Recently in Stupid Things That Happen In My Apartment Category

Apologies for the dearth of updates on the blog today. I spent a decent portion of the day working out my taxes, which is never a particularly fun experience. The good news is that I'm done (for now), which means I can turn my attention back here. As avid readers of this blog may remember, about two weeks ago, I attempted my first ever batch of flapjacks. The result was very promising, and I was happy to have finally conquered such a basic breakfast staple.

My friend Andrea, however, was beside herself with frustration. She insisted that when it came to pancakes, there were Ina Garten's Banana Sour Cream variety... and then everything else. Over the course of many emails and Facebook posts (often written in all caps), Andrea declared that Ina's griddle creations were the end all and be all of pancakes and that I was simply wasting my time with these namby pamby other recipes. Normally I'd just nod politely -- after all, a pancake is a pancake. Some are better than others, but can one recipe be so head and shoulders above the rest that it inspires rabid loyalty? Well, apparently yes. I trust Andrea's tastes, and furthermore, I trust Ina Garten's recipes. Therefore, I stocked up on bananas and sour cream and assembled the batter.

Results after the jump.

As is often the case, I had a sudden and intense craving for frozen yogurt last night, and when I asked my dearest friend Sly if she'd like to join me, she made a proposition: she would come with me if I went up to her apartment and fulfilled her deepest needs, and in this case, her deepest needs involved killing a spider. Being the gentleman that I am, I happily headed up the street to Sly's dwelling where I found her cowering behind her door, her face full of dread and fear. I sincerely felt pity for this woman, and from my pity sprang a deep surge of manliness -- the sort of manliness that made me want to save this trembling lass from the tormentor that, er, tormented her so.

But of course, I wasn't about to do anything without being documented. Fuzzy pictures of the experience after the jump. Animal activists and PETA representatives be warned: you won't be happy.

This morning, there was as wonderful confluence of events that led to an unexpected Adventure in Domesticity. 1) I ran out of my normal breakfast cereal that I eat everyday; and 2) I learned it was National Pancake Day, at least as declared by IHOP. What better way to fill the breakfast void than by cooking up some flapjacks myself, a humble mission I had never actually attempted before (potato and kimchee pancakes don't count). Yes, I've made some bizarre and dainty items at this point, but never have I tried the simple pancake.

After some research, I settled on a generic recipe from the Food Network and got to work in my kitchen. The results after the jump...

The other day, I posted a humble photo of a cooked eel on Facebook, and the response was shockingly vehement. Some people thought it looked tasty. Others wanted to vomit. Now, I know eel doesn't sound appealing, nor is my presentation particularly appetizing, but what of the taste? People swear by eel in sushi. Why the visceral reaction against it in its most basic form?

Here is a sampling of comments from Facebook (for the record, two people said they liked the photo):

It all leads me to ponder this question: is eel awesome? Or revolting?

DISCUSS

Impressed by my ever involved Adventures in Domesticity, my mother last month gave me two Julia Child cookbooks: Julia Child & Company and Julia Child & More Company. My mom, who likes to call herself C-Side, explained to me that more than any other tomes, these two cookbooks elevated her culinary education. This was all very exciting to me as I had yet to attempt a Julia Child recipe in any shape, matter, or form. Part of me was intimidated, and part of me felt like it was already well-worn territory, thanks to Julie Powell (on whom Julie & Julia was based). But then I realized that just because a bigger, more successful blogger had already tackled Julia Child didn't mean I couldn't attempt a similar Adventure in Domesticity myself. After all, Julie Powell hasn't cornered the market on Julia Child (although, she has cornered the market on saying "penis" on Iron Chef).

Nevertheless, feeling emboldened and intrepid, I decided to take on an ambitious cake by Julia Child -- one that my mom had made two or three times in my youth. I'm talking of the one and only Bombe Aux Trois Chocolats: a chocolate-covered, brownie-crusted, oversized bonbon of a cake filled with dense, delectable chocolate mousse. I knew it wouldn't be easy -- the entire cake is actually comprised of three different recipes in the book -- but my desire for a challenge coupled with an insatiable craving for chocolate propelled me forward. Would I be able to properly execute this most decadent of desserts? Results after the jump...

About a month ago, I discovered the Sichuan cookbook Land of Plenty by Fuchsia Dunlop online and became immediately intrigued. The collection of recipes has received rave reviews from critics, bloggers, and buyers on sites like Amazon, and after having perused various images of dishes people had whipped up from the book, I felt an overwhelming desire to try one out myself. The only problem: I didn't have Land of Plenty. You see, I haven't found it in any bookstores as of yet, and while I could purchase it off Amazon (for cheaper), I'd personally like to at least leaf through it once before ordering to see if it's even a cookbook I'd use frequently enough. Nothing worse than a novelty cookbook taking up space on the shelf.

Well, in lieu of being able to thumb my way through Land of Plenty, I resorted to Googling people's experiences with the book, and that ultimately took me to a site called Eat It, Atlanta, which features a "Land of Plenty series" in which a writer attempts to cook perhaps all of Dunlop's recipes. He eventually stops after about eight or ten posts, which is unfortunate, but at least there's enough content there to give me a small idea of what's in the cookbook. One of the more intriguing recipes is for something called Red Cooked Pork -- fascinating to me for both the name, the appearance, and its lack of exotic ingredients (ie. Sichuan peppercorns). With my appetite and curiosity piqued, I followed a link from Eat It, Atlanta to a site called Appetite for China where I found Fuchsia Dunlop's recipe for the dish. Upon seeing the photos on that website, I knew it was AWN. Granted, it didn't look like the healthiest of recipes, but I figured this (coupled with my next planned Adventure in Domesticity) would be my triumphant final fatty huzzah to 2009 (with healthier forays to come in the New Year, as is often the lofty goal).

But would I be able to successfully pull off this dish, which was apparently the favorite of Chairman Mao? Results after the jump...

It was all cold and rainy in LA on Monday, and for whatever reason, this spurred on an insatiable craving for chocolate cake -- one that I could not quell, no matter how hard I tried. Making matters worse was that Mark Bittman had just written a piece about chocolate layer cake, and if that wasn't bad enough, I had just recently seen an episode of Ask Aida wherein Aida Mollenkamp baked a chocolate cake with a frosting made out of PUDDING. Add to that a scene in It's Complicated featuring Meryl Streep and an amazing slice of chocolate cake, and I decided enough was enough. I was going to make a chocolate cake, dammit, and when I paused to reconsider, I realized that despite a lovely trip to Disneyland and a rowdy time with my friends over the weekend, I had never gotten around to having any actual birthday cake. WELL THEN. What better reason to attempt my very first layer cake? And so the plan was put into motion. I would be making cake.

The results after the jump...

A most welcome surprise came for me this afternoon: a friend of mine sent me an early, unexpected birthday gift. But this wasn't any ordinary gift. It was Dress-Up Cat Magnets. And yes, it's exactly as it sounds.

In honor of these new magnets, I decided to craft several cats in the likeness of their B-Side Blog counterparts. The results after the jump...

A magnificent thing happened on Friday afternoon. A free bottle of 1800 Silver Tequila arrived at my doorstep! This wasn't a totally random event though. I had received an email from a firm representing 1800 Tequila announcing that the company would be releasing a limited edition series of bottles designed by various artists (read the full press release here), and in an effort to promote this event, they wanted to send me a free bottle. How could I resist?

Well, when I think of tequila, I think of two people: my friend Paul (who in 2000, chugged a cup of Jose Cuervo and then ran around my backyard with the bottle, screaming "I'm the tequila fairy!" for about thirty minutes), and my friend Sly, who has yet to proclaim herself as any sort of tequila sprite or nymph but enjoys the stuff nonetheless. Unfortunately, Paul lives in Portland; so he was unable to enjoy the tequila with me, but I still had Sly, and thus, I invited her down to sample the wares . Our boozy adventures after the jump...

For nearly two years, I've been littering my blog with "Adventures In Domesticity" posts where I attempt some recipe in an effort to hone the domestic side of my personality. I've cooked up many interesting dishes and subsequently had many fascinating adventures, but last night marked a true milestone for me. It was the first time ever that a published cookbook author was in attendance to oversee the chaos. No, Ina Garten hadn't dropped by the apartment (although, she has an open invitation). This was my friend Heather Whaley, who just published the book Eat Your Feelings: Recipes For Self-Loathing. Falling somewhere between humor and cooking, the book is all about recipes you can whip up easily and with minimal effort when you're just in one of those MOODS (or drunk). Realizing your marriage is on thin ice? Try the "Staying Together for the Children Chicken Tetrazzini." Feeling a bit sexually harassed? Go for the "Rainbow Sherbet 'Cause Your Boss Is A Pervert." Or maybe you just feel under appreciated. Then it's time for the "You Are Overqualified for Your Job and They Make You Get the Donuts Super Veggie Dog."

