Folks, we still have not received a definitive answer on this…time to revisit it.

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I am posing this question the morning I have a work conference because it is completely tasteless and sure to offend folks.  I am eager to see the responses/prayers for me this afternoon.

That is not going to stop me from asking it, though.

Who do you think is better in bed, God or Jesus?

Things to think about:

• God is strong and powerful and won’t stop til s/he gets shit right.
• Jesus has seen some very sad stuff. He is a sensitive soul. I imagine he would really “value you”.
• God is not man nor woman…how does that work?
• Jesus is most likely covered in blood/scars—hot or not?
• What name do you call out more during coitus?
• God can probably read your mind.
• Your thoughts on long hair?

I had this conversation with several souls yesterday who I will not out. Let’s just say I am glad work cannot access my personal chatting. I have no idea how I started thinking about this.  It is probably better that way.

Lastly, no, I still don’t know who I’d choose.

Pumpkin Bread Pudding.

I really think you should make this pumpkin bread pudding this Thanksgiving. It was quite lovely.

Also, you ought to check out my Thanksgiving posts from the past few years.  I think they are quite helpful if I do say so myself.  They have all kinds of recipes and helpful tips. If nothing else, you can mock my writing from eyars past.  You will cringe, I assure you.

I know, I know.  It is lame to send you to posts of years past. Thanksgiving just kind of snuck up on me this year and I didn’t have time to pull it together.

Plus, I kind of miss you all.  I hate that I haven’t been responding to comments as much since I started my new, super busy job.

What does this have to do with Thanksgiving, you ask?  Well, I would be thankful to you if you asked me any and all questions you have regarding Thanksgiving.  I have carved out some time today and tonight to respond.  Plus, then you can be thankful to me for making you look awesome this holiday.

See how this works?  We have a  mutual admiration society going on here.

So, how can I help you? This is all about you…really.

When you have a name like mine, you spend a lot of time thinking about whats in a name.

Would I be so…Lexa…if I was Jennifer?

I’d like to think so, but I think the name helps with the whole package.

Someone I know recently had a baby and they gave the kid a completely wackadoodle name. I can appreciate their efforts, but the kid has a hard road ahead of him. Might I also assert I am completely serious when I love the name Shoshanna? (I am sure my Jew lust plays a role, but I think it is a pretty perfect name.)

It isn’t like I think every kid should be named Madison or Jake…in fact, I think it should be every parents goal to divert from the top 100 list. You want your kid to be a little special, a tad unique, ya know? Your kid is going to spend her whole life learning how painfully unspecial they are: you may as well at least try to humor them in the beginning.

My point is made by this recipe. I wish it had a better name. Baked chicken meatballs seems too simple, an understatement, painfully common. Honestly, these are the best meatballs I have ever had. Like ever. In the whole entire world. They are moist and flavorful and kind of unique due to the mix of chicken and panchetta and I had a serious love affair with these. I want to cuddle with them and bring them to meet my parents. They are so amazingly good and to call them just meatball…well…it seems a shame. They are so much more.

But that is what they are: a meatball. Maybe it is more in the character than the name. A plain old meatball can be pretty special, it seems. What do I know?

Baked Chicken Meatballs

from Smitten Kitchen

3 slices Italian bread, torn into small bits (1 cup)
1/3 cup milk
3 ounces sliced pancetta, finely chopped (you can swap in Canadian Bacon if you can’t find pancetta)
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 small garlic clove, minced
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided
1 large egg
1 pound ground chicken
2 tablespoons tomato paste, divided*
3 tablespoons finely chopped flat-leaf parsley

Preheat oven to 400°F with a racks the upper thirds. Soak bread in milk in a small bowl until softened, about four minutes.

Cook pancetta, onion, and garlic in one tablespoon oil with 1/2 teaspoon each of salt and pepper in a large skillet over medium heat until onion is softened, about 6 minutes. (Alternately, as in “I thought of this after the fact”, I’d bet you could render the pancetta for a couple minutes and cook the onions and garlic in that fat, rather than olive oil.) Cool slightly.

