The Junk Drawer

Note to self: When you’re hopped up on Benadryl and half asleep during a Super Bowl party wherein your sister-in-law asks you if you could make 150 chocolate-covered strawberries for an event she’s running because she knows you make ’em real good, next time — Just. Say. No.

One hundred and fifty.

Plus a few or twelve carefully planned rejects. You know, for the chef.

So anybody free Saturday?

UPDATE: I finished! And guess what? She gave me not 150 strawberries, but 250! Nearly killed me. If you’d like to see some of my work, click here. I didn’t get all fancy because I realized how many I had to do and sometimes "good enough" is good enough.

This is a recipe for my world famous Serviceable Post. It’s what you get when I only have tidbits that don’t make real posts. Consider it the casserole of blogging.

Combine all ingredients in a word processor on medium speed and let sit. Time to prepare: 30 minutes. Serves everyone.

Ingredients:

1 observation: I have a new man in my life. His name is Brawny. I always thought Brawny paper towels were like Bounty’s little brother who always stood in its shadow. I was wrong. Thick and strong, these manly paper towels can stand up to any mess and then some. Brawny, I’m sorry I never gave you a chance until now. Forgive me?

1 question: Every morning when I get in my car to drive to work, I have to raise the rear-view mirror. When I leave work, I have to lower it. I’ve read our spines can elongate as much as an inch overnight while sleeping. I’m guessing this is why all the readjusting. Do you have to do this too, or am I the only one with a yo-yo spine?

1 celebrity sighting: A friend of mine got in line behind Paul Sorvino at the grocery store last night and got up the nerve to talk to him. She’s still kicking herself for saying she loved him in the TV comedy Still Standing. He’s thinking What? No Goodfellas?

A pinch of stupid: I bought a thin baguette at the store yesterday, still warm and crispy out of the oven. I carried it to the checkout register under my arm, it broke in half and the top part fell out of the bag and onto the floor in front of about twenty people.

A clerk was summoned to get me a new one and when he brought it over said with a wink "The crust is really crisp. Be careful." I guess my guns are stronger than I thought. Apparently you do not want to mess with me.

 2 gloves: My husband’s had a cold for a week and is trying not to get his germ-ridden fingers on anything I touch. Thanks, dear. But isn’t it hard to type like that?

By the way, I’ve been downing Airborne tablets like I do whenever I’m around sick people. I know the FDA says it’s a crock of poo, but I haven’t had a cold in almost five years. Coinkydink? I think snot.

In this season of giving I bestow upon you, my faithful readers, a gift like no other. And that gift, of course, is BACON.

I found a cool site that will baconize any web site simply by adding its URL to the end of it.

Here is the site: http://bacolicio.us/

If you’d like to see The Junk Drawer in all its bacon glory, click this: http://bacolicio.us/http://www.junkdrawerblog.com

Freaky and delicious! Walk back from your screen and it looks even more realistic.

You’re welcome.

Two of my favorite things: Christmas and bacon. Does it get any better?

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and BACON!

Note: The whole ensemble was crushed up, tossed in Thanksgiving stuffing, baked and enjoyed. Rudolph, we hardly knew ye!

Crap.

I’m pretty sure when you do the Weight Watchers thing you’re not supposed to eat this many in a day and a half, even if they are only 2 points each.

—–

Overindulge on laughs at Humor-Blogs.com.

Question: How do you get a big box of gourmet cheese delivered to your house?

Answer: Challenge someone to a Cheese-Off and lose.

I recently posted about my love affair with Kraft Parmesan Cheese. Or more to the point, how lazy I am when it comes to tossing out numerous expired containers from my fridge.

Carla, from Blah blah blog-o-licious, commented on that post thusly:

I will take all the cheese I have, put it on the counter and send you a photograph…I think I might have you beaten.

This prompted the Cheese-Off challenge. I didn’t stand a chance.

I emailed her immediately and asked how it is possible one person can have so much delicious cheese in her fridge, while people like me are slumming it with the kind you shake through gigantic holes in plastic. It turns out Carla is a professional food broker, a dream job if ever there was one.

Perhaps out of sympathy, she offered to send me a sampling of cheese if I would like some. Like some? Like some?

When I awoke from my blackout, I gave her my address, crossing my fingers that she wasn’t kidding. She wasn’t. A mere two days later I received this:

Behold! The Cheese Motherlode! The Rembrandt Extra Aged Gouda cheese down front is almost gone already. My husband Dave and I inhaled it immediately after I took this picture. It is divine.

I feel like a kid at Christmas and all my new toys are in the lettuce crisper. I know they are there. I don’t want to sleep. I just want to eat cheese.

If any of you are in a 20 mile radius of my house, shoot me an email and we’ll arrange a cheese party. Bring wine and an appetite! Oh, and see those Galaxy Cappuccino Chocolate Mousse Duos on the right? If you come quickly enough, there may be some left for you.

Thank you, Carla! I’m blown away by your generosity. This cheese won’t get the chance to expire.

—–

Check out Carla’s fun story on how she came to be known as The Cheese Lady. And be sure to take her cheese survey. I’m a Swiss girl all the way. Betcha thought I’d pick Parmesan!