Anyway, with Heather's book in hand, we decided to have a little Eat Your Feelings party involving an appetizer, an entree, and a dessert — and of course multiple glasses of wine along the way. Pictures from this exciting event after the jump...

Over the weekend, my friend jash became the proud new owner of a webcam, and for the first time, he was able to enjoy the many splendors of iChat's video-conferencing feature. He tested out this marvel of technology with me, and it didn't take long before he began playing with the backdrop effect, as made famous by Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Soon I got caught up in the mania, and eventually, I somehow wound up pretending to nuzzle against Rachel Zoe's bosom — as seen in the image above. If that's not a good use of iChat, I don't know what is.

After the jump, one more stupid screen grab, this one involving Teresa from The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

Earlier this year, I visited Mario Batali and Nancy Silverton's famed Los Angeles eatery Pizzeria Mozza with my two friends Kat and Cat, who introduced me to the restaurant's butterscotch budino for dessert. The experience was just a hair short of orgasmic. I could not stop raving about the rich, decadent dessert, and when I later learned that it was a signature item on the menu beloved by many, many patrons, I was far from surprised. The dessert is in fact so notoriously wonderful that its recipe was printed in the New York Times.

Well, the day after our meal, Cat sent me the aforementioned budino recipe (budino, fyi, is basically Italian pudding) and dared me to make it (at which point it was understood that Cat and Kat would then trek to my apartment and sample the good for themselves). There was only one problem: I had a debilitating fear of making caramel — something this recipe required at two different junctures. All the bubbling and scalding liquid, not to mention the threat of burning the sugar and/or scalding my hands — it just seemed too advanced for me. But after having made two apple tarte tatins this week, both requiring the creation of caramel, I've been emboldened. At last I felt ready to take on the budino.

Before I go any further, however, I have to take a moment to address my mother, who is undoubtedly reading this right now. Mom, what you are about to see is not for the faint of heart. It is probably the most cholesterol-laden dish I've ever made in my life. But do not worry: I don't plan to eat it all (at least not in one sitting), and I continue to lead an otherwise healthy lifestyle.

Now that all disclaimers are out of the way for concerned parents, let's move on to all the exciting pictures.

Apple tarte Tatin.

About a week and a half ago, I finally got a cast-iron skillet (thanks Mom and Dad!), and ever since then, I've been eager to use it. I made a grilled cheese on it (the bread browned perfectly!), a batch of shrimp piri-piri (best batch yet!), and now last night, I tried my hand at apple tarte Tatin. I'd been intrigued by the dish ever since I saw Anne Burrell on the Food Network make it a few months ago, but alas, without an oven-proof pan, I hadn't the opportunity to make it myself.

Well, with the arrival of my skillet (as well as a piece in the New York Times about the art of the Tatin), my interest in tarte Tatin was rekindled. I first dipped my toes in the Tatin waters this weekend when I made an apple cake "tatin" for a Barefoot Contessa potluck dinner. A simplified version of the real thing, Ina's Tatin has you simply pour a caramel sauce over apples in a pie pan, top with cake batter, and stick it in the oven for forty-minutes. Don't get me wrong — the results were delicious. However, most other Tatin recipes I'd seen on the Internets called for really browning the apples in the caramel before going into the oven. I wanted to try the method. Plus, as previously mentioned, I felt compelled to incorporate my skillet into the proceedings.

And so I attempted Anne Burrell's recipe for an Apple Tarte Tatin. The results after the jump...

The terms "Asian" and "pot roast" aren't often found together because according to New York Times culinary star Mark Bittman, "a scarcity of fuel in east Asia precluded long, slow cooking" back in the day. That's all well and good, but you see, I bought these chuck roasts from Costco a few months ago, and now I've gotta use them. I can only make so many traditional, European-style pot roasts (red wine, garlic, onion, carrots, celery). Don't get me wrong — the French and British traditions of pot roasts are lovely — but I love Asian flavor profiles; so off to the Internet I went in search of some sort of Asian-y braise I could apply to mah meat.

Unfortunately, I discovered that there were very few braises that seemed trustworthy. I searched for "Asian pot roast," "Asian short ribs," "Asian braise," etc. etc.. Emeril had an option that looked decent, but then again, so did Mark Bittman (see above link). Plus, I once had used an Aida Mollenkamp Asian short rib recipe that I had found quite delightful; so that was a contender too. After consulting with Sly, Jash, and Erin McChids of Dishwasher Ready, I decided to "hotrod" (as Ina says) the Mollenkamp ribs by adding some elements of the ever-trusted Bittman Asian pot roast recipe along with a few items from my kitchen. Unfortunately, I took no photos of the experience, but I can tell you right now it turned out wonderfully. That's why I'm writing this. It was so good, I felt the need to share what I did so that I can add to the small canon of Asian Pot Roast recipes on the Internet.

Details after the jump.

Because the weather in Los Angeles was so beautiful last night, my friend Sly moseyed on over to my place, and the two of us ascended to my rooftop where we split a bottle of Rioja which we had purchased in Harbor City as part of our paella adventure many moons ago. Suffice it to say the wine, Campo Viejo Reserva 2004, was fantastic — as was the view — and after an hour and a half of lovely conversation tinged with scathing remarks about a variety of subjects, we decided the best way to conclude such a delightful evening would be to take in a viewing of this week's Mad Men. But what's Mad Men without cookies? Actually, the two are not intrinsically linked; however, in my mind I decided that I absolutely could not watch the adventures of Sterling Cooper this week without some fresh chocolate chip cookies. And so before we began, I busted out the New Basics cookbook and had Sly narrate the directions whilst I assembled the ingredients for what promised to be a very tasty treat. Behind the camera, I should note, was Lil' Grans, who is hoping to join the ranks of our clique (The VC), but his application is still pending. (He came over for Mad Men and was promptly enlisted into photographic duty).

Photos of this cookie adventure (only the second time I've ever made chocolate chip cookies in my life) after the jump...

Two nights ago, I attempted to make a simple batch of blondies and was met with pure disaster. Well, I shouldn't say that. My baking follies gave way to the creation of an entirely new dessert / ice cream topping: Blondie Crumble. However, as lovely as that penicillin-esque discovery was, it still could not provide an ample substitute for an actual blondie. Even worse, I was now the laughing stock of my friends (not to mention IndianJones's brother, who wrote a rather disdainful missive pertaining to my ineptitude in the kitchen). I needed to redeem myself. I needed to prove that I could successfully make blondies. After all, I've pulled off black and white cookies. Surely I could do this.

And so last night I set out on my latest project, which I aptly named Blondies: Redemption. Was I successful? Pictures after the jump...

In honor of last night's season finale of Big Brother (photocap to come), I decided to bake some blondies — partially in support of Jordan, but mostly in support of my sweet tooth. Unfortunately, things didn't turn out quite the way I was expecting them to, and sadly, the blame falls squarely on me. Photos of this tragic blondie disaster (or BLONDSASTER as Rachel Zoe might call it) are limited, but the full story is after the jump.

Last night was not only the season premiere of Monday Night Football, but it also marked the triumphant return of Tom Brady, who played his first regular season game since nearly having his knee utterly destroyed last year in the season opener. As you can imagine, this was a thrilling occasion for my friend IndianJones, who one might describe as a borderline Tom Brady stalker (I swear he must have a sticky little shrine devoted to the man somewhere in his apartment). Anyway, IndianJones's tail had been wagging all weekend, and since ESPN was due to air a double-header of games (Pats vs. Bills followed by Chargers vs. Raiders), I thought his head might just explode from excitement. It was going to be a big night of football, and as such, we realized we were gonna need some food to help us get through the festivities. Normally, as per our football tradition, we'd just grab sandwiches from Subway or something like that, but this was the first MNF of the season, and more importantly, TAWM BRADY'S WICKED AWESOME RETURN. This called for something special (normally I wouldn't care about Brady... buuuut he IS the QB on one of my fantasy teams; so I must confess to having a vested interest).

Anyway, to celebrate this landmark evening of pigskin splendor, IndianJones and I decided to make some football staples: pizza and ribs. And of course, I documented it all. The full experience after the jump...