Squeeze bread to remove excess milk, then discard milk. Lightly beat egg in a large bowl, then combine with chicken, 1 tablespoon tomato paste, pancetta mixture, bread, and parsley. Form 12 meatballs and arrange in another 4-sided sheet pan (I used a 9×13 roasting dish).

Stir together remaining tablespoons of tomato paste and oil and brush over meatballs (the paste/oil does not mix in any cohesive manner, but just smoosh it on and run with it) , then bake in upper third of oven until meatballs are just cooked through, 15 to 20 minutes (though mine took a good 5 minutes longer).

* Deb accidentally added a heaping tablespoon of the tomato paste into the meatball mixture the first time she made it, and ended up liking it better than without it. She’ d use the tomato paste on top too. It’s good both places. (I did the same thing. It was awesome.)

1. When I die, I hope that my best friends hide my iPod, not the contents of my goody drawer. There is no shame in a vibrator, but there is in the Spice Girls.

2. If you use your stroller, with your BABY INSIDE OF SAID STROLLER, as a battering ram to stop the metro doors from slamming shut, I will judge you. I have heard of such things happening, but it was not until I witnessed it with my very eyes that I truly believed it. We, as a race, are beyond saving. I was confounded by the idiocy.

3. Certain men can pull off calling women “doll” or “darling”. It is a underrated skill, but when enacted appropriately, it makes my knees weak.

4. Lately, I am feeling really grown up. I hate it. I love it. It scares me. My room is still a mess.

5. In college my friend, Old Man, and I were obsessed with this game called Snood. We would spend hours procrastinating and obsessing over this game as we drank Zelko vodka an downloaded illegal music. I would fall sleep and see Snoods behind my eyelids. I think Snood is to blame for me getting a D in Baby Chem. It consumed my thoughts and every waking moment. This week I found a new version of it online. I think it is ruining my life.

Last week I was sick…again.

I was sick a month ago and then I was sick last week. I had the kind of sore throat where I was waking up in pools of my own drool because I couldn’t swallow and my voice got this raspy, phone sex operator quality to it. it is actually still a bit husky; I am sure my coworkers are enjoying it.

The doctor gave some explanation about my allergies and asthma and all the rotting leaves on the ground because we have had so much rain and it will pass and it may take up to three weeks before you feel completely better but you are gonna live so just take care of yourself. I think. I wasn’t fully paying attention as I was internally screaming for a Z Pack.

So, yes, very frustrating as I have been working really hard to take care of myself. People, I am going to Vegas December 21-24. Las Vegas, where I can wear sequins and tease my hair and be right at home. Las Vegas, where I can do lines off of strippers’ asses and no one will blink an eye. Las Vegas, where I plan to live lavishly for three days celebrating the birthday of my favorite girl, Cinderella.

Despite the little health set back, I plan on continuing to work out and hydrating and eating well and chugging gallons of Emergen-C. Of course, I will start every day with a healthy and filling breakfast. These are the basics.

As far as breakfast goes, this one is simple and really tasty. I make a mess of these and then eat them through out the week. I carry them to work, pop two in the microwave for 40 seconds and I have an easy breakfast on my hands. One tip: these stick to the paper if you are impatient and try to peel them out too fast. Allow them to cool for a few minutes before popping them out of the paper. I love this recipe as it is very “choose your own adventure”. You can make it vegetarian or use whatever breakfast meat you want. The vegetable options are endless, as are the kinds of cheese you can use. Go nuts.

Take care of yourself; make these.