Results of having cleaned out my refrigerator. You may have some questions. Go ahead. Shoot.

Soup: Tomato Tortellini

Hunger level at time of photo shoot: STARVING

Number of seconds cracker had yet to live: 4

Mmmm mmmm … crackery!

Check out my other food that looks like stuff! And don’t forget, if you see something fun in your food, don’t play with it. Send it in! (kathyblog07 [at] gmail [dot] com.)

Yeah, that’s right. We buckled up our takeout food. Got a problem with that?

First person to correctly guess what comprised our precious cargo gets a Junk Drawer magnet. Hint: There was a protein (x6) and a side (x2).

To those who were following me on Twitter two hours ago, we never got the ice cream.

We’ve been battling ants all summer. It’s harder to fight them when you’re using an organic, non-toxic spray that won’t harm our cats. It requires constant vigilance.

My husband doesn’t realize that each year I get a little closer to heart attack age.

When eating out at chain restaurants, I almost always find stuffed mushrooms on the menu. And I’ve never been disappointed. Until yesterday.

After some late morning shopping, my husband Dave and I grabbed lunch at a popular seafood restaurant, which shall remain nameless for reasons that will become apparent momentarily. If you really must know, here’s a hint: It rhymes with Dead Mobster.

I’m not a big seafood eater by nature. Indeed, when the waitress asked what I wanted, I inquired as to which items came wrapped in bacon. Only the scallops did, but I do not like scallops, Sam I am. So I opted for two standards: mozzarella sticks and stuffed lobster and crabmeat mushrooms.

I asked for the cheese sticks to come out with Dave’s soup, and I’d have the mushrooms when his scallops and shrimp dish was ready.

We plowed through our appetizers with hearty enthusiasm and devoured their most excellent seasoned biscuits. It was a good thing I got filled up on sides because one of us couldn’t eat any more after that.

Soon Dave’s entree and my mushrooms arrived.

Dave made fast work of his bacon-wrapped scallops and shrimp, while I took a stab at the stuffed mushrooms. Within milliseconds, I knew I wouldn’t be finishing it because it tasted like the lobster and crab meat was mixed ala Lucy and Ethel in the classic I Love Lucy grape stomping episode.

Why? Because it smelled and tasted like FEET.

And not just any feet. Feet that ran the Boston Marathon, their sweat marinating in socks for six hours in broiling heat. And then baked in an oven, smothered in Camembert cheese. Feety enough for you?

My problem wasn’t so much that I hated my feet mushrooms, but that Dave was enjoying his shrimp and scallops dish. I didn’t want to complain immediately that my meal tasted like sweaty socks and ruin his own meal.

So I kept poking at it, announcing that I was simply too full to eat it. I also didn’t want to have to tell the waitress that they served me funky baked, feety-cheesed feet. As I poked around more, I noticed the mushrooms appeared uncooked and resembled brain matter. Yum.

I didn’t ask for the body part special, but this is what I was served. If this were a smell-a-blog, you’d all be gagging and running for the nearest exit.

As you can see, when presented with a plate of feet and brain, the first thing any respectable blogger does is take a picture of it. Ah, but don’t be fooled. It looked delicious at the time, but I wound up taking it home and throwing it directly in the trash. (Don’t worry. I’m not taking that bag out.)

The fact is, we were fooled. How? Because we decided to eat there based on a beautifully-shot commercial for this restaurant that aired on the Food Network, better known as Porn for Fat People.

We hadn’t eaten at Dead Mobster for about twenty years because we weren’t overly excited about their food. But we let expert editing and mouth-watering visuals get the best of us.

Truth be told, Dave thoroughly enjoyed his entree, though I chalk that up to the mere presence of bacon. If we decide in another twenty years to visit, at least I won’t be ordering the ten-toe special. I recommend you avoid it as well. See, I’m always thinkin’ of you guys.

One year ago today, the Junk Drawer opened for business. I’m very excited, as I never dreamed my blog would make it this far or that I would be blessed with the readership I have. Also, there’s going to be cake.

But this day isn’t about me — it’s all about you! And cake.

Thank you for your visits here. Thank you for leaving me the most hilarious comments in The Drawer. Thank you for making me feel that it’s OK to be a little bent. Well, a lot bent.

If you commented here, put me in your blogroll, Stumbled my posts, told your friends about me, subscribed to my feed or bought me cake, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!

I’m deeply grateful to have met so many of you online and gotten to know you through your blogs and emails. I feel like The Junk Drawer belongs to all of us. We’re a community. Writing here and reading your responses has been some of the most fun I’ve had in my life, with or without cake. Toast yourselves and know that I wouldn’t keep doing this if not for you.

Please celebrate this milestone with me and give yourselves a pat on the back for being a part of The Junk Drawer’s success and remember that birthdays are a fun time to look back on the past year, examine our lives and ….. oh, shut up Kathy! Serve the CAKE already!

Pass me a fork!

  Everyone’s a year older at Humor-Blogs.com

Almost missed this one!  Cycling through a million digital pictures, I came across this one taken months ago. I think it makes a fine addition to the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection.

Do you see the face? Or do you think I’m seeing things again?