Last month, the good people at Jim Beam contacted me about their new product, Red Stag black cherry bourbon. They offered to send me free booze, and of course, who was I to turn that down (memo to other companies: feel free to send me similarly complimentary bottles of spirits). Anyway, this very adult shwag arrived recently, and last night, I finally got around to tasting the stuff, along with my pal IndianJones. Pictures of this momentous occasion after the jump...

It's been about a month or so since I last checked in on my burgeoning herb garden here on the blog, and since I have a tendency to KILL every plant that crosses my path, I just wanted to share that all my greenery is alive and well. And not just that — there's been an addition. Yes, parsley has re-entered my domicile, courtesy of jash, who found a random parsley plant at Fresh & Easy and felt compelled to donate it to my horticultural wonderland. Jash, I should note, was also instrumental in watering the plants during my many journeys; although, he regrettably went five burning hot days without checking in. It was apparently a near disaster, and according to Sly, the moment he realized what he'd done, there was all sorts of controlled panic and horror on his face. Oh, if only I could have seen it. Luckily, the neglect led to no long term problems, and if anything, the plants have been better than ever.

A few more pics after the jump...

Yesterday, I posted photos of an epic grocery trip here in Los Angeles where my friend Malibu Judie and I procured thirty-three pounds of fresh produce and two pounds of shrimp to be cooked over the course of the weekend. Well, on Saturday of this past weekend, we put many of those purchases to use as the two of us, as well as B-Side Blog regulars jash and Sly, convened in my kitchen to create Jalapeño Cocktail Hour. Over the course of a few hours, we managed to churn out several delicious items: jalapeño cornbread, jalapeño poppers, a shrimp and jalapeño salad, jalapeño-cucumber margaritas (with a candied jalapeño garnish), and a shrimp and jalapeño ceviche, adapted from a recipe by Rick Bayless. Needless to say, we had our work cut out for ourselves. This would be apartment cooking at its best.

A lengthy culinary journey after the jump...

There have been many Adventures in Domesticity on this blog, but none rival the size and effort put forth this past weekend in my kitchen. In fact, it was such a process, that multiple kitchens across the city of Los Angeles were employed. Well, only two others really, but that's still legit. Here's the backstory: our old college chum Malibu Judie came to town last week, and we decided that in honor of her presence, we would make fresh cocktails on Saturday afternoon. But alas, it could not be a total celebration as vital clique member IndianJones was out of town on business. We decided that in honor of him, we would whip up some jalapeño cornbread — except we'd actually make ours look good. This way IndianJones could be with us in spirit — something I know we all cherished greatly. Overall, it seemed like a relatively simple and straightforward plan for Saturday.

But then the booze kicked in. You see, we planned this all over margaritas at Lotería Grill in Hollywood, and the drunker we got, the more elaborate our schemes became. We wouldn't just be having jalapeño cornbread. We'd be having jalapeño margaritas too. And jalapeño poppers! And a ceviche! With jalapeños! Yes, it was turning into an Occasion with a capital O, and thus the Jalapeño Cocktail Hour was born. (We could have employed alliteration and called it the Jalapeño Happy Hour, but that would have been base.)

Anyway, on Friday, Malibu Judie and I sat down and browsed both the internet and various cookbooks for noteworthy jalapeño recipes, and once we were satisfied, we compiled a grocery list. But this wasn't just any grocery list. You see, it turns out that Jalapeño Cocktail Hour happened to land on the same weekend as an Ina Garten Potluck Dinner Party — one where every guest brings a dish from the Barefoot Contessa's deep catalogue. Cocktails? Ina? It was a perfect storm of domesticity, and as such, Malibu Judie and I not only had to shop for Saturday, but for Sunday too. It was insanity. Long story short: on Friday alone, Malibu Judie and I bought thirty-three pounds of fresh produce (and two pounds of shrimp). Being the frugal shoppers that we are, however, we only spent $40 total. How did we do it? Well, the first part of this weekend-long, monster-sized Adventure in Domesticity is after the jump...

When I went out of town last week, I left the horticultural needs of my apartment in the good hands of my friend jash, who has done an absolutely stellar job of keeping my rosemary, thyme, basil, and chives alive. The fact that I even have so many plants is a bit mindblowing to me, but that's neither here nor there. Unfortunately, jash cruelly neglected my scallions, which had been perched quietly on a window sill, yearning for nothing but water. To jash's credit, I had drawn the blinds, and thus the scallions were essentially hidden from view of the apartment, but that being said, he is still a scallion murderer through and through as his inattentiveness yielded a veritable scallion GENOCIDE here in Hollywood.

Perhaps it's all for the best though. The experiment had indeed run its course, and after having used one or two stalks last week in a tuna salad, I came to the following conclusion: scallions DO regrow and DO maintain their flavor. However, it takes quite a while for them to get decent-sized, which can be a problem because ideally, I'd want to always be able to turn to my scallion vase and pluck upwards of five stalks at any given time (some recipes call for a lot). If I were to grow scallions in this way, I'd basically have to just start with a whole bunch — maybe twenty or so — and hopefully that would be enough to maintain a proper cycle wherein by the time I've harvested the last scallion, the first ones have totally re-grown. This, of course, would require a larger vase, and honestly, I'm not sure I'm ready to devote such funds to this endeavor. But I'm not counting it out. I need to think this through.

In the meantime, after the jump check out one more photo of the scallions' dried up roots. It's horrifying. I added water back into the vase just in case it would solve something, but I think the writing's on the wall. These plants need to go...

As I mentioned yesterday, I went to the Silver Lake farmers market over the weekend, and not only did I bring home crabs — the edible kind — but I also emerged with three varieties of plants: rosemary, thyme, and chives. I'm all about saving money, and if I can grow these herbs instead of purchasing them overpriced at the supermarket, that's what I'm gonna do. Besides, they smell great, and in the famously pleasant Los Angeles weather, I know I'll be able to maintain them all year long — assuming I don't MURDER them with ineptitude (which is a huge possibility).

Of course, once I bought the plants, I then had to procure several accompanying items: soil, pots, trays, etc.. It turned out to be a minor endeavor, but somehow I persevered. After the jump, several pictures of the process, courtesy of jash.

Saturday in Los Angeles was one of those perfect, sunny Southern California days, and so when my friends Jash and Sly informed me that they were heading off to Silver Lake for the farmer's market, I was more than happy to tag along for fun. You see, I'm notoriously ineffective at farmer's markets. I tend to get overwhelmed with choices, eventually leading to a general central nervous system breakdown that leaves me confused, clammy, and just a tad sleepy. My biggest problem is that I'm a recipe guy. I have little to no cooking sense, and therefore I rely almost exclusively on other people's directions. That's why when I wander into a veritable bazaar of fresh produce such as the farmer's market, I rarely know what the hell to get. Sure, there are some no-brainers — corn on the cob is always welcomed. But do I need tomatoes? Or cucumbers? Or any number of the strange items being hawked by the farmers of California? I just don't know.

This trip to the farmer's market, however, proved to be surprisingly bountiful and inspriational. Not only did I come across a neat variety of herbs (which I eventually bought and planted — more on that later), but I stumbled upon the one thing I had been craving for about two months now: SOFT SHELL CRABS. Yes, those elusive yet delicious crustaceans are a true favorite of mine, and given that they're highly seasonal and rarely found here in Los Angeles, this turn of events elicited major, major excitement from me. I immediately called over Sly and Jash to show them my discovery, and they too became quite excited. I opted to buy two of the little, freshly-molted guys; Sly went for one; and Jash, who appreciated the situation, decided to sit this crabfest out.

And so we set a plan in motion: we would repair back to my abode and cook up the crabs for what would surely be a lunch to remember. Pictures — including some slightly graphic crab decapitation shots — after the jump...

As many of my friends (and now readers) know, I have a penchant for Korean food. Actually, I have a penchant for Asian food in general, and when I find myself a few drinks deep at the end of the night, I like nothing more than to venture into Los Angeles's famed K-Town (a.k.a. Koreatown) for some BBQ or tofu or pho (and yes, I realize pho is Vietnamese). Unfortunately, I can't always find a driver or willing participants for such activities, and such was the case Friday night when I found myself stranded at my apartment with no mode of transportation to ferret me to and fro the late night eateries just east of Western Avenue. What to do? Well, after calling three or four people, I took matters into my own hands. I strutted down to Ralph's, which is open twenty-four hours, and purchased a small jar of overpriced kimchi at 1:45 AM. I returned to my apartment, consulted a cookbook, and in about four minutes, I had a delectable late night snack.

Photos after the jump...