Mini Frittatas*

2 eggs and 1 cup egg beaters (or 4 eggs or a mix of egg and egg whites)

splash milk

1/2 tsp dry basil (or oregano or herbs de provence)

1/2 tsp dry parlsey

Salt and pepper

Splash olive oil

1 small shallot minced (or some onion or leaks or green onions)

1 breakfast turkey sausage, removed from casing (or two strips pork or turkey bacon or ham or Canadian bacon)

1 cup chopped spinach

1/2 tomato, deseeded and chopped (or bell pepper or mushroom)

2 TBSP low fat cheddar cheese (or goat cheese or swiss or parmesan or fontina or whatever cheese you want)

Pam non stick spray

Preheat oven to 400. Put two paper muffin liners in 6 muffin tin slots. Spray the paper liberally with non-stick spray.

Whisk together eggs/egg beaters, salt, pepper, milk, parsley and basil. Set aside.

In a frying pan, heat oil over medium heat. Add shallot an cook for about 2 minutes, just to soften. Add sausage and cook for about 5 minutes (Note: if you use a firmer vegetable than a tomato, you should throw it in with the sausage to soften it a bit). Mix in spinach and tomatoes and heat until wilted.

Add sausage mixture to egg mixture and mix together. Stir in cheese. Ladle in to muffin tin. Bake for about 13 minutes, until centers are set. Cool for about 1o minutes and eat.

*I thought I made this recipe up, but I do read Kalyn’s Kitchen from time to time and I feel I should give it credit. I am sure I subconsciously absorbed it at some point.

It has been nice taking Fridays off from blogging. It has also been flattering receiving complaints about not blogging on Fridays. I’ve decided I am going to use this space this week, and maybe more in the future, to reshare an old post. I am feeling the holiday blahs set in and I was reminded of this post from last year…I buried it so no one would read it, but perhaps it is time to come out of hiding.

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A few weeks back I got incredibly pissy with a coworker who told me to smile. I asked him if I was his doll. He didn’t know how to react, but I hope he felt embarrassed.

It chafes me when I feel like people are telling me how to feel or the manner in which they feel I should act. I think when someone says “Smile” or “cheer up” is always more about them. People don’t want to be confronted with difficult or hard feelings, but I don’t really feel like it is my job to be a ray of sunshine day in and day out just because someone wants a pretty face to look at.

Every year I am told I should be a better sport about the holidays, that it is a beautiful and wonderful time of year. Every year, I resent this just a tiny bit, because it is a day I don’t think I will ever love and why should I pretend just to make someone happy? Largely, I think I feel this way because I am just not wired to love this most magical time of the year…I am a cynic and an avowed atheist with a bitchy streak. Christmas isn’t made for people like me.

Yet of course there is another piece of the puzzle I know I cannot ignore. I haven’t talked to my biological father nor the paternal side of my family for 12 years. I wouldn’t say it is a secret, but merely something I don’t discuss with much frequency. It is nothing and everything, a thing of the past yet highly present in the present.

A large event that sent the walls tumbling took place on Christmas Eve many years ago. The details are boring and relatively inconsequential. Bitching about them makes me feel whiny and damaged; I know far worse things have happened to people, but this doesn’t change the fact that it is the constant boogeyman in the room every Christmas. I can go months without thinking about him, them, and all the pain, but this time of the year it is lurking around every corner.

I guess I am slipping this in now because I feel it is safe; no one is reading this week, so for those of you who are I am trusting you to be gentle. This is why I hate Christmas, why I have acted a little serious lately, and why I kind of suck this time of year in general. I am so incredibly grateful that my mom married a man that I consider to be the only real, loving and caring father I have ever known, but Christmas will never be a time of pure joy and wonderment for me. I can barely remember a Christmas that wasn’t made damp by a few tears.

I am a bit of a bear to be around this time of year because I will always feel like a little part of me is missing or perhaps even gone forever; if you are missing something, it is implied it can be found again. I don’t think I can ever get certain parts of me back, but I have somehow managed to fill those gaps over time. Yet, like a phantom chunk of my heart, those pieces still throb from time to time, reminding me of what I am without.