Wrap Your Brain Around It

For the record, this turkey wrap was heavenly, despite not having a scrap of bacon in it. I know. Hard to believe. It might have actually been healthy. Don’t worry, I won’t let that happen again.

Humor bloggers play with their food.

You’re all aware of my love affair with bacon, so it stands to reason that I eat my fair share of BLT sandwiches.

There are two places I get my fix. Subway and Wawa. Today we shall have a smackdown between the two sandwich giants.

There is one clear winner and it all boils down to the ordering process because the faster and easier I can get my grubby little hands on my BLT, the happier Kathy is and the less punishment the general public has to suffer for me being hungry and annoyed.

How to order at Subway:

Enter establishment and queue up to the start of the assembly line. Tell the sandwich prepper what sandwich you want, on what bread and with what condiments.

The prepper grabs your selected bread and EVEN THOUGH YOU JUST SAID WHAT YOU WANTED, proceeds to ask you at each condiment container what you want on the sandwich.

What kills me is the part where, even though I just said I want a BLT, the prepper asks me if I want LETTUCE and TOMATO on my Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato sandwich. It makes me want to cry. They do this every single time, without fail.

Yes, I would like lettuce and tomato on my Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato sandwich and if you ask me if I want bacon on that, I’ll have to give up on you and leave without my sandwich and that’s not good for the general public, remember?

Pickles? No. Cheese? No. Onions? No. Peppers? No. Olives? What? No! GROSS.

After finally making it to the end of the condiment station, my sandwich is ready and I wish I had gone to Wawa. Although Subway has the best bread, Wawa has the ordering process down to a science.

How to order at Wawa:

Enter establishment and walk up to a gloriously easy-to-use kiosk that beckons me to buy any number of happy-looking hoagies, sandwiches, wraps and subs.

I touch the screen to begin.

Welcome!

Oh, why thank you!

What kind of sandwich would you like?

I shall have a BLT.

On what kind of roll?

Hoagie, please.

Would you like that toasted?

Oh, yes, toast me, baby.

What size do you want? Shorti? 6″? 10″? Giant?

Let’s say 6″. By the way, I love you, pleasant-sounding beeping machine.

What condiments would you like on that? My selections are never-ending. Among them is mayonnaise and not just one button for mayonnaise.

There is a special button called “Extra Mayo” that should have a halo around it because it is a button made in heaven and blessed by God.

Why, yes. Yes, I would like extra mayo.

Almost finished. More bacon ($1.09 extra)?

Oh, sweet Jesus. Could it be? A button you press to get more bacon? What happens if I press it twice? Three times? Do I get a whole pig? Bring on the more!

Beep-boop-beep-boop-beep. My order is finished and out pops a receipt. And by the time I’ve paid for my delicious, bacon-packed BLT swimming in mayonnaise, the server hands it to me and I’m on my way.

The only possible improvement that Wawa could make to this process is if they incorporate the sandwich-ordering technology into the gas pumps outside. Yes, Wawa is also a gas station. Don’t knock it til you try it.

Everyone knows I’m an awesome product tester and so it makes sense that I know what I’m talking about in the sandwich-ordering, gas-pumping, time-saving department. What do you say, Wawa? Care to make a great system even better?

Also, could you install a debit card swiper so I can pay for my sandwich right at the deli to avoid annoying children standing at the register, screaming at their mothers that they want Bazooka bubble gum for dinner? Yeah, that’d be swell.

I’d like a BLT with a side of humor blog.

Is it bad that I wanted to kill this thing because I was delayed loading my 4th of July foodfest gut in the car because my husband refused to leave until it leapt away, for fear that if it remained, the wind would blow it off and it would die a grisly death on the roadway?

Is it bad that my husband believes that it’s illegal to kill a praying mantis? (It’s not.)

Further, is it bad that I went to the 4th of July foodfest with the top button of my pants already unbuttoned, and that by the end of the day I appeared to be seven months pregnant and that all I wanted to do was dump myself in the car and speed to the emergency room because I was pretty sure I just ate my weight in picnic food and needed a good old fashioned stomach pump?

These are the things I’d like to know.

  Humor bloggers like their bugs crunchy.

Some days I think I could be a vegetarian.

But here’s the thing. I loves me a good burger. What makes it easy to eat meat is that it doesn’t still look like the body part it came from, unless I’m eating Thanksgiving turkey, and then I try to ignore that it’s missing its head.

The most disgusting thing I’ve eaten that still looked like where it came from was this:

Italian tripe

Beef tripe is usually made from the first three stomachs of a cow, the rumen (blanket/flat/smooth tripe), the reticulum (honeycomb and pocket tripe), and the omasum (book/bible/leaf tripe).

I ate the reticulum. Sounds kinda like “rectum,” doesn’t it? 

I found myself presented with a plate full of the above “I’ll be throwing this up later” delicacy once when my high school boyfriend took me to dinner at his grandmother’s.

His was an old world Italian family where dinners were hours-long events to be taken very seriously. If something was served to you, no matter how revolting it looked, you respectfully ate it, smiled, and asked for more.

