Category Archives: Food & Recipes

Sex & Food: Together Again?

I’m a foodie. Yes, I am.

And I got to tell ya, he prospect of regular sex has begun to loom, and this excites me considerably. Sets me all a-flutter, truth be told. But, you know, for all those strenuous hours of fun that potentially loom, one requires fuel. Enter food.

So I’m not sure what excites me more at this point — the prospect of regular sex, or the possibility of having someone to cook for again.

I’m a sensualist in every way. For example, my apartment is great and comfortable and is geared to stimulate every sense and look good whilst doing it. Loves me some music and candles. My food tastes run from down-home to exotic. I have a sophisticated palate, technical skill, and can invent food on a whim that’d blow your mind. I came damn close to going to culinary school back in the day but realized I didn’t want to work THAT hard for a living.

I’m also a Slow Food fan. I believe life moves quickly, and that food is important to us. I think we lose soul when we stop valuing food. I think we lose passion when we stop eating things that excite us.

I love the notion of Slow in all aspects of life — from sex to food to living. I’m present here and now in all areas of my life. I want my food to be of my time, I want to eat fresher, eat more clean food that I know I’ve prepared from scratch. I want local produce, quality meats and fish. I want artisan treats. That’s Slow.

But… when I’m single for too long, then a nice meal becomes the exception. I take shortcuts. I embrace things like Hamburger Helper and Sidekicks or sandwiches/panini or soups I eat for six days. I mean, it’s flavourful-functional, at best.

When I’m involved, however, I’m both a sensualist and a show-off. Perhaps a Moroccan chicken pie with organic greens? Maybe risotto and lamb? And while the lover of mine gets to enjoy the dividends… my life is richer for it, too.

Even better yet is when said lover is similarly a skilled foodie, because then we can tool around in the kitchen and spend the night nibbling fantastic things along with each other, and savouring good drinks. My god, does that titillate me.

There is absolutely nothing in the world I enjoy better than staying home with a lover and locking the door for a weekend, cooking fantastic food at lazy intervals between real-frequent and varied sex, napping when necessary, and catching up on movies during meals and lulls. The original rinse-and-repeat experience. And repeat, and repeat.

With the right company? Fuck, there’s no better time to be had. At home, anyhow. It’s the poor person’s vacation.

People who don’t think sex and food are intricately linked… y’all are doin’ it wrong.

It’s not a matter of taste. You’re just wrong. Flat-out. Inarguable.

(Sex + food) is like (peanut butter + chocolate). It seems like it’s always been a winning combination, and always will be.

Whether it’s Cleopatra feeding Anthony grapes from a silver platter in ancient Egypt, Adam enticing Eve with an apple, or you slipping your lover chocolate-dipped strawberries in the here and now with a champagne kicker, food hits a different kind of erogenous zone, but it hits, baby.

Besides, it’s fuel. Fill me up and watch me go-go. Sigh. Oh, the possibilities.

__________

*PS: Yes, I’ve lost about 50 pounds. I don’t feel like I’ve been dieting. I work out a lot. I could lose more weight faster by eating less and pretending cheese and alcohol don’t exist. But why would I do that? Fucking hell. Diets are for people who like to take pain. Just silly. Instead, make healthier choices and be aware of calories burned v taken in. Simple. I’m better at math than I thought. :)

If it takes me another year to lose the other 50 pounds (this 50 took 8 months) but I’m eating cheese, pizza, sausages, and drinking booze regularly, then fucking A. All the power to me. I’d much rather health-fully indulge (my choices are better and when I do go off the hook, it’s in moderation) and feel like I’m alive than feel like I’m cutting myself off from life with deprivation. I don’t do deprivation well. So, eat? I will. Might even have seconds. But I’ll deal with it the next day. See? Work ethic! :)

Nibbles and Bits: Vegetarian? Really? Doh!

I’m sorry. The minute I find out a guy doesn’t like meat, or worse, is a vegetarian, my sex drive just goes out the fucking window. I don’t know what it is.

I know, I’m so backwater hick, right? I apologize to all vegetarians. It’s not you, it’s me.

I need me a man who’s gonna tear into my flesh, or something, but there you have it. And a vegetarian with his carrots and hummous? Yeah. I’ll let the hippie girls hog ‘im. There’s no fucking way my kitchen’s going veggie any time soon. Gardenburger my ass. Continue reading

White sheets? Why, for god’s sake?


Now, admit it, this picture’s hot. I don’t care who ya are, boy or girl, this is hot. If the sheets were any other colour, would it be as hot?