However, this year I was able to have some good moments and squeeze out a few tears of happiness. My grandma handed down an apron she had sewn for my beloved great grandma and I was overcome when I saw it. The tears welled up immediately; it was unexpected and perfectly appropriate. I know I am going to wear it year round, it’s holiday theme mocking me every time I cook a meal. I really want to believe in the future the tears will be of joy. This year was a step in the right direction. Maybe next year those will be the only tears.

The recently opened Masa 14 on 14th Street (yes, another painfully unoriginal name added to the DC landscape) has been getting a lot of buzz. Chefs Richard Sandoval (Zengo) and Kaz Okochi (Kaz Sushi Bistro) have partnered to bring the U Street Corridor an Asian Latin fusion tapas destination.

Yes, tapas. More tapas. I actually like tapas a whole bunch, but I think I have reached my limit on small plates. Still, I was hearing great things, so I decided to keep an open mind and check it out.

While sitting at the bar as I waited for my friend, I thought to myself “There certainly are some good looking men behind this bar”. As we all know, looks only carry you so far. You have to have the good to back it up, and this bar did not. There were five bartenders working the crowd–it is an impressive 65 feet long–and I had a difficult time catching someone’s eye. Understandable as the place is new and they were fairly busy. When I finally did get my cocktail, the Red Star which was made with tequila and blackberry puree, I was pleased. It was put hair on your chest strong, but it was excellent. What was not excellent was never being asked if I wanted water, a menu, or another drink. When our table was ready my friend went over as I tried to settle the bill. I had to ask twice for the check and watched EIGHT minutes pass buy before I finally signed my slip. So, I started my meal pretty pissed off and my friend Bitchy sat there occupying real estate but ordering nothing as he waited for me. This is not the best business model.

Another pet peeve: communal seating. We were at a table with 12 seats (I believe) and I was displeased. The tables were so close to the bar, which had folks spilling in to the dining area, that I spent the whole meal screaming to be heard and elbowing everyone in my radius. Plus, it is safe to say that the whole table did not need to hear what Bitchy and I were talking. I forged ahead, neighbors be damned.

Now, on to the food. It was good, and in some instances, great. The spinach salad was basic but the black bean dressing was a nice surprise. The spicy tuna handroll was fresh and flavorful, but would have been helped by a bit more crunch. The kobe beef and pork meatballs were awesome; smoky and moist, I could have eaten three orders. The Thai chicken flatbread was packed with fresh veggies, bight cilantro and a zesty peanut sauce; a definite must order. I could have took or left the beef tenderloin, but there was nothing egregious about it.

Our table service? Good, definitely, but you could tell he was having a hard time navigating the floor. Also, another drawback to communal seating is every time you move, someone is asking you for something and you cannot reach your intended destination. I felt for him; he seemed like a good guy and did his best in a rough situation.

So, not all bad. That being said, I was so annoyed by the bar and the noise and the seating situation that by the time the main event, the food, rolled around I was feeling less than open minded. Plus, the freaking tapas. Why more tapas, why? Please, DC, find a new freaking trend. Perhaps I am not giving the place a fair shake, but maybe if they were doing something new or at least doing something old well, I would be much more forgiving.

Are people still afraid of carbs? I think they are. I am moderately intimidated by them, but I would never, ever say scared. No one, not even the good Dr. Atkins, can convince me my morning oatmeal is bad for me. I refuse to believe this, REFUSE.

But, I could probably eat a little less. Plus, I hear vegetables are good for you. Enter, the spaghetti squash.

It is pretty perfect. Eaten with some sauce, it is damn satisfying. The texture is like an al dente pasta and it serves as a great vehicle for meatballs. Food with way less guilt? I can get on board with this.

Oh, you are scared? Don’t know how to prepare this? Come to me. I will show you how. I am here for you always. It is simple, really. Here we go:

1. Stab the bejeesus out of the thing. I used a fork which took far too much effort. Next time, a knife is in order. (Also, bejeesus is short hand for 20 times.)

2. Microwave for 7 minutes. Flip over and microwave for 10 minutes. Be sure not to stand too close to microwave as you don’t want to nuke your eggs.