Last week I kick-started Project Scallion, a nifty experiment that would test the proposed theory that green onions would re-generate themselves if the bulbs were placed in water. All appearances seem to suggest that the answer is yes; although, the success of Project Scallion cannot be gauged until a full stalk has grown AND been deemed tasty. I haven't reached that point yet, but in the meantime, the scallions continue to thrive — so much so that I felt compelled to upgrade their habitat from a random, pebble-painted glass to a full-fledged vase. One trip to Ikea with Sly and IndianJones later, and my scallions were ready for a Beyoncé upgrade.

The new and improved vase lifestyle after the jump...

Scallions can really be a pain in my ass sometimes. If you buy too many, they wilt. If you buy too few, you run out. It's a balancing act that can drive a man to tears, but thankfully, I think I've stumbled upon a solution. You see, during last week's episode of Next Food Network Star, one of the contestants imparted a helpful tip to the audience: if you stick the white bulbs of a scallion in a cup of water, the stalk will grow back. Could it be? Does a solution so simple truly exist? Might this signal the end of my scallion woes?

Well, after some cross-referencing with the Internet — which is always factual — it seemed like yes, this method does work. I couldn't wait to try it. Luckily, my Korean burrito adventure last week required the use of many scallions. I was sure to save the bulbs and place them in a glass of water on my windowsill. This would be an experiment of the ages, and as such, I've decided to document it religiously here on the blog in what I call Project Scallion.

The experiment, which is only four and a half days old, has already proven to be quite exciting. Images after the jump...

Oh hai!

Los Angeles has been undergoing a major fusion craze for a few months now, courtesy of Kogi's Taco Truck, which has made Asian tacos all the rage. I haven't actually partaken in Kogi-mania as the reported one hour lines (not to mention surly public relations staff) seem a bit much for a few meager tacos — especially when one can just as easily waltz into one of the many, many Korean eateries here in L.A.. Still, I respect the idea behind Kogi's taco truck, which is why last night, when I fired up some homemade Korean bbq of my own, I decided to change things up and go (drumroll please) FUSION!

Yes, that's right. I decided to forgo the taco truck experience and instead do my own thang. Truth was I already had some daeji bulgogi marinating in the fridge, and as dinnertime approached, I realized I didn't want to have the same old bowl of meat-on-rice. How to switch it up? Well, I'd throw a tortilla into the mix. And so the daeji bulgogi burrito was born. Well, not born. I'm sure others have made it. But this was its grand debut, as it were, in my kitchen. My creative process after the jump.

Well, it's been nearly two weeks since I've purchased my basil plant, and I'm happy to announce that not only is it alive, but it's been put to good use. This is shocking because let's face it, I have a terrible track record with plants (see The Parsley Chronicles). Making matters worse is that my basil plant is currently housed in a remote corner of my balcony. Specifically, it's behind a satellite dish and out of everyday view, and as a result, I frequently forget to water the plant and have made on more than one occasion an emergency trip outdoors at 3 AM with a glass of water for my thirsty little herb pot. It can be very stressful.

Despite my neglect, the latchkey basil has fended well for itself. I've harvested it a couple of times, and if anything, that's where the drama comes into play. I apparently made the most egregious affront to the pesto community ever. Details and photos after the jump...

This past winter, I attempted to grow a lush bounty of parsley, only to have it all die off within three months, the victim of my poor farmer skillz (or perhaps Ikea's worthless seeds). We'll never know what exactly went wrong in that lil parsley cup, but I must admit — I was a little scarred by the experience. Could I ever go down such a road again? Invest three months time for something that will be a colossal FAIL?

The answer, of course, is yes.

Recently, I've been looking to start the process over — perhaps with not just parsley, but basil and green onions and dill and thyme. The question, however, was whether or not I'd start the plants from scratch or simply buy one that was already in full-swing. I decided that to honor the process, I would start with seeds — because really, there's no drama in a plant that's already been grown. However, today at Trader Joe's, I came across a big ol' basil plant, and I began to rethink things. For $2.99, I could save myself a few months of work — work that may or may not pay off. The downside would be a loss of a narrative arc (there's much drama in watching a seed bloom into a plant. Much much). But then I remembered something: this is me we're talking about. If anyone's capable of destroying a perfectly healthy plant, it's this moi. The mere act of keeping this horticultural glory alive will be drama enough to warrant its own serialized column. So I present to you the Basil Chronicles, which will follow this basil plant as it inevitably reaches a slow and painful death at my bumbling hands. OR WILL IT? I guess you'll just have to keep coming back to find out.

Currently taking bets on how long the plant will last...

Last weekend I returned from a rousing night out with my friends quite drunk and quite hungry, and in such situations, it's not uncommon for me to summon a sober party and request transport to the nearest late night eatery, particularly if it means venturing into Koreatown for some late night galbi, bulgogi, tofu, or pho. However, as I am trying to be thrifty of late, I decided I would make do with some drunken snacks of my own making. But what to have? My apartment has been a bit under-stocked recently, and the options for homemade vittles were few and far between. But then I got to thinking: I really wanted Korean food, and I had all these Korean ingredients in my fridge, and furthermore, I had just recently made this neat recipe for dinner that I could surely whip up again. And so it was decided: I would be cooking SQUID.

Yes, in a strange turn of events, I happened to have half a bag of frozen squid rings in the freezer. That was all I needed to get this party started. So even though I was probably in no state to be cooking, let alone near an open flame, I got out my wok and went to work. Photos of this most peculiar adventure after the jump...

Last week, I dialed back the exoticism with the cooking and attempted to make something very ordinary: pita bread. This was my first foray into the world of bread making, and while I know pita is sort of a lightweight entry in that category, I still wound up kneading and using yeast, which are two things I'd never really done before. I'll be honest: I was a bit scared. However, since I've become a convert to homemade hummus, I figured why not take the next step and go for homemade pita too. It would certainly be cheaper than store-bought. The question is whether or not it would be a wise use of time and effort. Results after the jump...

A few months ago, I witnessed a seagull carrying a bagel around in its mouth — an image that proved to be so endlessly entertaining to me that I whipped out my camera and documented the entire experience. Things have been pretty quiet on the bird front since then, but yesterday, the wing'd ones returned thanks to the sudden appearance of a scone on the rooftop next door. I have no idea how or why a scone wound up on the roof, but it did, and I won't question it any further, lest the mysterious scone gods focus their wrath on me. Anyway, word spread across the seagull blogosphere very quickly, and soon there was an entire flock circling overhead as if a barge full of chum had moored just outside my window. I saw the scone, I saw the gulls, and I saw potential. I immediately grabbed my camera and snapped as many pics as I could. I felt like a paparazzo. Except instead of celebrities, I was stalking seagulls. Hmmmm... doesn't have the same cachet.

If I do say so myself, on Sunday night I made quite the hearty meal. The menu was rather simple: pork milanese with a steamed artichoke on the side. However, what made this meal particularly noteworthy was that it was the first time I'd ever cooked pork (bad Jew, apologies). Fear not, though. The experience was delightful. And let's not overlook those artichokes. My friend Bets bought me two beauties at the Santa Monica Farmer's Market, and these bad boys were just too amazing to be denied. And so even though I've detailed my adventures with artichokes before (with a very similar menu, I might add), I decided to take pics again just because.

Photos of the cooking adventure after the jump...

About a week ago, some people came over to my apartment, and we had the most delightful time making what we later called (perhaps unoriginally) the Fresh Cocktail Hour. Basically, with the help of plenty of fresh produce from the Farmer's Market (not to mention some homemade horseradish), we made Bloody Marys, guacamole, and a lovely salad. Never before has getting drunk felt so healthy.

In attendance were Sly, her friend Aletheia, Tobin, IndianJones, and Brother of IndianJones (although, the Indians didn't arrive until the tail-end; so they barely should even get credit for being there — but I'll give IndianJones his tag regardless). Anyway, as there were multiple concoctions happening, we busted out the camera and documented it all (or as much as we could remember to). Pictures of the excitement after the jump...

Recently, I've become enamored by Mark Bittman's New York Times blog, Bitten, and last week, when I needed to make myself dinner, I decided to give one of his recipes a try. The attempt: chili-fried shrimp. A mixture of dried chilies, orange, scallions, and shrimp, this dish looked like it would be right up my alley — and none too hard to boot.

The results of this latest experiment after the jump...