Probably not. If you take a look around, almost every gorgeous erotic shot you see featuring sheets, they’re white. There’s something about white sheets — simplicity, purity, crispness. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but there’s something evocative about white sheets. We all identify with them.

Practical? Not so much. Sex is messy. It’s really, really messy. Good sex is messier. Great sex is downright sloppy. There’s that sweat, the juices. Sometimes women bleed. Sometimes you want a little taste of the good life while you’re tasting your partner, and chocolate sauce enters the picture. Hence why I like to own dark sheets. Dramatic, sexy, romantic in candlelight, and practical. I’m a pragmatic romantic — a fine combination.

You may or may not know this about me, but I drink the Oprah Kool-aid. I can’t help it. I never watch the celebrity shows or the “hear this tragic tale” type shows, but I love anything she does on sex, politics, or human rights. One time I was watching one of the fluff shows, and she got to talking about jersey knit t-shirt sheets. I remembered how comfortable she said they were, and broke off my ass, I wasn’t going to justify $50 or more for sheets when food and rent and other things came first.

Then came the near-demise of my fucking awesome burgundy flannel sheets. Oh, flannel, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways! Your warmth comforts me on cold, cold nights. In the face of the world’s harshness, your soft and luxurious feel takes my edge away. Flannel, I could never leave you.

But you’ve quit me, you motherfucker. Yep. The flannel sheets have begun to wear dangerously thin. I suspect I have one, maybe two more washes before they get butchered for housework duty. I will probably weep when that day comes. I know, it’s weird, I’m attached to sheets. But they’re flannel, dammit, and they’re the colour of red, red, wine!

So, I decided I would listen to Oprah. T-shirt sheets. Sure! I bought the cheapest variety I could find, since I decided that cracking open the piggy bank for new sheets was now a wise choice, with Regular Sex now becoming a promising feature in my life. Almost the entire stock was gone. They had two colours left: pale butter yellow, and pale sky blue.

That was a problem. I like dark sheets, for starters, and I’m into aesthetics. My bedroom’s got a chocolate-coloured wall, with the remainder being desert-sand colour, lots of wood, and some Indian batik fabrics. Blue’s not gonna cut it. The butter yellow sort of worked, I thought, so I picked them up.

And they did work, blending in decently in my surroundings. Up there with the flannel? No, not so much, but they’ll be more summer appropriate. September, I’m buying chocolate-brown flannel sheets.

Yep, as practical a colour as sheets can be.

See, I just put my clean sheets on the bed. Well, clean, in theory, except for the recent addition of stains. Less than a month old, the sheets are now stained. What can I say? We broke out the chocolate sauce. Well, I say “we”, but I really mean “me.” I had him tied up and blindfolded. He looked so yummy that I thought I’d have my version of icing on what was already a nice cake I could really sink my teeth into. I dribbled the sauce from his testicles to his tongue, and navigated my way north. Sadly, smudges made their way to the sheets.

My sheets, it would seem, have been sullied by the dirty s-e-x.

You know, I’m not much of a literalist, not really, but it’s not like I break out the mud and filth in order to have the “dirty” s-e-x. I just like to think how unclean the nuns from my old Catholic school would think me to be if they knew all the things I enjoy doing, that’s all. Hygeine’s important, kids. Wash your hands and pee-pees, okay?

Ah, sullied. Sad. Sullied, just like their owner. Sigh. Fortunately, it was good fun. Oh, hey, there you go. It’s the souvenir of good sex. “Why, I remember that fine chocolate smudge right there, oh, and the caramel blob over there. That was right before I gave you some head and a handjob. Oh, the good old days. Shall we relive them? I’ll get the rope.”

Which reminds me: I owe you a piece on bondage. Okay, tomorrow, then. I promise. No, really, I do.

PS: Yes, I know they’ve invented a chemical called “bleach.” I realize I could buy white sheets and bleach my filth out so I can pretend I’m a clean, upstanding citizen, but a) I’m a disaster with bleach and finally just got tired of all the bleach stains finding their way onto coloured clothing of mine, and b) I wouldn’t have gotten to write this, which I found quite fun to do. So, humour me, okay? You may like bleach, but I’m a happy detergent-only kinda gal. Besides, it’s been a while since I murdered anyone and had vast quantities of blood to clean up.)

Ed. Note: It’s 2010 and I have white sheets. And a white comforter. And more white sheets. Some other sheets too, but now I like ’em white. What can I tell ya? Growth, change.