3. Let it cool for about 5 minutes, or if you are like me, forge ahead. Use a paper towel for a potholder as you are classy and cut in half lengthwise.

4. Scoop out seeds with a spoon. They are kind of slippery, so you may need to get in there with your hands. Don’t be shy.

5. Using a fork, or some random, yet nifty scooper thingy of your roommate’s, release the squash from it’s skin.

6. Wow! It looks like spaghetti! Put sauce on it and eat it! Marvel that you are sharing pictures of your messy kitchen counter with the internet!

Now, as I have spent the past two and a half years painstakingly outlining, I am a woman with a few vices. Health vanity? Check. Leopard print lust? Sure thing. Hairspray? Color me guilty.

Food…where do I even begin? Short ribs and carrot cake and pig in a blanket, oh my. But you know this. You get me. You really do.

One thing that I have never craved is candy. Sure, of course, if it is in the office, I will eat it. I find this to be more representative of my complete lack of impulse control than a true love of candy, though. At CVS or the grocery store, never has a Snickers or Baby Ruth called my name. I am thankful for this; I have enough problems.

Yet, despite my ambivalence regarding candy, I recognize most people love it. Hence, when I bring a treat in to work, it is nice to cart in some fudge. It is easy, cheap, and I won’t be tempted to scarf half a batch. This recipe is on most cans of condensed milk and is so simple, I almost didn’t share. Does this even count as a recipe? All I know is anyone can make this and with holiday parties around the corner, it is a helpful treat to have up your sleeve. Swap in anything you want in here; nuts, dried fruit and other candies would all work. It is tasty, but so sweet; teeth achingly so. If I had a dollar for every time someone said “this is awesome, but it hurts my teeth”, I would a rich woman..or at least able to buy more leopard print.

Reece’s Fudge

Recipe found on condensed milk cans, all over the internet, in your grandma’s recipe file

1 can condensed milk

1 bag high quality semi sweet chocolate chips

1/2 stick butter

1 pinch salt

Reece’s pieces

Line an 8×8 pan with wax paper. Over medium heat mix together condensed milk, chocolate. butter and salt until melted. Make sure to stir constantly. Remove melted chocolate mixture from heat. Stir in candy pieces. Pour in to pan. Top with more candy.

Female friendships are largely misunderstood and poorly represented and exceedingly complex. I’ve witnessed and been part of enough fiery crashes of female passion and emotion to know it is to not be taken lightly. It is a complicated thing.

When a woman breaks up with a boyfriend or her marriage disintegrates, we know how to behave. We rally, we comfort, we trash talk the no good dog. A few years back I had a severe rift in a very close friendship. It caused me more pain that any man ever had and I’d be as bold to argue that it is the only true heartbreak I have ever suffered; there is still a tiny cracked corner of my soul from this lost friendship. With men and women, it is tangible, understandable. Romantic love has a set of steps and identifiers. Friendship between women is a bit trickier.

With men, we love. We trust. We share hopes and dreams and believe we can build something lasting. We hope they can see through the bullshit and defenses and see who you are under it all.

Girlfriends know who you are without having to look past anything. They see your fears and accept them. They know the bullshit and defenses are all part of the package, they understand it is hard earned. They are trusted with your scariest hopes and wildest dreams and they hold on to them tightly.

Your best girlfriend knows when you have pinned your hopes on the wrong guy or have wedded yourself to the wrong dream. She pushes you to be better, to work harder, do more. She is an anchor, a rock, a tether, but never, ever a weight.

It isn’t about Cosmopolitans and cat fights and shopping sprees…but sometimes it is. It is about frivolity and drunken phone calls and “God, his dick was small.” It is anger more passionate that yours when you don’t get the job and jubilation equal to your own when you catch a break. It is about holding hands when you are scared beyond belief or elated beyond your wildest dreams.

It is unwavering, blindly supportive and without agenda. It is about home and knowing when you are with them you always are there…home.