If I recall correctly, the vomit-inducing tripe was served to me in a soup. When I took my first helping, I was appalled. Each honeycomb sheet looked like bubble wrap after the bubbles were popped. It was pale in color and resembled something you might peel of your shoes if you should happen to walk through a garbage dump.

I couldn’t imagine eating this mess, but I really had no choice. A lot of love went into making this meal and I’m not sure I would have been allowed to leave if I didn’t at least try it.

And so I did.

I don’t remember the swallowing part; I only remember the chewing. I could have saved myself a lot of time and trauma if I’d swallowed the pieces whole because it took ten minutes to chew through the stuff. Essentially, I ate a bowl of rubber bands.

One by one, the sheets went down. Imagining I was eating food instead of an office supply, I slowly worked my way to the bottom of the bowl. I was careful to pace myself so that I didn’t finish too quickly, as that would only invite the question “Kathy, would you like some more?” Oh, no. Please, God. No.

To this day, I can’t believe I ate what I ate and have only the occasional nightmare about it. Give me another part of the cow — any other part — and I’m fine. Impossible-to-chew, sheets of skin-like stomach matter? No, thanks. I think I’ll pass.

So, what’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten?

——

It’s chow time over at Humor-Blogs.

Today we have the first ever Food That Looks Like Stuff submission from my sister, Ann of the Shampoo Bag.

I give you, The Muffin Man.

Do you know the muffin man?

These little blueberry guys are given out to post-surgical patients where Ann works. I’m guessing it’s so they get a quick energy boost after not having eaten prior to surgery.

This reminds me of the last time I tried and failed to donate blood. I have hard-to-find veins and, try as they might, the folks trying to get blood from me just couldn’t do it. I left the chair disappointed, and wanted to leave, but they require you to sit down in the refreshments area and have cookies and juice.

I shamefully ate my snacks, glancing around at those who actually bled for their food, thinking I had no business eating my allotment of Vienna fingers. It was the only time in my life I felt guilty shoveling fistfuls of cookies in my pie hole.

* Advanced apologies to anyone who clicks that photo caption and has the song in their heads the rest of the day.

As many of you know, I’ve been trying to lose weight for months and months. Strike that. I’ve been thinking about losing weight for months and months.

The problem is I have very little will power and therefore, the scale laughs at me each and every morning. Oh, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, we’re not going to do this again, are we?

Tomorrow might be different, because today I had a guardian angel keeping me from eating all afternoon and he didn’t even know it. I estimate he saved me about 1,000 needless calories.

Part of my job as a computing consultant is to install and update software on a PC that gets mirrored to 36 other computers in one of our labs in the building. The gentleman who saved me today asked me to install some software for him, which I did last week. Before I sent it out to all the other PCs, I needed him to come to my office and thoroughly test it.

He arrived at 2:00 and tested for three straight hours. In an office the size of a walk-in closet.

How did that help me? His presence just a few short feet away kept me from diving into the following things, which I was too self-conscious to eat in front of him:

One Peanut Butter Balance Bar: 200 calories

One snack bag of White Cheddar Cheez-its: About 250 calories

Ten Caramel Hershey Kisses: 230 calories

Half a dozen Goetze’s Caramel Cremes: 260 calories

My office is more a candy store than a place to conduct business. There is a candy dish that sits at the front desk next to a trim and fit woman who makes sure it is always full. God bless her. She allows herself one Hershey’s Kiss per day, if she’s been careful with her eating the rest of the day. I’d kill for her discipline.

The bowl is very small, however, so rather than emptying it out in one visit, I go straight to the source and take directly from the drawer where the big bags of it live. It’s the other junk drawer in my life. I do replenish what I take, but I don’t know why I bother putting new bags in there, because I’ll be taking it right out an hour later.

Somebody please help me! Would anyone consider being my food guardian angel? You’ll never see a better deal in your life because I’d pay you to do absolutely nothing.

You’d come to my office, pull up a chair and sit and stare at me so I don’t eat. I would occasionally talk to you, but we don’t have to speak if you don’t want. You can bring reading material if you like, or I’ll give you a laptop and you can watch a movie or surf the web. Popcorn and candy obviously prohibited.

It’s either this, or the junk drawer has to go. Do any of you have struggles with an abundance of goodies in your office? Have you ever suggested a moratorium on junk food and been successful?

I received a great little item for the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection this weekend. This devilish tomato comes to us from Carla at blah blah blah Blogolicious. She says:

Here’s a picture of a tomato that grew in our garden a few years ago.  We of course adorned it with necessary facial expression.

I don’t know what it is about tomatoes that makes a person want to draw on them, but I did it myself to Weeble Tomato Guy, who was second to appear in the collection.

Anyone who sends me a food that makes the cut receives a Junk Drawer magnet! So please look carefully at your food before you scarf it down. There might be a prize in it for you!

Lycopersicon esculentum diabolus

Trust me. This post title will make some sense in a minute.

We’ve got something new for the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection. This little guy was discovered in a pack of chicken fingers from Wegman’s in Bethlehem, Pa.

Taken on the whole, this looks like a sleeping dog to me. I’ve decided it’s a Basset Hound, though sadly, front legless.