The general consensus is that my first horseradish video didn't quite live up to the hype. I kind of agree; so I went ahead and shot another video of me eating the dastardly root. Again, I'm not sure if it's the most violent reaction out there, but I did manage to look like I was going to hurl a few times, and really, that's gotta be worth something. Nevertheless, I think this is it for me and horseradish videos for the time being; so if you're still disappointed, I regret to inform you that you'll just have to live with those emotions.

I was bored on Friday and procrastinating from my important obligations (work, taxes); so I decided to shoot this little, self-indulgent video of me eating horseradish on my webcam. I'm not sure it adequately captures the sinus-clearing pain that one feels upon ingesting the near toxic condiment, but maybe it will give you a vague sense of the discomfort.

(And for all you wondering, I made Sly and IndianJones try the horseradish this weekend, and they too were quite taken aback by the sensation. Sly in particular had a rather violent, borderline-seizure reaction during one of her mouthfuls, forcing her to double over and hack for a good five or six seconds. It was great.)

The general rule of thumb is to never go into a supermarket hungry. Well, that's what I did earlier this week, and predictably I emerged with a food item that was perhaps not the most practical purchase of all time: a horseradish root. To be fair, I truly enjoy horseradish, and I'd wanted to make it ever since my mom told me how a few years ago, but I never got around to whipping up the lethal condiment because, well, there was never really any good reason for it. What am I going to do? Make a batch of horseradish for the fun of it? Well, turns out the answer is yes.

With hunger pangs overwhelming my better judgment, I decided that some fresh horseradish would be a LOVELY thing to make, even if it had limited applications. I procured the notorious tuber, fetched some vinegar, and then set off to make what would be a rather torturous dish. Tears and discomfort ensued...

Yesterday, I received a new dutch oven (technically a risotto pot), and in honor of this new, formidable piece of equipment, I knew I just had to braise something. But what? Well, I turned on the television, and there was Tyler Florence whipping up a pot roast. I wouldn't say that it's my favorite meal of all time, but there was a certain element of kismet that I couldn't deny in watching TAHLAH (as I've called him ever since an old Asian woman on his show yelled out his name in similar fashion). Anyway, I went off to the store, bought a two pound chuck roast, some veggies, and got to work.

The results? Well, they're after the break.

It's been a while since I've written about my cooking, but fear not, I'm still attempting all sorts of exotic dishes in my humble kitchen, and yes, most of them turn out bright orange. Case in point: this Brazilian Shrimp Stew recipe that I found on Epicurious. As most of my culinary adventures are inspired by television, this dish from south of the Equator came about in my attempt to whip something up in honor of Survivor's new season set in the Brazilian highlands. I was hoping to cook this for the season premiere, but, well, I didn't. Instead, I think I had some sort of spinach concoction (which was quite good, I should add. I'll have to publish that experience at a later date). Anyway, just because I was too lazy to cook this on the season premiere night didn't mean that I was going to give up on it altogether. I eventually got my act together and tackled the recipe — with quite delightful results, I might add. The photos after the jump...

Oops. I accidentally caused a minor conflagration in my toaster oven today when I took my eyes off some would-be pita chips for just a tad too long. Luckily, I've been classically trained in such emergency situations, and I knew to simply unplug the toaster oven and just sit there while the fire raged on quietly, destroying what could have been a wonderful display of pita goodness. It was a rare display of calm by me, as I've been prone to get all sorts of cowardly in the face of impromptu fires (and yes, I made sure to have my flour handy just in case things got out of hand). The good news is that aside from some dark residue on the oven door, there didn't seem to be much by way of damage. Nevertheless, this is an unfortunate blight on what was otherwise quite a perfect batch of pita chips.

To see the pita chips post-inferno, click ahead...

My friends, my friends. This is a sad day indeed. Today marks the official end of The Parsley Chronicles. That's right: my beloved parsley — the plant that could never be — finally ceased showing any signs of life today. The Obama Sprout, once a beacon of hope and prosperity, shriveled up and died, leaving no future for this once promising cup of life. Back in November when I started this experiment, I naturally assumed I'd be sitting here twelve weeks later with a lush bounty of herbal goodness on my window sill, but alas, it appears such grandiose dreams are only for the misguided and homeless.

Now I'm left with just a quiet cup of soil — the ghosts of parsley sprouts lingering inside. It's been an exciting journey for sure. There were those questionable first few weeks when it seemed like perhaps my seeds would never bear fruit. Then there was the exciting month of December when a verdant fomentation took hold of the cup. And, of course, there was the sudden White Plague that gripped the plant in the new year — a mysterious ailment that turned all the leaves pale and withered them down to the dirt from whence they came. I'll never know what went wrong with my little guys, but I refuse to take any responsibility in their demise. I was good farmer, I tell you. If anything, the blame lies squarely with Ikea for providing substandard specimens. Need proof? The same exact thing happened to my friend Jash's Ikea basil. Part of me thinks I should get my money back from the Swedish home furnishing giant. Yes, that's what I'll do. And I'll lead a crusade on behalf of all the other well-intentioned customers who found themselves with dysfunctional seeds. My life's mission has now become so clear. Yes, I'm going to be the Erin Brockovitch of minor horticultural woes.

In the meantime, let's take a look at the final days of the parsley. Some tearjerking photos after the jump, as well as a tribute video that you all ought to see.

Last week, while doing a random search for some random thing, I came across a blog called Fat Free Vegan Kitchen, which boasted an appealing recipe for chocolate orange Bundt cake. Now, when it comes to desserts, I'm not a huge fan of fat free offerings as they're usually dry and flavorless, but the pictures on the site looked appealing, and the myriad of positive comments from various readers indicated that this recipe might just be above reproach. For whatever reason, I decided I was going to take on the fat free vegan cake — even though I'd never baked a cake that didn't come from a box (and I'd like to amend that I exclude cheesecakes and tartlettes from this proclamation as neither item requires much by way of rising). At best, I'd have a new recipe I could add to the canon — and one with no fat and zero cholesterol to boot. At worst, I'd have wasted my time but learned some valuable life lessons about baking, veganism, and the Internet.

The exciting and chocolaty journey after the jump...

Last time on The Parsley Chronicles, I took drastic measures to save my ailing parsley plant by engaging in some painful, yet necessary pruning. The hope was to clear away the dead, bad vegetation and leave room for the few remaining bright spots to grow boundlessly. As a result, I was left with a near empty cup of soil, but all hope was not lost. I still had the Obama Sprout — a resilient, green sprout that seemed poised to restore life to its destitute environment.

Yes, it appeared as though a new era of verdant prosperity might be upon us soon, but as the days went by, I discovered that perhaps not even the Obama Sprout can take on the deadly forces of nature inside that God forsaken Ikea planter cup...

Guess what? Today is World Nutella Day! That's right, today is the day we celebrate Nutella, that glorious blend of hazelnuts, cocoa, and skim milk. The spread, which has been a childhood favorite of mine ever since I tried it at my friend Ed's house, can be used in many different ways, but usually, I just add it to toast, which honestly is good enough. But don't take my word for it. Other notable Nutella enthusiasts include B-Side Blog regulars IndianJones and Bets, and if it's good enough for them, well, then it's good enough for America.

Anyway, the point of this post is not to shill Nutella, but to spread the word about this momentous day. There's actually a website devoted to this possibly-not-quite-official holiday, which has various links to various Nutella outposts from various corners throughout the various Interwebs. Had I been slightly more intrepid, I would have attempted to create some fascinating Nutella-based confection, but alas, I had no time (a Nutella tart recipe I found on the Internet certainly piqued my interest...).

For those who wish to see some Nutella action shots, I have a few pics after the jump...

My recent adventures in domesticity have been rather complex affairs involving multiple exotic ingredients and often a few hours of cook time. That's why I decided to simplify things with a less grandiose endeavor: hummus! This Middle-Eastern treat requires only a few elements: tahini, garbanzo beans, olive oil, salt, and garlic. How hard could it be?

This would be a piece of cake. OR WOULD IT?

Who would have thought the Parsley Chronicles would become such a dramatic saga? Here I thought it would be an amusing photographic journey from seed to plant, but instead, it's turned into a roller coaster ride of expectations and dreams — all of which seem poised to come crashing down at any moment.

Last week, the Obama Sprout brought hope and optimism to my cup of fledgling parsley. Alas, while I still maintain hope, it's become apparent to me that hope alone will not save this poor plant. That's why today, I took matters into my own hands and attempted a Hail Mary procedure in an effort to revive this parsley to its fullest potential.

The gritty photos after the jump...

