Friday, July 26, 2013


Pappardelle main

The last time I asked my unrequited love to let me go, to never speak to me again, I ended the night with comfort food. What could be better than pappardelle noodles? It reminded me of our lovemaking, warm and buttery but still al dente, him stiff enough to please, but us melting in between my legs.

I dined alone, stoically, having no seasoning in my dish other than butter, crushed black pepper, a wee bit of chicken broth, a dash of pecorino romano and the salty taste of my tears.

And then I laughed at how “the salty taste of my tears” would sound so corny in writing.

And then I cried some more about the cooking process that led to this last supper.

It’s the yin of pasta and the yang of sauce.

For months, he’d start hard but stay dry in his heart, my hot water being the only place where he could crack, soften and let go in some kind of crazy sauce of devotion. You see, in order to be happy as a couple, the pasta must let the sauce stick to it, without fear, and both ingredients must blend in harmony.

He was my noodle. The only noodle I adored for a very long time. But my noodle had no give and wouldn’t let me stick, no matter how many wonderful, warm yummy sauces I offered him.

And this got me thinking: you can’t have your pasta and eat it, too.

This is the recipe for love. Both noodle and sauce must surrender to a heavenly combination of flavors and texture and be willing to repeat or vary over and over again, each night, as you humbly prepare supper for someone whose kisses refill that empty pot every day.

My pappardelle, were, of course, delicious, even if I had to eat them while watching stupid reruns on TV.

To be fair, he always complimented me on my cooking. Too bad he didn’t complement my heart.

Photo via VancityAllie on Flickr via Creative Commons license.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Rubbing Cock

What happens when you get three vivacious, single women in a room together with cock and a good rub? Read on ...

ratatouille cockatouille tomato sauce chicken spicy
If you look closely, there's rubbed cock in there.

I rarely endorse products on this blog, but this one fell on my hot loins by coincidence when my friend and foodie extraordinaire from South Florida Food and Wine Blog introduced me to the makers of Cock Spice Rub.  “This is so Sex and the Beach,” she said.  “You gotta try it.”

Dear readers, you may not know this, but I’m really into stirring things up into a hot, delicious mess -- especially in the kitchen.  Food should be sensual. Food should be slow. Unless of course, it's a quickie against the refrigerator, but that's another story.

I tried the Cock Rub with two gal pals on a girl’s night.  Hey! I needed witnesses.  We cooked up a great and easy meal in my modest yet well appointed kitchen -- you should see my large rack -- oh, not my awesome mammaries! I mean my pot rack: rows of Cuisinart stainless steel glory hanging from the wall.

Now, any culinary spice that claims to be “titillating” with the tag line “Don’t Choke It, Rub It” was bound to capture my attention.  And the Cock Rub comes with a guarantee: “to arouse your senses and stimulate your meat.”

I was sold. They had me at "cock."

cock rub spice chicken
Rubbing cock is good family fun!

The plan was simple: rub some defrosted chicken breast cutlets and let them sit for an hour or so in the fridge while we had cocktails by the pool, and then, whip up a veggie stir-fry.  

I knew, the moment I opened the package and breathed in the heady scent, that I’d have a really good relationship with this cock.

The poultry seasoning includes ancho chili, sea salt, lemon peel and lots of other yummy goodness.

 I ended up throwing in some plain, diced tomatoes from a can.  “It will be more like a ratatouille,” I said. “ Oh wait! How about a cockatouille?”


Mis-en-place with the cock already rubbed.

So here you go: the first ever cockatouille, which was absolutely delicious, healthy, incredibly flavorful and just right on the heat index. I wouldn’t rub this on a cock, but I would definitely lick the sauce off his chin and I’ll just let your imagination roam to a stiff conclusion.

I’m not really a recipe writer, so I’m just going to give you the gist of it. If you’re a cook like me, you eyeball ingredients and improvise.

You’ll need some Cock Rub Spice, Himalayan sea salt, fresh ground pepper, garlic, onions, olive oil and butter for your foundation.  Rub chicken cutlets generously with the Cock Rub and let sit covered in the fridge for at least an hour. Worry not if you don’t notice an increase in size of the cock after the sensual rubbing of the flesh.

Put together a mis-en-place with your favorite vegetables. In our case, we cut up red bell peppers, baby mildly spicy orange peppers, broccoli, zucchini and baby portobello mushrooms.  Pre-washed spinach was on stand by.