Because I like to get second opinions when I’m not sure I’ve got a food that looks like something, I sent it to my sister Ann to examine. Here’s her response:

Is that God’s face on the right?! Or Zeus?  Full head of hair and full longish beard?!  OMG!

Do you see the face?

Taking a poll. Who thinks it’s a dog and who thinks it’s God/Zeus? Who thinks we’re seeing things?

Sleeping Basset Hound-God-Zeus Chicken Finger

Addendum, 4/29: OK, folks. Here’s where I see the face. Please don’t mock my graphic design skills. I have none.

For those of you who think my junk drawer is too neat and clean, you haven’t seen my refrigerator.

I’m doing lousy with my diet, but my husband Dave’s doing just great. He’s well into a double-digit weight loss and I’m thrilled for him.

But I wonder if what he’s eating has altered his brain chemistry a bit.

He said this yesterday and meant every word of it: “God, this celery is so freakin’ good!”

I’ll call a doctor in the morning.

Another delicious submission from Heather Simoneau for the Food That Looks Like Stuff gallery. She’s the same reader who brought us Bagel #9.

I believe Heather’s working on an entire Grand Slam Breakfast That Looks Like Stuff. We’d love some bacon next time if you could swing that. Oink.

Part of a Heart-y Breakfast

I’m always happy to post reader submissions. In case you see a food that looks like something, here are my two simple rules:

1. The food must not have been deliberately constructed to resemble stuff. Heather was very clear about the circumstances under which this heart came to be. She insists she only tapped the yolk once or twice after it went in the pan, without any thought as to its food-looking-like-stuff qualities. But then the heart appeared suddenly and she ran for her camera.

I’m glad Heather has her priorities straight. Her kids were starving, but instead she held a photo shoot. That’s the spirit!

2. The object must not display male or female “appendages.” A Junk Drawer reader recently emailed me an X-rated tomato. It took me quite a while to figure out how to tell her I couldn’t accept it on the blog.

I think it’s obvious I have almost no limits for what I’ll put on the blog about myself, but I must use care not to offend naked fruits and vegetables. Can’t be too careful. They may not have thought those pictures taken early in their careers would ever see the light of day. Yeah. Those kinds of pictures.

Back in November, I wrote about a cake I bought from a new bakery in town. I threw it out because it was too dry and the icing looked better than it tasted. I promised I’d give them a second chance and post back about it.

They blew it. Again.

Yesterday after a 45-minute walk with my sister, I thought I’d reward my effort and ruin whatever benefits I gained from exercising by making a return visit to The Dry, Gross Cake Bakery.

Everything looked scrumptious in the case and I ordered three items (pictured above): A Napoleon, a Southwest pizza thing (don’t remember what it was called), and a half-dozen donuts.

The Scorecard:

1. The Napoleon: Not horrible. The cream and flaky pastry part were serviceable, but the icing was overly-sweet and gummy. It may or may not have been fondant, which is a bakery staple for wedding cakes that looks really pretty, but sometimes tastes like crap. Grade: C+

2. The Southwest pizza thing: Bad all around. The bread was rubbery and tasteless. What I remember of the topping was diced tomato, corn and some unidentifiable meat. I thought it had cheese, but no such luck. Had the topping been 100% bacon, I could have salvaged it. Instead, it went in the trash. Grade: D.

3. The donuts. Ah, the donuts. How can a bakery screw up a donut? Donuts are Pastry 101! I should have known something was wrong when the cashier handed me the bag containing a half dozen of the lovelies. They were so heavy, I almost lost my balance. In my opinion, glazed donuts are supposed to be light and airy. Artery-clogging, yes. Deliciously sweet and fattening, yes. Brick-heavy, no.

Here’s a closer look. See that nice sheen? That’s perhaps how a glazed donut should look. Except for one thing. That’s not the glazed side. It’s upside down. Go ahead and click to enlarge, just put your sunglasses on first.

That shininess is caused by deep-fryer fat globules that are soaked all the way through. I wanted a donut, not a blob of lard. It tasted oily, burnt and slightly rancid. And crunchy. Donuts aren’t supposed to be crunchy, right? Grade: A Big Fat Lardy F!

Now look at the bag they came in. The grease reached flood stage about two inches from the bottom of the bag. It’s soaked through solid up to the first crease. If I thought all the grease got sucked out of the donuts, I might actually consider eating the rest. It seems such a waste to throw them out, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Here’s a question: It’s obvious I’m never going back to this bakery, but should I let the owners know how dissatisfied I am with their products?

They should know how un-yummy their stuff is, so they could at least fix the donuts. I refuse to believe I’m the only one who finds crunchy, oily donuts unappetizing. I wanted to love the bakery because they’re close to home and I need a new place for all my forbidden food needs.

I don’t want to post the name of the bakery, since I’m not a professional food reviewer (although I should be). If you know me and want to know where it is, give me a buzz. The rest of you don’t have to worry about stumbling into this greasy dive trying to pass as a bakery.

My husband Dave and I have been dieting religiously the last six weeks, but we lost our minds tonight and ordered take-out.

Here’s what Dave asked for when he placed the order by phone:

• Four cheeseburgers with mayo
• Two perogies
• One garlic knot

Here’s what we got when I picked it up and brought it home:

• Four cheeseburgers with mayo
• Two orders of perogies (3 to an order)
• And this…….