After making shrimp piri piri last week, I found myself craving chiles, which is odd because it's never really been something I've ever craved before. Well, never one to ignore my desires, I did some research on Epicurious and came across an intriguing dish called "Adobo Chicken in Parchment." The recipe is fairly self-explanatory: make some adobo sauce, place it with some chicken in parchment paper, and steam it for two hours.

Sounded simple enough — and healthy too. Why not give it a whirl!

Previously on The Parsley Chronicles, all hope seemed to be lost for my once bountiful cup of parsley. However, I noticed one sturdy, colorful sprout and realized that maybe there was hope for this plant after all. It's a funny thing — hope. The word seems to get thrown around so often, but now that Obama's in the White House, I can't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, he might be empowering this parsley to make a comeback, all through the power of hope. After all, if anything could symbolize the past ten years, it's this parsley: excitement, success, and growth followed by stagnancy, decay, and general sadness. The new sprout is the new hope. IT'S THE OBAMA OF HERBS!!!!

Or so it seemed. Has the Obama sprout followed through with its promise and potential? Pictures after the jump...

After spending an afternoon stewing half the ingredients in my kitchen to make Beef Rendang, I was in the mood last night to cook something up a bit easier. You know, like shrimp. Turns out last month while I was investigating African dishes for my failed attempt at a Survivor: Gabon tie-in, I came across a nifty South African dish on Epicurious.com called prawns peri peri (or piri piri, as it's also spelled). I contemplated cooking it up as the ingredients were far from demanding (prawns/shrimp, garlic, oil, lemons, chiles, etc.), but as part of the recipe, you've got to make a batch of peri peri sauce. Again, not very difficult at all (just add chiles, garlic and lemon rind to oil and shake), but I was afraid that after I made the dish, I'd be left with all this sauce and nothing to do with it. Nevertheless, I tabled the dish for the time being while I contemplated whether or not I wanted an extra bottle of peri peri sauce lingering around.

A few weeks later, I happened to catch that show Ask Aida on the Food Network, and lo and behold, she was making shrimp piri piri (hers were piri piri, not peri peri). Her recipe was somewhat different than the Epicurious one (not by much), but what attracted me to it were the amazing colors it seemed to have. You guessed it: vibrant orange — the magical color that all my food seems to take on these days. More importantly, Ms. Mollenkamp's recipe didn't require me to create a batch of piri piri sauce. I was sold.

My attempts to do the piri piri after the jump...

Just when you thought I was done cooking up ethnic food, here I come once again with another attempt to harness another culture in my humble kitchen. This time I took on the beast that is beef rendang, a Malaysian/Indonesian dish that seems to involve every spice under the sun. I was inspired by a commenter here who suggested I try it, and since I'd never heard of rendang, I looked it up on the internet. The more I read about it, the more delicious it looked. Therefore, I decided to give it a whirl on Thursday and see what I could pull off. The results? Well, you'll just have to read to find out.

On last week's edition of The Parsley Chronicles, the previously smooth progress of my parsley took a drastic turn as it was revealed that I had been depriving my plant of the water it so desperately needed. I've since been more attentive to the moistness of the parsley's soil, but I fear the damage my plant suffered may have been critical. Growth is slow, leaves look unhealthy, and the general aura in the cup seems to be one of sadness.

Is there hope?

Not so long ago, I happened to look out my window and see a flock of seagulls circling around the rooftop of an adjacent building. Closer inspection revealed that someone had placed a few bagels out for the birds, thus causing a white-feathered frenzy amongst the gathered avian creatures. I, of course, was amused because there truly is nothing odder than seeing a seagull hoisting a full bagel in its mouth. It's one thing to see a bird with a crust or a crumb or an errant piece of trash, but bagels — I don't know. It's just a strange combination.

Anyway, in my apparent boredom, I actually posted a Facebook status update about this bagel-seagull activity, thus prompting an urgent and excited message from IndianJones who simply wrote "PICTURE." Well, who was I to deny the masses? I pulled out my camera and caught some very, very intense bird-on-bagel moments. Planet Earth should watch out...

My orange-colored culinary journey around the world continues! Last week, I detailed my attempts to make butternut squash soup and domoda. Now my cooking adventures take me from East Hampton and Africa all the way to Thailand as I deign to take on one of my favorite curry dishes: panang curry.

Sounds daunting. Will I be up for the challenge? The results after the jump...

Last month, while watching Survivor: Gabon, I was inspired to cook an African dish in honor of the veteran reality series wrapping up its run. Unfortunately, I didn't get around to doing this until about a week and a half after Bob walked away with the million dollar prize. No matter, I was still up for the challenge, even if it didn't still quite dovetail with my pop culture pleasures.

Anyway, I got in touch with my college friend Michelle, who spent several years in The Gambia as part of her Peace Corps service. There she met her husband, Malik, and conveniently, his mother happened to have a recipe for Domoda, which is sort of like a peanut beef stew. Michelle passed along details to me, and I valiantly attempted to bring a little piece of Gambia into my kitchen. Was I successful? Keep reading to find out.

My continued orange-colored culinary adventures after the jump...

Because of the holidays, I haven't posted an update on my ongoing series, The Parsley Chronicles (feature film adaptation to star Ben Kingsley and Patti Lupone), but I can assure you there has been plenty of drama. Well, as much drama as a small cup of Ikea parsley can have. Turns out my green thumb turned a bit yellow over the break, and while the plant has certainly grown ever higher, it did so in a hostile environment brought on by yours truly. Yes, that's right. I nearly killed my beloved parsley by neglecting to water it.

But wait! Before you get out your pitchforks and torches and barge down my door, I can explain! You see, it's not that I neglected my parsley. It's just that I was fearful I'd over water it. I am wont to bestow entirely too much affection on things from time to time, and I didn't want my parsley to be victim to that. Plus, I'd heard rumors that I could incubate some harsh strains of mildew that would all but decimate my vulnerable plant; so as you can imagine, I was all turned around with my farmer sense.

The result of my error in judgment after the jump...

For the past two or three weeks, I've been doing a lot of cooking at home, and you know what that means: time for another edition of Adventures in Domesticity! In fact, we'll be having several editions over the next week or so as I've tried my hand at several dishes — almost all of which were both international, and oddly enough, orange in color. Huh.

First up on my pumpkin-colored trip around the world was butternut squash, courtesy of the Hamptons. That's right, I decided to try out a recipe from Ina Garten's cookbook, Back to Basics. It was the least I could do after having waited for hours to get it autographed. My attempt valiant attempt to cook up the soup after the jump...

Big things are happening in the world of parsley — or at least, in the world of MY parsley. The wee sprouts that appeared over Thanksgiving have been growing at a steady pace, so much so that I was able to take the cup off the ball (actually, Jash did it while he was tending to the parsley in my absence, but I would have done it too). No need to aim towards the sun anymore. The parsley is tall enough to get its own rays.

And just how tall are the sprouts? Well, as you can see from the picture above (which was actually taken last week), the first leaf has extended beyond the brim of the cup. It's a brave new world!

A few more pics after the jump...

Since it's been rather cold here in Los Angeles, hitting lows of about 68°, I felt it was imperative that I cook myself a hearty meal for dinner last night. Plus, it was the perfect opportunity to use my new food mill. The menu: red wine braised sausage over a celery root puree. Needless to say, I've come a long way from the Hot Pockets that once defined my cooking abilities.

Here are some pictures from the adventure; although, I'll admit I took very few. I was too busy cooking/being hungry.

In an attempt to spur on continued growth, I aim my parsley in the direction of a man next door who's tending to a rooftop garden. Hopefully this glimpse of homegrown horticulture will inspire my sprouts to grow faster.

Developing...

I'm happy to report that my parsley is apparently sprouting at a rapid rate. This bodes well for my desire to use fresh, home-grown herbs sometime in mid March.

Thanks to Jash for the photo...

While I've been on the East Coast, my dutiful friend Jash has been checking in on my apartment to ensure that no strange things happen in my absence, and lo and behold, what should he find? The first signs of life from my parsley plant! That's right, the darned thing has started to sprout, and now I can relax knowing that I did, in fact, sow my seeds properly. Soon, this bad boy will be tall enough that I won't need to tilt my plant towards the sun with the assistance of a precarious rubber ball. A Thanksgiving miracle!

Now bring on the sweet, sweet photosynthesis!

Last week, I kicked off a series of reports which will document my progress as an urban farmer growing parsley from my window sill. It was an auspicious start to what I hope will become the most popular blogging series of all time (kind of a sure thing, am I right, people?). Of course, should the Parsley Chronicles fail to catch on, I can rest easy knowing that at the very least, I'll emerge from the experience with some fresh parsley to use with my dinner.