A Sexcipe — Balsamic Strawberries & Pepper

Had a long, doting visit with The Guy at the hospital. I’m good like that. 3-4 months of being on crutches, with limited mobility?Surgery to install a metal plate with four screws, at least? Bah.

What to bring someone in the hospital, especially a romantic foodie someone? Strawberries chopped into smaller bits, marinated in only a touch of balsamic vinegar with fresh-cracked black pepper. Beats the shit out of the mush they serve on those horrific little plastic trays.

If you’ve never tried it, you absolutely must. It’s one of the most sophisticated, delicious ways to eat strawberries, and I’ve never met a man who didn’t love them. The tartness of the vinegar and spiciness of the pepper serve to really bring out the sweetness in berries, even in the bland California ones that show up far too early in the season. It’s nothing like you imagine… fabulous.

Take a pint of fresh strawberries, chop them up into a bowl, add about a tablespoon or so of quality balsamic vinegar (if you’ve got a $3 bottle, just throw the damned thing out! Horror of horrors!), and about a half-teaspoon to a teaspoon of cracked black pepper. (Particularly good on strawberries is Black Tellicherry peppercorns.)

Let them marinate a couple hours, and serve just in a bowl, just like that. You can have some dark chocolate with it, or you can serve it with gingersnaps, that sort of thing. Almost anything works, and even alone is great. It’s a really great date dessert, and it’s never failed to get me action. ;)

The Guy loved them, although the nurse came up, leaned down and said, “You know he’s not dying, right? It’s just an ankle. He will live to see another day.” Yeah, yeah, thanks, babe.

Etiquette for Restaurants: Part 2

This is part two of the basic etiquette for restaurant dates. It began with a rant here, and continued with part one here.

First, a couple addendums raised in part one’s comments:

A. As mentioned by an anonymous commenter after the first posting, if you’re picking your date up, do not call her and tell her to be outside. Do not honk. Do not wait in the car. Go the hell in and get her. Yes, it’s nice to bring flowers if you want to, but try to avoid the clichéd dozen roses, and do not bring carnations. A single rose, or gerbera, or orchid, whatever, is always a nice touch. I could be wrong on this, but I feel corsages are dated and behind the times, and often plain unpractical. I’d stick with flowers for the table. What’s more, if it’s a nice date, she’ll enjoy the flowers more the next day.

B. It’s totally cool and actually good to help a date with a coat. Help take it off, help her get it on. It’s just a nice touch. Unnecessary, but certainly nice. Hand it to the waiter or give it to her to put on the back of her chair, if coatcheck isn’t an option.

Back to bizness. You’ve got wine, you’ve got food, and now you’re dining.

1. How you eat is important. Eat small bites. Use cutlery as much as possible. Cut your food precisely and delicately while being relatively strong and assertive about it. (Press harder with your knife, do controlled movements.) Try to not make noises with the cutlery or against the china. If you’re responding to her question or statement as you cut, make sure you at least glance up to make eye-contact as you’re talking. Always, always show you’re aware she’s present when you’re speaking. And hello? Small bites, please? Chew? With your mouth closed. Do not speak with food in your mouth. Remember in grade two when they said to chew every bite 17 times? Please do that on dates. BONUS: It will reduce the chance you’ll get gas later!

2. If you want a refill of coffee or something, inch the drinking vessel nearer to the edge of the table closest to where the waiting staff will pass it by. An industry professional knows this is the sign for a refill, so you shouldn’t need to shout for them.

3. Never take the last roll, butter, or bit of wine without asking her if she’d like it first. She’ll almost always say no (it’s a date thing) and give it to you, but give her the chance to do so. If she offers to split it with you, say no if you just can’t handle more, & say something like “I’d love to, but I’m set to burst.” Sharing’s nice though. It’s sexy and intimate, and feel free to take her up on the offer.

4. Tear off bits of bread as opposed to gnoshing on an entire piece. Tear it over the plate, so the crumbs don’t pile up on the tablecloth. Butter it as you go to prevent yourself from getting thumbs into greasy badness. If you’re dipping in oil and vinegar, please, don’t double dip, tear bite-size pieces for dipping.

5. If you’re still eating your meal, you rest your knife and fork at 4:00 and 8:00 on your plate, respectively, between bites. Don’t hold your cutlery through the whole meal. Keeping it in your hand all the time – especially for women – tends to look aggressive. Take moments where you focus on your companion. (Goes for both sexes.) When you’re finished and want them to take it away, you set your knives, forks, and spoons used thus far at the 5:00 position.