One garlic knot.

Every other time we’ve ordered from there, “one garlic knot” meant “one order of garlic knots,” which contains six knots. Ordering one garlic knot is akin to ordering a single french fry. It’s just not done.

The joke was on us. We got exactly what we asked for.

I don’t know about you, but we can eat about ten of these, and that’s after the burgers and perogies. So who took ownership of the one knot? Our cat, Stinky. She was smelling it up and down while I took this picture. Now we don’t have to split it, which is good because half a delicious knot is worse than no knot at all.

While cleaning out a closet this morning, I ran across this photo I took some years ago when I was on a random picture-taking excursion. I love this guy. His eyes look so soulful to me. It makes me feel guilty for wanting a delicious char-broiled quarter-pounder right now. With cheese.

Seeing it, I’m reminded of one of my childhood memories involving cows, ice cream and my dad’s Lincoln Continental.

Around the time my sister Ann and I were seven and five years old, respectively, a favorite treat was our Dad driving us to a nearby dairy for ice cream. Part of the fun was driving fast over a hilly section of the road leading up to the dairy. Dad would speed up before the incline and coming over the crest we’d get that flip-flop feeling in our stomachs and shout WHOOOA!!! as we came down the other side. Funny, the little things we remember.

When we got to the dairy, Dad would go in and chat it up with the owner and Ann and I would stand outside the cow pen and hope that one of the mammoth creatures would saunter over and say hello. I can’t think of any small dairies that still exist around here, but if I see one, I have an irresistible urge to stop and moo at the cows.

On one particular visit, Ann and I were all moo’ed out and went inside to collect our ice cream. Typically, we’d get started licking in the store and be just about done by the time we got home. But this trip was different. It was the first in a long series of incidents that end with the question Why do these things always happen to me?

My problems started almost immediately after my Dad got out onto the country road. It must have been a hundred degrees that day and so the ice cream melted faster than I could lick it.

And then the dribbling started. All over my hand, down my arm and all over my lap. And then Dad found out. Nevermind that half my cone was running down my leg, all I could think was how mad he would be when he saw the mess I just made of myself.

If it’s one thing we kids tried to avoid was bringing harm to his only prized possession: his deep blue, formerly clean, 1970 Lincoln Continental with the doors that opened outward in opposite directions. He worked hard all his life to support his family and make sure we had what we needed. The car was the one thing he allowed himself to splurge on.

Unable to pull over on the narrow, one-lane road, he opted to at least keep things from getting any worse. “Stick it out the window! NOW!,” Dad shouted.

“Oh, no! Dad! My ice cream!”

“Get it out of the car!”

I did as instructed and shoved my delicious treat out the window. All my glorious chocolate ice cream hit the wind and, unbeknownst to me, rained down all over the side of the car. I thought for a second that I could stick my head out the window and keep licking, but I was too busy sucking it off my arm and hand.

What’s interesting, in hindsight, is that my Dad didn’t make me throw it out the window. Only stick it out the window. Perhaps none of us guessed that so much of it would splatter back onto the car door.

It did in a big way.

When we eventually got out of the car, we gathered ’round to assess the damage. What we had before us was the Kathy version of a Jackson Pollack painting. Thick splats at the start of it, thinner towards the middle, and dot dot dots where it tapered at the end.

I don’t remember my Dad being mad at me. After all, it only required a quick cleaning. What I do remember is I’d given up a perfectly good cone to the forces of physics and wondered whether it was possible for me to still eat that. The one rule for ice cream and kids? Do not separate.

Last week I wrote about my love affair with bacon, which included an attempt to find out whether the doggie treat Beggin’ Strips taste like real bacon. The answer: A big fat NO.

After reading about my love of all things bacon, Susan of the My Right Brain blog suggested I try out BaconSalt, a bacon-flavored seasoning for the times I want to baconize my food in the absence of the real thing. According to their website, the makers of BaconSalt are “on a quest to make everything taste like bacon.” Best. Tagline. Ever.

I got online that day and ordered up two containers of it: one for me, and one for my bacon-loving sister, Ann of the Shampoo Bag. They arrived last night.

I gleefully took mine to work today in anticipation of making my Healthy Choice Chicken Parmigiana with Broccoli meal a little more palatable. Here’s my assessment:

1. The stuff doesn’t smell 100% like bacon. It smells more like barbecue sauce, but I salivated nonetheless. I also sneezed.

2. It’s less like salt, and more like crushed up bacon bits. I expected a powder substance, but it had a slight crunch to it.

3. When it hit the food, it didn’t dissolve. It just laid there like a bacon bit would.

4. It didn’t taste all that much like real bacon, I suspect due to the absence of glorious grease.

5. Because I bothered to buy it and wanted to give it a full assessment, I sprinkled another teaspoonful onto my lunch and decided I didn’t hate it. But……

BaconSalt has one major flaw.

Three hours after lunch, I realized I could still taste bacon, or some facsimile of such. The thing to watch out for if you buy this stuff is the aftertaste.