Or will I?

After six days of inactivity from my plastic flower pot, I started to think something was afoot. I asked my friend Jash how his container of basil was coming along, and he proudly announced that it was sprouting already. Hmmmm... That's not right. Mine should be sprouting too. Well, turns out Jash keeps his herb thing on a sill with Southern exposure, thus ensuring it receives sun all day long. Mine, however, faces the East. Clearly my parsley is a bit sun-deprived. That's when I took matters into my own hands...

This past weekend, I headed to the nearby Ikea in search of various household items for my new apartment, and because I'm somewhat clueless when it comes to discount Swedish design, I employed the dutiful help of my friend Jash, who happens to be an expert at all things decor related. Well, as we wended our way through the facility, we eventually came upon a small display of do-it-yourself herb boxes, with each one containing a pellet of soil and seeds — perfect for home-grown vegetation. Jash announced that he was buying one and suggested that I get one too. It seemed like a good idea: I never have fresh herbs available, and whenever I do, half of them usually go bad before I can use them up. However, if I grew my own, I'd not only have them accessible (in ten to twelve weeks), but they'd last longer! Huzzah!

Well, I grabbed the parsley — petroselinum crispum, if you will — and so began the grand experiment: would I be able to successfully grow a bundle of herbs in my apartment? Or would I fail miserably like the horticulturally averse city dweller that I am? I guess we'll all find out because I plan to document the growth (or lack thereof) of my parsley over the next ten to twelve weeks, which is the amount of time Ikea suggests before the parsley is ready for harvesting. Hopefully, great things will come out of this herb adventure.

After the jump, check out the exciting planting process that will lay the foundation for the rest of this series.

Halloween is just around the corner, and this year, I'm proud to reveal my costume: a Price Is Right contestant. I've actually wanted to do this costume for quite some time. Initially, I had grandiose plans of gathering a group to portray a family on Family Feud, but I never was able to drum up five willing participants. Failing that, I moved on to something a bit more manageable: a lone player standing at Price Is Right's fabled "Contestant's Row." I actually thought of the idea about two years ago, but a spate of laziness undermined my efforts back then, and I wound up scrounging up a costume from a random mullet wig and an old vintage cowboy shirt. I called it "Johnny Amusement Park." It was lame.

Last year, I also procrastinated too long and was unable to procure the supplies to make a decent Price Is Right getup. Instead I went to American Apparel, bought some tube socks, found an old white polo, and became a retro tennis player. It was pretty good, but sadly, I couldn't find a wooden racquet, and thus my costume was a bit lacking.

This time around I was a bit more judicious. I went to America's favorite crafts store, Michael's (said preferably in Will Arnett's voice), and purchased all my necessary supplies: foam board, poster board, ribbons, glue, etc.. Then, with some assistance from my friend Jash, I spent my Saturday afternoon diligently assembling my costume. I'm hoping that it makes a splash on Friday, at least more than Johnny Amusement Park. Although, truth be told, one never knows what will spark the interest of people on Halloween. One year I cut a hole in a box from Costco, slipped it around my waist, and proclaimed myself a box of crackers. To this day, it still remains the most popular costume I ever wore. People literally stopped their cars and yelled out their windows, "YOU A BOX OF CRACKERS, AREN'T YOU!!!!" Yes, ma'am. Yes, I was.

So who knows what will happen. In the meantime, check out a few more pics after the jump.

As my Big Brother posts decline in frequency, an inversely proportionate amount of cooking entries seem to be popping up on my blog. Such is the case with this latest adventure in domesticity in which I endeavored to cook an entire Rosh Hashanah meal all by myself. Why did I take on this mammoth feat? Well, it was Rosh Hashanah this past week, and I am Jewish; so immediately, there's that whole religious thing. But mostly, I was bored and in the mood for kugel, which for the uninformed is like a noodle pudding thing. Of course, what's the point of making kugel if you're not gonna have matzoh ball soup too? And so the whole thing snowballed from there. I invited over my usual gaggle of friends, anointed the evening "New Year, Jew Year," and let the rollicking good times ensue.

Photos of the culinary journey after the jump...

Last week, I brought you tales of Franco-Mexican fusion with my controversial brie quesadillas (with corn tortillas). Many close-minded people were shocked at the combination, and while not everyone can be as adventurous as I, surely there won't be as much of a massive outcry about my chocolate cheesecake, which has been a tried and true stalwart for years. Let me preface this by saying that I'm rather bad when it comes to baking and similar tasks of that ilk. However, since cheesecake requires little more than mixing a bunch of wet things in a bowl, it's something that I can pull off rather effortlessly. I've made this cake dozens of times, and what it lacks in presentation, it makes up for in taste. It's seriously really good.

Recipe after the jump!

Back in the fall of 1997, I received a nifty bottle-opener keychain at Dartmouth orientation. It was a stellar addition to my burgeoning key ring as it was both very practical and completely free. Oh, how I enjoyed those heady days of popping the caps off beer bottles without a care in the world. Over time, however, the bottle opener wore down, and I found it an increasing chore to liberate beer from its glassy prison. I'd have to often attack multiple areas of the cap as merely clamping on and pulling up in one place would result in nothing but a violent, embarrassing whiff, leaving the cap intact and my pride shattered.

Eventually, even mutli-prying failed to work. The bottle opener had become totally, inexcusably useless, but I kept it around because it had become a relic of Dartmouth orientation — my rosy-eyed youth, if you will. Plus, I was really too lazy to order another one off the internet. Thankfully, last week IndianJones had to go back to the Alma Mater on a recruiting trip, and being the kindhearted man that he is, he volunteered to pick up whatever items we wanted from the Dartmouth Co-Op (a.k.a. the store that sells all the Dartmouth junk). I realized that eleven years on (holy crap), it was time for an upgrade. I put in an order for a shiny, glossy, new keychain, but this time with a circular design — one that might survive eleven years of weathering and whatnot. IndianJones obliged, and on Saturday night, I went to his apartment to make the official changeover from old to new. I'll just say this: Yankee Stadium's got nothing on this.

When you're a blogger, you live life in the fast lane, and never was that more apparent than earlier this week when my friend Laura and I made quesadillas on the faux Foreman grill. Yes, it was a glamorous affair, full of multiculturalism and Pam Cooking Spray, and being the dutiful blogger that I am, I've decided to share this admittedly A-List event with all you readers out there on the Internets.

So here's the back story. With neither one of us having had dinner yet that night, Laura and I were getting quite hungry, but our third friend, Jenny, was en route with various snacks for a much hyped movie night (Stomp The Yard, natch). We didn't want to engage in a full meal, lest Jenny's snacks prove to be a meal unto themselves — in which case, we'd just nosh on those. But we didn't want to eat just nothing in case the snacks weren't sufficient enough to sate our monstrous appetites. As you can see, we were in a No Man's Land of hunger. What could we eat? Sandwiches seemed too big, cereal too out-of-place, curry too heavy, and garden burgers too frou-frou. And that's when I had an idea: how about quesadillas? Perfect! Not too filling, but certainly more satisfying than a light snack.

Of course, we faced a few limitations. First, the frozen corn tortillas I had were of low quality (leftovers from my taco experiments back in March). Second, the only cheese I had was a decidedly un-Mexican variety of brie. And third, Laura and I had never made quesadillas ever; so we were a bit like los ciegos leading los ciegos. Still, after having consulted with the Food Network website, we were resolved to make our corn-n-brie quesadillas to the best of our abilities. I manned the grill, Laura helmed the camera, and together, we embarked on an ethnic odyssey that was as exciting as it was educational.

Photos after the jump...

This past weekend, I stayed in on Saturday night, and in an effort to add a dash of excitement into the evening, I cooked up a nicer meal than usual. On the menu: chicken piccata with a steamed artichoke on the side. I was also going to whip up some chocolate tartlets for dessert, but I forgot to buy whole milk; so that addition had to be tabled. Anyway, culled from various recipes on the Food Network website, the meal was an unmitigated success. And of course, I took photos — although, my camerawork was spotty, and I managed to miss many vital steps along the way. Oh well.

Last Friday, in an effort to save some money, I decided to stay in and watch the National Spelling Bee, thus turning down the many, many invitations I had received to go out to the hottest clubs and party with the city's celebrity elite. It was a hard decision, for sure, but sometimes even I must find refuge from the flashing lights and gliteratti. However, as exciting as watching awkward middle schoolers was, I still felt like the night needed some sort of augmentation — a little pizazz to keep things interesting. What better way to spice up the festivities than by making my first ever batch of muffins? After all, B-Side Blog reader SpecialK had so kindly purchased me a muffin tin after having seen my previously misshapen baking exploits; so why not put it to use?

