February 5, 2012
Super Bowl Party Checklist
Michael Smith: Meatless chili (some ground meat substitute, beer, espresso, broth, spices, peppers, tofu, onion, and garlic).
Deron Bauman: Gluten-free vegan nachos.
Sheila Ryan: Refreshing lemon dessert.
Or: New England vs. Manhattan clam chowder.
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Ryan! How dare you put my name next to that!
Bauman! It’s a joke, son! Put in some gluten and slap on some cheese and you’ll be good to go.
Oh, and for the record: I lean toward New England clam chowder.
Ryan! I know!
I didn’t even know there was a Manhattan chowder. That looks really good to me.
I know that the New York chowder is what I should like, being less gloopy and less loaded with carbs and all.
And “my people” even have roots in NYC and Long Island. But the two sides merged and moved to Connecticut. Hartford area. Halfway to Boston. So I’m all confused.
How the fuck am I going to root for the Giants?
The red chowder is kind of a Portugese thing, or so I’ve heard. Not especially a New York thing. It makes sense.
Rooting for the Giants: think of it as “Go, immigrants! Wretched refuse of your teeming shore! Homeless! Tempest-tossed!” Think of rooting for the Patriots as: “Daughters of the American Revolution! Boston Brahmins! Baked beans! Cod!”
I’ve never had this much angst deciding who to root for. Jesus.
I hate the fucking Giants. But the Patriots!
Angst. Indecision. That is, like, so Protestant. So New England. So City on the Hill. So SInners in the Hands of an Angry God.
Why couldn’t the Saints be in the game? Or at least the Packers.
Adopt a serene attitude of not-caring.
Yeah, right.
Breathe deeply and smile seraphically. Resist the inclination to shout or flail about.
GIANTS OR PATRIOTS??????????????
Coming over with a big bowl of New England Clam Chowder, slab of Boston Brown Bread, and bucket of Indian Pudding. Put you in a food coma.
Alternately, I could toss the I Ching and tell you who to root for.
Also, you’re just going to agitate yourself watching all that pre-game hoo-hah.
I typed out a longish comment talking through the pros and cons, but lost it. Sweet Jesus.
Sheila, I put some thought into what time it was appropriate to turn the pre-game on. When I was a kid, I used to watch all day.
You know why you lost that comment, don’t you? You were all agitated.
Up in here.
Deron, I got up at 2:00 AM the other night, after an hour of fitful sleep, and watched all six hours of the Djokovich-Nadal match.
I’m almost not crazy.
Also, toward the end of that fifth set, I was just wanting it to end. It was like waiting to watch someone die, and I just wanted it to be over, and I didn’t care who won.
Did that help you know whether to root for the Giants or Patriots?
You know . . . I was just typing ” . . . but that doesn’t help you decide whether to root for the Giants or the Patriots.”
I know what to do! Ask Jasper.
Giants, I think.
I’m on my way to a kosher super bowl party. Wish me luck!
Bless you, Dave. Bless you.
Dave? What are you bringing to the party?
Is it possible to root for neither team, and still enjoy the game? I guess it’s the same situation I found myself in five years ago.
Did you enjoy the game five years ago?
Deron? Listen. Go with the chowder you think you’d prefer.
I didn’t perceive the Patriots as cheating douchebags at that point. I did enjoy the David Tyree catch. That was a good one.
I remember that catch. It was good.
Look, buddy. I’m thinking you’d best root for the Giants.
Right?
In other news, my Chicago friend Alison reports that “right now the train is filled with people taking chips and seven-layer dip from their place to another place. It’s a city-wide chip swap jamboree.”
I don’t think I can. WWJD?
Make a load of loaves and fishes and turn water into wine and PAR-TAY!
Okay, how about you let your hate-light shine and wish doom on both teams and see what happens?
Maybe sit tight and let Madonna decide.
Let Madonna’s cock be the light.
Football’s the pointy one, right?
Shine on. Glimmering nacho cheese.
The one with all the collisions. And the pointy ball.
Are we talking about football or Madonna?
Yes.
Chowder.
Fuck it. I’m rooting for the Giants.
There you go.
I guess my love of the NFC won out. Plus the aesthetic superiority of the Giants’ uniform.
When in doubt, go with aesthetic superiority.
Indianapolis!
I’m sad that I finally begin to enjoy football and neither of the teams I like are playing. At least my dad made crab dip. I made a cast-iron skillet pizza. I have enough to share.
Cast-iron skillet pizza! Want!
Shelia, I was afraid of my mom’s skillet until the most recent issue of Martha Stewart offered up a how to with pizza. Divine. Much more divine than Cool Ranch Doritos.
I love cast iron. Doritos are nasty. All Doritos.
Yes, Doritos. Nasty.
Cornbread. Cast-iron skillet.
Doritos. Foul. Whether endorsed by Great Danes or not.
Cat killing Danes.
Let Madonna’s cock be the light.
Oh I’ll be trying out cornbread next. Anyone got a favorite recipe?