Bring a toothbrush, mouthwash, gum and floss if you don’t want everyone you come into contact with later in the day to know what you had for lunch. And by all means, don’t eat it if you have a dentist appointment within two days. Unless you hate your dentist. In that case, by all means, go forth and breathe heavily.

My sister Ann hasn’t received her order yet, and I’m pretty sure she won’t want it now. But, Ann, if you want your stinky bacon, come ‘n get it. 

Product Tagline: A

Idea in Theory: A

Real World Test: C+

Whoever said chocolate is the food of the gods had it all wrong. We all know it’s juicy, sizzlily, fattening, lickity lips BACON!

How much do I love it? This weekend my family hosted a birthday party for our mother, held at my sister Marlene’s house. Marlene’s dog, Tootsie, is a great lover of Beggin’ Strips, a fake bacon doggie treat. She always gets one after she comes in from outside and I got the honor of doling one out when she pattered into the kitchen.

I grabbed the bag and pulled one out. Hmmmm…. Looks like bacon, smells like bacon. I wonder if it really tastes like bacon. As all of the partygoers stood around watching me study this artificial bacon strip, one thought came to mind: What would someone pay me to eat this thing?

Apparently nothing, because when I announced I would eat part of the strip for money, nobody pulled out a wallet. I suspect this is because they held no reservations that I’d actually eat the thing. I’m not sure what that means, but it’s probably not good.

Not in position to make any money, but still curious, I broke off a decent-sized chunk of it and began chomping away. And chomping, and chomping, and chomping some more. It’s no surprise I had such a hard time breaking it down to the point where I could swallow it.

Why? Because I’m convinced the ingredients that go into making a Beggin’ Strip are the same ingredients that go into making plastic. Did it taste like bacon? Not by a long shot. The closest thing it came to was unsalted beef jerky. Hard, juiceless, tasteless unsalty beef jerky. Do dogs have any taste buds at all? Can you really call this a treat?

Geez. Even Science Diet cat food tastes better than this. Oh, did I just say that out loud? OK, I did eat a pellet of cat food once, on a dare, and it tasted like granola. Quite good, to be honest.

So there you have it. If you’ve ever wondered what pet food tastes like, wonder no more. Oh? You never wondered what it tasted like? Must be just me. Consider yourself sane and well-balanced.

Now, if you love REAL bacon, you’ll like comedian Jim Gaffigan’s take on just what makes bacon the food of the gods.

UPDATE: Recently, this video was removed from YouTube with the following notice: This video is no longer available due to a copyright claim by NBC Universal. Bastards! It was such a funny video. You’ll have to trust me.

Potato salad anyone? Today we have two new additions to the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection, submitted by a colleague whose husband thought she was nuts for photographing a heart-shaped potato. Until he found another one just like it and wanted to get in the game.

Here we have the first ever husband-and-wife team submission called Two of Hearts. Thanks Maryann and Frank!

When I saw I was getting potatoes that looked like stuff, I dusted off a potato picture of my own that I’ve been holding onto since Christmas. I wanted to submit it to the collection but couldn’t figure out what it looked like. I know it looks like something, but can’t place it.

Maybe my readers can help. Here it is.

I’m convinced this peeled potato resembles someone from children’s literature. It may be an animal. It may be a person. I enlisted the help of a librarian where I work, who also believes it looks like a character from literature. Along with the photo, I emailed her my description of who I think it is:

I believe it’s from a classic book and that the character I’m thinking of wears glasses. I see a short, stocky male character who is possibly also dim-witted.

Another colleague who reviewed the photo believes that the character is British and has small animal-like hands.

We have ruled out characters from Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit, as well as Mole from The Wind in the Willows. It helps to view this picture as a face that is gazing upward to your left and that its right eye is out of view.

In my mind’s eye, I see the character as having little or no neck. He speaks softly and may or may not wax philosophical. He is not the protagonist in the story, nor a foil. Although he may be of little brain, he is wise in a Winnie-the-Pooh kind of way.

If anyone recognizes who this might be, please cast your vote in the comments section. If you think I’ve finally lost my marbles, don’t bother telling me because I already know I have.

p.s. He was cut up into cubes and made a fine addition to our Christmas dinner. He didn’t scream at all.

———-

Humor-bloggers prefer french-fried potatoes.

I’m delighted to announce an addition to the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection. This piece, dubbed Bagel #9, was submitted by reader Heather Simoneau. Of course, if you turn it upside down, it can be Bagel #6 to you.

She reported it was found in a package of Thomas’ plain bagels at a SuperFresh store in Bethlehem, PA. Pour yourself a cup of coffee and enjoy!

Today’s post, brought to you by the #9

Like many high-schoolers my first job was at a fast-food restaurant. I learned a lot about responsibility, working in a fast-paced environment and coping with the public.

I also learned why you should avoid eating there if at all possible. Consider this the next time you pay a visit to your neighborhood quickie-meal joint:

1. Teenagers run the place. The majority of the staff were under 18 years old. Teenagers have zero vested interest in serving quality food to you. They are biding their time until they can punch out and resume the part of their lives they give a damn about.

2. Managers can’t be everywhere. Yes, the good managers will oversee the production line and make sure nothing bad happens to your food. But they are not omnipresent. I once witnessed a co-worker drop a large cut of roast beef on the floor while trying to load it into a slow-cook oven. He picked it up and put it right back in. (I reported him).