And so with a shopping basket in hand and a dream in the heart, I happily bought a packet of mix and plunged down the rabbit hole that is homemade muffinry. Photos after the jump.

Living in West Hollywood, my neighborhood is routinely patrolled by parking enforcement officers, who quietly stalk their prey from the comfort of their white, eco-friendly Priuses — waiting for that orgasmic moment when they can slap a ticket down on a permit-lacking vehicle and tow it away. Their Orwellian presence rivals a godlike power to be everywhere and nowhere all at once, and should you find yourself on the wrong side of their unflinching Maglites, you'll soon be treated to a stiff fine and a towing charge. It's because of this that residents and visitors alike tend to view parking enforcement with a measure of disdain. Like an army of money-eating pests, they never go away, and sooner or later, they get you.

Occasionally though, my friends and I find ourselves siding with parking enforcement. While I'd like to think that no one deserves the hassle of being towed away, truth is that it's also perversely glorious watching the bridge-and-tunnel folk descend on the nearby Sunset Strip and try to park in front of our apartment building, arrogantly thinking they can park their dumb car just ANYWHERE without checking the signs first. Trust me when I say it never gets old watching these people's stunned reactions upon return to the empty spot that used to hold their car. Just this past weekend, my friends and I enjoyed the sight (from our balcony) of one shirtless, long-haired, drunken fool stumbling up and down the street, bemoaning the sad fate that had befallen his now-missing car. "Duuuuude, I got towed!!!" he lamented to no one in particular, his long frizzy hair flowing in all directions like Troy Polamalu after a roller coaster ride. This continued for a few minutes until his buddy picked him up and ferreted him off to who knows where — hopefully Supercuts. This cruel turn of events was nothing short of hilarious for us as we watched yet another douchebag fall victim to The System. Of course, he was probably too drunk to drive anyway; so the towing was good in many ways.

Still, watching one idiot get his just desserts is never enough. We always want more; so imagine our thrill when moments after the drunken troll doll departed, two new teenage douchebags pulled up and parked their red mustang without even checking the parking rules. Surely parking enforcement would have their way with them...

Anyone want to have some nonsensical, Dadaist fun? Then by all means, watch me take on the beast that is MY KEYBOARD!

It's very fashionable to hate McDonald's. To some, the fast food chain represents the simplification and destruction of American culture by corporate giants. To others, they are sly enablers and profiteers of this country's growing obesity epidemic. But me? I LOVE THEM. That's why I was only too happy to march down to the local outpost and try the company's newest offering: iced coffee.

To be fair, McDonald's has been offering this beverage for a few weeks now, but today was the first time I actually felt motivated to take on the caffeinated beast. My thoughts after the jump...

Sad.

A few nights ago, an innocent little spoon fell undetected into the dark abyss that is my In-Sink-Erator, soon become the latest victim to the monster's gnawing teeth. Yes, this wayward piece of flatware endured an unceremonious demise as I flipped on the food disposal switch and heard all too late the loud clattering of a utensil in peril. I immediately shut down the operation and plunged my hand into the depths of my sink, hoping I'd find nothing more than an errant bottle cap or two. But as we all know, I was wrong. My heart sank as I discovered the mangled and thrashed spoon, its head bent backwards as if it were Kristin Scott Thomas at the end of The English Patient. Poor guy never had a chance.

I sort of knew something like this would eventually happen. The spoon was actually one of many diminutive utensils donated to my apartment by my friend, IndianJones, who was in the process of upgrading his kitchen inventory. I mocked him for ever having such tiny — verging on baby-sized — spoons, but my roommate and I are never ones to throw away free items; so we took on the pint-sized flatware, knowing full well that the risk of some dreadful In-Sink-Erator tragedy would increase tenfold. And now it has happened. If only the spoon had been a little bit bigger — it would have stuck out of the drain! I would have seen it! I could have saved it! But alas, it was not meant to be. A sad day for all.

A few more gut wrenching photos after the jump. Viewer discretion is advised...

Well, that was unsettling. It's 2:15 AM, and I just heard a loud, echoey explosion outside my window. It sounded like it was about a mile away. It was very disconcerting. Plus, I was playing a game of Scramble on Facebook when it happened. Needless to say, I became very distracted. My score was undoubtedly affected.

Now I hear people's voices down on the street below. I can't tell if they're talking about the random boom or if they're just drunk. Oddly enough, I have not heard any sirens. Is it possible that I'm just going crazy?

Pending...

There are tons of very scary movies out there, and when you're someone like me —  prone to jumping, shaking, and mild paranoia —  even the most innocuous films can be a bit harrowing at times. However, nothing is quite as frightening as some of the more mundane things that can happen in an apartment. I know what you're saying: how can the guy who got scared (a little) during Monster House be the authority on what things are truly scary. Point well taken. Still, I know what gets the heart racing, and these terrifying incidents — which have happened to nearly everyone, I'm sure — can hardly be refuted. Read on... IF YOU DARE (insert Vincent Price laughter here).

Back in December, I decided that one way to save money would be to cease all haircuts until the strike ended. Well, now it's over, and I've decided to extend my moratorium until I receive my next paycheck, which could be who knows when. While the inner-pride I maintain in the face of such an ascetic lifestyle is a neat perk, the truth of the matter is that my hair is rapidly becoming more and more unwieldy with each passing day. It seems to be speeding through any "birds nest" sort of stage and heading directly for "voluminous tragedy," although, to be fair, it's really not that out of control just yet. Plus, the good news is that if my will-power remains strong, there's an outside chance that the hair could grow out of its awkward phase and into a luscious mane of black wonder, but I tend to think "greasy Antonio Banderas disaster" might be a more realistic outcome. Nevertheless, I'm slowly learning how to deal with the expanding beast on my head, and after the jump, I've included some photos that detail this daily, self-imposed battle.

A few months ago, I saw Giada De Laurentiis making a most peculiar sandwich on the Food Network. It involved brie, chocolate chips, basil, and a panini maker. Everything about it seemed wrong, but I couldn't help being intrigued —  especially when Giada insisted that the sandwich was delicious despite its unconventional ingredients. Ever since then, I've wanted to give the chocolate and brie panini a whirl, but I just couldn't bring myself to buy a whole wedge of brie and a bag of chocolate chips for one sandwich experiment. There was something about it that just seemed entirely too indulgent. As a result, I waited around, knowing that eventually, the ingredients would somehow someday find their way into my kitchen.

Recently, during my travels through the Internets, I came across a blog, Dessert First, that among other things, features a nifty section devoted to dessert recipes. Now, I'm no cook, and I'm certainly not a baker, but when I saw an entry devoted to chocolate tartlets, I became intrigued. Over the past few months, I'd become increasingly enamored with this simple pastry, and so it was with a ravenous curiosity that I clicked the link to see just how these tiny morsels of heaven are made. To my surprise, the recipe seemed startlingly easy —  so much so that I thought even I might be able to do it. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems though, and knowing this, I was sure to whip out my camera and document this culinary saga.

So, I hate this car that's parked in my garage. I could go on a rant about it, but what's the point when pictures are so much more effective?

Full disclosure after the jump...

Every now and then, I think I'm the toughest person in the world.  And then I find a dead bird on my balcony and realize that in a fight between me and a cotton ball, the cotton ball would win.  Yes, my squeamish side (a side which covers about 95% of my body) emerged the other day when I discovered the lifeless corpse of a sparrow lying uninvited on my balcony chair (from Costco, no less!).  You see, for whatever reason, sparrows absolutely adore that Costco chair — something I wouldn't mind if they didn't ceaselessly register their pleasure with constant bodily emissions in the form of white goo.  I find myself in a constant, tireless turf war over that chair, and no matter how many times I bust out the Clorox, those damn birds come back time and time again to peck away at the fabric and shit up a storm.  So normally you'd think I'd be thrilled that for once, a sparrow found death on the chair, but instead, I was grossed out.  After all, I'd be the one who'd have to clean the damn thing up; so once again, sparrow wins.

In an effort to keep my day carrion-free, I first attempted to ignore the bird, thinking that sooner or later my roommate would return, and I could pawn all crime-scene cleanups onto him.  However, my roommate was mysteriously absent that day, which meant the responsibility of dealing with the bird fell squarely on my shoulders.  Needless to say, I was not particularly happy about this, especially when the task took a gruesome turn for the macabre...