a double-take when she saw me, my mom practically willing her to do so, and said: “You look like that girl from The View.”
After eight days and nights of eating with my hands–think skewered meatballs and shrimp, tuna ceviche on flat bread and itty bitty tacos–I had my first meal on a plate topped with food that I consumed with a knife and fork on Thursday night.
I covered the TIFF party scene for Metro this year. It’s my fifth year reporting on the festival’s nightlife, and–like clockwork–I metamorphosed into something I call a TIFFhole. I define what this is here. If you have no interest in reading that, I’ll quote myself, which is a really TIFFhole thing to do: “The transition to TIFFhole is a well-known phenomenon in some circles. It’s two weeks of obsessing over party invites, name-dropping and filing stories as the sun rises,” I wrote. “The TIFFhole is a werewolf, ashamed of what it’s become but hungry for its prey and the second-rate rubbed off luminosity of being in close proximity to the stars that it’s hunting.”