6. If your server is stupid and tries to take your plate before your companion has finished, then they have clearly missed the basic training course. Tell them you’re not through, and gesture at your companion’s plate. If they succeed and take the plate away, she’ll be left feeling awkward eating in front of you. This goes both ways, so be a man and say something.

7. If she’s getting up to go to the bathroom – it’s not necessary, but it’s extra special classy and will probably get a small grin from her as she walks away from you – you can always push your chair back and stand as she leaves the table. When she returns, you can stand upon her arrival, wait for her to sit, then give her the napkin, or better yet, lay it on her lap. (You can be sexy about it and “accidentally” brush a finger down her thigh as you return to your seat, departing-like.) As I say, this is a real throwback, and is probably a little over the top for most evenings, but if you’re having a more special dinner experience in celebration of something, then yes, go ahead. It’s quite formal.

8. After dinner, your napkin gets folded (casually, in a tidy bunch, whatever, just not tossed down in a heap) and placed BESIDE the plate, not on it.

9. Paying! All the guys want to know this. Going Dutch is fine, but really, if you make more than her – she’s a student, you’re working in an office – then it ought to be on you. If you asked her out and chose the location, then it ought to be on you. If she asked you out, then it should rightly be dutch, unless she’s making your salary look comical. But if you want to feel like your balls are intact at the evening’s end, you probably shouldn’t let her pay, not entirely, but that’s your call. Some women will judge you for not paying. You know I’m right, as much as it galls you. A good move is always to pay, especially if you like her, and playfully ask if she takes trades for a home cooked meal, or tell her she can get coffees later or something. (If she balks at paying anything ever, then she’s a money-hungry minx and you need to be wary, in my humble opinion. Anytime a woman or man feels entitled to something, it’s time to be wary. Me, I like a man to pay, but I’ll always insist next time I do some cooking, and the way I cook, it’s a win.)

10. If it’s old-school car locks and we’re driving for the night and we let you into the car first, lean over and open our lock and let us in. Women, if a guy lets you in first, you don’t have to lean over and let him in, but it’s the kind of small gesture a guy really digs. Ever seen that old Cameron Crowe film Singles, when Keira Sedgwick lets Cameron Scott into his car? He’s bowled right over and is in love from then on. It shows you can not only graciously accept his chivalry, but that you’re woman enough to not feel threatened by reciprocating. Me, I’d always let the guy in. It’s just the right way to act. [Ed. Note: Do people even have these locks anymore? Lots has changed in the four years since this first was posted!]

11. When you’re dropping her off, and this is for anyone dropping a woman off – date or not – always, always wait until she’s gotten inside before you drive away. It’s a sign that you’re concerned about her safety, and honestly, our entrances aren’t always as safe as we’d like.

12. Not related to restaurants, but time to be said. Can we, for once and for all, move past the “don’t call the next day” bullshit? Call. Tell us it was a good time. Even easier and just as good, in the age of email, send her a quick note. “Wow. I had a great time. I’ll call you later in the week. Looking forwards to more with you.” That’s it. “Ooh,” we’ll think, “a guy who doesn’t play games.” You’ll get laid sooner, you know. Drop the bullshit head games. Keep it casual, light, and don’t make promises you can’t keep. Call her later in the week, don’t mention a specific day, but you’ve bought yourself time now. Just a note! A text! A quick email! It’s a lovely way to play.

If there are other dating scenarios you want the etiquette for, let me know via comments or emails. Happy dining this weekend, kids.

The Modern Man (& Woman) & Manners

A reader wrote me recently to say that I need to comment more about the modern man’s condition. We both agree that men are caught between what they want to be and what they think they have to be, so they’re essentially lost.

In not so many words, I’ve recently alluded in an email with him that I feel the modern man is some kind of throwback to a troubled Winslow Homer painting, a boat being tossed about a churning sea, straight out of Good Will Hunting. Any port in the storm, boy.

Let it be said: I hate the divide between the sexes as it presently exists. I hate what this so-called “feminism” has done to the modern guy, but I wouldn’t give up any of the advances my sex has made, and I feel there is more for us to achieve, too, but without continuing to erode masculinity. That’s a bigger topic, that’s a fucking book, for god’s sake. We’re not going there. Yet.

That said, there’s absolutely no reason we can’t have old style manners and charm and etiquette make a comeback while we’re striving to find both genders’ new identities.