Slice the rubbed chicken into small pieces and set aside.  Open up a can of diced tomatoes.

Let the onions soften over low heat with a little olive oil and a tiny dab of butter.  Then add garlic and stir without letting it burn. Burning garlic should be a federal crime worthy of the most undignified punishment, namely, one having to eat it.

That's why cooking a stew is like foreplay -- think low and slow, the onion and garlic getting lubricated by the oils -- instead of a massive, rapid conflagration of passion.  Why the rush? Imagine a seductive Barry White song.  Onion and garlic is your base and then add ingredients according to cooking time: hard veggies take longer to cook. Meat and leafy greens are almost post-coital in the cooking process.

Add broccoli, stir for a couple of minutes, then add peppers and zucchini.  Stir a little more and then complete with the mushrooms and chicken.  After a little more stirring, add the tomatoes and more Cock Rub spice, because it’s oh so good.  Flavor with additional salt and pepper, if desired.  Cover, turn the heat to low and let simmer a bit.  The key here is to time it precisely so that the vegetables don’t overcook and the chicken doesn’t get rubbery.

As a side dish, I served a pre-cooked Roasted Garlic Quinoa and Brown Rice mix from Seeds of Change that I happened to have in the cupboard.

Let the cockatouille cook down a little bit until the chicken is just about almost done, turn off the heat, add the spinach and let it sit.

If I could do this recipe all over again, I’d add some Andouille style chicken sausage, capers and put the cooked quinoa and brown rice in the pot once the chicken was cooked and oh, lord! I’d have me some kind of devilish jambalaya.

You get the point: improvise.

Our cockatouille, which I garnished with fresh parsley and a tiny dab of butter (sorry, I know, it's very Paula Deen), was slurp-the-bowl good. The chicken was tender and the vegetables still crunchy and fresh. The cock scent from the steaming bowl was indeed quite stimulating to the senses.

ratatouille variation with butter and cock spice mix
The final cockatouille.  I ended up mixing the quinoa and brown rice in the bowl.

Now I have all kinds of schemes for this spice mix. How about roasted sweet potatoes with cock? Or adding a bit of cock to hollandaise sauce? Movie fans: how about a little melted butter with cock for popcorn? For the vegetarians, I bet a little grilled tofu sprinkled with cock or even an olive oil and hummus bread dip with cock would be divine. Oh and the grill! How about grilled peaches and pineapple with cock for that sweet and savory delight?

As with all things that have to do with cock, you simply have to use your imagination.

Bon appetit!


Cock Rub Spice sent me some samples of their product, which I obviously put to very good use for your reading and my dining pleasure. All opinions, sexual innuendoes and cooking tips are mine. I use the 'no rel' attribute on my commercial links so they're not even getting my google juice, although they did get my juices flowing, just thinking about what to do with cock. What you do with cock is up to you and I do encourage everyone to try rubbing cock at home.

Sunday, July 07, 2013

Her Name Was Alba


A broken condom. A broken relationship.

And then, a broken body.

That was the beginning of this journey, which has already ended.

After a few weeks, I just knew.  The weight of it: bloated, rotund, full of water, full of life, tired yet tirelessly tidal, fluctuating.

I named her Alba, which means “morning song” in Spanish. Alba is also the sailor’s light of dawn, the hopeful anticipation of ocean crossings, of anchoring in the peaceful bay of earthly embrace.

After dark nights, mornings are full of blazing orange light -- the course of a child through the birth canal. In Spanish, we say dar a luz, which translates as “give to light.”

There was no lighthouse guiding us to safe anchorage. We shipwrecked in rivers of blood.

And while I mourn the loss of another child -- one that happened by accident (there are no accidents) and who wasn’t viable in my 40-something body -- I am comforted by the thought that motherhood is never lost when unconditional compassion is set as one’s intention in this human passage. Motherhood is heart, pure and simple, and not necessarily delivery of a fetus.

Women are mothers even when we don’t have children. Women connected by an invisible umbilical chord through blood, flesh, time and the indifference of centuries; separated by clocks, exiles, tribes and the mundane differences among days.

Alba, when I brush my elderly mother's hair, I think of you.

Dear girl, wherever you are, you are my lodestar. Make the most of another other vessel, even if I couldn't offer you safe passage through the storms.