I bet Cece has a good recipe. Or Miss Nell does. None of that sweet Yankee cornbread.
I want to cook with Miss Nell. I’m sure she has my dream gravy recipe. Maybe she can teach me how to make a decent batch of collards.
Miss Nell has probably got her a YouTube channel devoted to Cooking with Miss Nell.
Hey, who won?
Dude, I’m just about to ring the doorbell.
I’ll go find some pants.
Also, after 3 bowls, I feel like I can finally say that this chili is fucking delicious.
I just took a break from watching season one of Downton Abbey on Hulu. I think I must have smelled cornbread. Anyway, I make a fancy cornbread with a can of creamed corn, sour cream and jalapenos. I also have another recipe that adds sausage and black eyed peas, sort of a full meal cornbread (well, add a salad). Southerners love the food mixing thing, casseroles, etc.
But I just do these to overcompensate because I can’t match Miss Nell’s, the best cornbread. It is very plain, not one grain of sugar as Shelia says, made with buttermilk. She bakes it in an iron skillet and does that flipping thing, which gives a nice crust on both sides.
Miss Nell would start her cooking shows with, “Now as everyone knows I hate to cook so let’s get started and get out of this kitchen.”
‘Cause Miss Nell’s got things to do.
I would really like to try Michael Smith’s vegetarian chili.
Erica, Miss Nell doesn’t do gravy, never did. When we wanted gravy and things drowned in butter, chocolate meringue pies and the like we had to visit our friends and relatives. She has a few “good” dishes like cornbread, but she was an odd bird who would bring home things from a health food store run by Seventh Day Adventists. Nutritional yeast is something I remember (and I actually put that on popcorn to this day).
The gravy I remember is my friend Cyn’s mother’s white milk gravy. We would stay up all night trying to contact aliens and get them to land in Cyn’s yard and the like. And in the morning the mom would fry up sausage and whip up the gravy using the grease plus the crumbled up sausage. I know it sounds bad but that was flat out delicious gravy, poured over hot buttered biscuits. Then we’d go sleep for about two days.
Carole, biscuits with sausage gravy is just about the best coda to a night of waiting for space aliens that I can possibly imagine.
Also: Carole Corlew, you are a bird!
That’s right Shelia, Miss Nell is very busy. She was putting up collard greens yesterday. Somebody brought “a mess” of them to her. A mess of collard greens, I wonder where that term originated. She turns 92 this month and still rushing around, no time to relax.
Robert Benchley once wrote a column titled “Isn’t It Remarkable?”, poking fun at newspaper features in that vein. “Isn’t Grandpa remarkable? Eight-two years old and keeps up with all the news every day.”
Well, Benchley wondered, if Grandpa wasn’t interested in the news at age eighty-two, when was he likely to be?
Makes me think of Miss Nell. I mean, if she’s not busy now, when is she going to get busy?
I am pondering the application of her attitude to my own life.
Shelia, I came by it naturally, from Miss Nell, the queen of birds.
I have this irrational but still there fear that one day a flying saucer will land and an alien’s voice will ring out, “We got here as soon as we could. What is it already?”
Oh, man. Maybe a flying saucer landed during halftime.
Calling out to Michael Smith: The gist of, if not a strict recipe for, your vegetarian chili?
Also: Deron? There you have it.
There’s no halftime in Downton Abbey.
Sheila, it was a good game, but I don’t feel good about it. Cowboys 2012!
I ate lefttover pimento cheese finger sandwiches from my tea party yesterday. I make delicious pimento cheese and we’re not talking that strange stuff in a jar. Most of my guests had never eaten “real” pimento cheese. It was a hit. I got requests for the recipe but it is one of those “some of this, a bunch of that” recipes.
Oh, don’t get me started. Bauman!
Real pimento cheese — oh, yes!
Carole, my cooking buddy taught me proper gravy last weekend, so I think I could use a Miss Nell’s collard lesson. I promise to drive her places at the speed of light.
Driving Miss Nell — at the Speed of Light!
Ryan!
Oh, Cece. Sheila! I wont to eat NOW. Crusty cornbread, no sweet. Buttermilk. Y’all make the world.
I want pimento cheese finger sandwiches.
Bauman!
We ate Danny’s lasagna and toasty garlic bread watching a BBC show I can’t remember the name of now. I’m stuffed, but I think I have room for a dessert of crusty cornbread and buttermilk. Might set me right for the night. I think it might help my digestion.
I have the world of a kitchen to clean up now. Or in the morning.
I’m not bitchin’ neither.
Cleaning up a kitchen is good work.
Rick, were you watching Downton Abbey? I have a quart of buttermilk you can take off my hands.
A quart of buttermilk!
It wasn’t Downton Abbey, Erica, my dear, though we’ve been watching DA. It was an oldish BBC show about a psychologist, detective who can “see” the aspect of the murderer and the victim at the same time. I tried to Google. I still can’t come up with the name. I’m full. I’m going to bed.
And may next week be better than this nasty nasty week just past.