I hate that etiquette is a thing of the past. I hate that chivalry is practiced almost apologetically. I hate that the black-and-white movies seem to be more an anthropological reminiscence than a cultural record.

“And exhibited here in this celluloid document is the now-extinct Homo Erectus, a classical beast with style and grace not seen in today’s beaten, confused specimens. Note the confidence in the gaze, the subtle mannerisms of gesture, the attentiveness shown with a slight tone of deference yet dominance toward the female of the species. See the strength and prowess he exhibits in stride. The species was noted to have danced precipitously on the edge of extinction in about 1965, as seeming collateral damage in the Battle of the Sexes. Fortunately, the species has held on, if even barely so. Scientists today are working with remnant DNA in an attempt to create a hybrid of the Homo Erectus Pastus and the Homo Erectus Presentus for a species to be dubbed Homo Erectus Potentius.

Someone somewhere got everyone drinkin’ the Kool-Aid that somehow being polite to women meant you were disrespecting them. This is the most ludicrous bit of irony to ever be swallowed by the masses. By demonstrating respect, you are disrespecting. Say what?

And the funny thing, chivalry went out the window, and since then, everyone’s forgotten what the hell manners are. Look around you! We’re ruder than we’ve ever been. Road rage, aggression, never looking passers-by in the eye, never saying hello, yammering on your fucking cellphone as some person assists you at a counter, not reserving in advance for parties – fewer people than ever understand basic manners at all.

Being well-mannered isn’t just for patsies, man. It’s necessary for the human condition.

We’re a tribe, people. We need to get along. We need respect. We need a code. It gets us through.

I’ll tell you one thing, I’ve declined dates based on manners. I don’t associate with people who lack them. It’s unpleasant and uncouth. Behaviour is the best bit of evidence anyone has as to the kind of person you are. What does yours say about you? Your body language, the way you carry yourself, the way you defer to others, speaks volumes louder than your words. How’s your posture? Do you speak clearly? Do you make eye contact? Do you know the proper way to shake hands?

Men and women today both need to learn better manners. Women need to be gracious and accept a door being held open for them, and they need to return the favour. The only way men will feel welcomed to begin being gracious to us like in the old days is if we reciprocate and we say thank you. There’s no damned reason we ought to feel threatened by chivalry. If so, what the hell does that say about the woman? She’s too insecure to allow for assistance? Pfft.

I practice what I preach. I thank men for holding the door open, I smile. I’ll pick something up for a guy if he drops it. What’s the problem? When did it become a competition? It’s like we’re waiting to see who’ll crack first.

My manners make my life more pleasant. Sure, when I say thank you or have a nice day or make small talk, half the time I get looked at like I’m some homeless bitch begging for a crack fix, and the rest of the time I get these warm, grateful smiles that I’m bringing some old-style charm back into the mix. I make a friend for two minutes and I wander on.

And I don’t care what the world expects, I know what I expect, and furthermore, what I demand. I don’t compromise my standards just because the world’s too fucking stupid to adopt them. And you know what? I’m part of a growing minority. But where do you stand?

So, here’s the deal. This stuff may seem mundane and stupid, but manners count. If you’re on the rise professionally, if you work with the public, if you’re trying to woo a woman just outside of your class, what have you, then you need to know this.

This is my introduction to what’ll be a truncated guide on basic etiquette for dinner dates and such. Some of this is perceived as old-fashioned, out-of-style, and that pisses me off! Gah! That’s so stupid I can’t even see straight, man!

It’s like these people who go to expensive restaurants wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Can’t some things be left exclusive? Sigh. Nothing is special anymore. Jesus.

These will be the kinda things I want my men doing. I’ve been turned off just by a guy who left his napkin on the table during a meal. I’m a hard-ass, but then you’re learning from the right chick, aren’t you? And you know I’m more fun to party with than Miss Manners, so, don’t think this makes you out-of-date.

This will make you retro cool. It’ll give you a classy mystique the other dicks you know don’t have. In the future, I’ll be returning to this topic of the modern man and how he can better find his place in today’s world with today’s woman. The sensitivity post of last Saturday was only the tip of this large iceberg.

Oh, and if you’re thinking, “What’s this got to do with sex?” Well, it’ll teach you how to say pretty-please, for starters, and it’ll get you to the end of the date in one piece. We’ll get to that part another time. It’s a big fucking topic.

Those tips start tomorrow. It may be two more postings. (On restaurant etiquette for men, primarily, with some tips for women thrown in.)