3. The sneeze guard over the salad bar is worthless. Understand that salad bar items are subjected to dirty fingers, dirty air, coughing and hacking customers and fluctuating cooling temperatures. Face it. The food sits out all day and God knows what happens to it before you sidle up and help yourself. In addition, if enough of one item is too much to toss for the day, it’ll be put out the very next day to mix with the same environmental pollutants as it did the day before.

4. Cleanliness is not top priority. One day the restaurant’s drainage system backed up and we sloshed around for two hours with plastic bags over our shoes, still serving food, before someone came from the Health Department to shut us down until repairs could take place.

5. Food for you one minute, dog food the next. For about a year, our restaurant entered into an arrangement with the local SPCA. Food that was deemed fit for human consumption was fed to people. After the food was under heat lamps too long, it was dropped in a bucket and picked up to be fed to dogs. We’re not talking quality here. Five minutes ago, it was meant for you.

6. You get what minimum wage pays for. Almost anyone can get hired. The same guy who dropped the roast beef on the floor also cut off part of his fingertip while slicing ham. A week later he was caught smoking pot behind the drive-thru window and finally fired. He worked under the influence a lot of the time. Your best interest was not on his stoned-out mind. We didn’t like to think what else he did that no one caught him doing.

7. Cross contamination is the norm. When things got busy, the same person who just swept garbage off the floor might be asked to perform cashier duties without washing their hands in between. They may rearrange your food on your serving tray, help the food line staff assemble sandwiches, grab cups and utensils, all with their bare hands. What they touched, you touched and you probably put it into your mouth.

Bon appetite! (if you dare)

I’m pleased to announce an addition to the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection. The piece, called Carrot Love, was submitted by a friend and colleague who clearly has an eye for art. Study it carefully.

This photograph reflects the highest standards of excellence that The Junk Drawer strives to achieve when accepting items for publication. This is exactly what we’re looking for. You know, pictures that would make adolescent boys snicker.

"Come on, baby! Gimme a kiss!"

Blogger’s Note: I realize this makes the third post about food in four days. I’m sorry. It’s not my fault.

I blame my pal J.D. over at I Do Things. She’s the woman who throws entire pies away when she and her husband know they’ve had enough and shouldn’t eat anymore. Today, she sent me a note about the time her husband threw away a perfectly good box of chocolates he received as a gift just so he wouldn’t be tempted to eat it. Her note reminded me of the time I, too, had a box of chocolates destined for the trash.

I used to love Cella’s Chocolate Covered Cherries before I bought two boxes and sat down to plow through one of them. All comfy on the couch, TV remote in hand, I opened the box to see that one of them was sporting a full head of hair. I just about threw up.

You can click that picture to get a better look, but I wouldn’t recommend it. All you need to know is the little guy down front needs a box of Just for Men hair coloring and the one next to him isn’t much better off. The remaining others are in the early stages of decomposition, and thus have much less-developed hair follicles. But they’re on their way.

So irritated that I couldn’t enjoy my sweet chocolaty snacks that night, I drove back over to the store where I bought them and informed the clerk of my gag-inducing discovery and that I wanted a refund.

I opened the box to show her the funky confections. She freaked just like I did, then called her manager over to have a look. "Ewwww, look at this," she says.

The manager, strangely NOT horrified, says "Yeah, we got a letter about that on Friday."

"You got a letter? About the hair? On Friday?" I asked, on a Monday I might add.

"Yeah, they said there was some problem during manufacturing. Wanted us to pull them all off the shelves," she explains.

I ponder for a moment why a person would remember reading a warning about a science experiment being carried out in a box of chocolates, and then do nothing about it.

I didn’t have the patience or energy to ask her why they didn’t pull them by now, but I did stay long enough to get my money back and see that she removed them all from the shelves.

After a year-long moratorium on buying boxes of Cella’s, I recently resumed eating them. But I always give them a thorough once-over just to be sure none of them is wearing a wig. Hair is not a good look for them.

I love food. No doubt about it. In fact, it appears I also love to write about food, as the Food category in my sidebar is the second most-tagged topic in this blog. Seeing that just scared me a little.

Like most people, it’s a daily battle to count calories, get enough exercise and not feel like a moo-cow every time someone brings food to the office. I’m usually the first in line to inspect what kind of goodies have been bestowed upon us. And whoever thinks fruit cup is a dessert doesn’t know how much better it could be dipped in chocolate.

When it gets really bad and I want to eat an entire family-sized bag of cheese curls for dinner, there is one tactic I’ve used on more than one occasion. THROW ALL OF IT IN THE TRASH. My friend J.D. over at I Do Things has a name for this, whenever she and her husband want to rid themselves of a certain crusty baked dessert they shouldn’t have. It’s called Pie Rage. Yep, just get all insane and throw the stuff out!

Now for all you people that think that’s a horrible thing to do, what with all the starving children in China, I ask you this: How is this bag of orange-colored snacks going to get to China? And it’s not going to be enough to feed everyone anyway, and I’m not even sure cheese curls qualify as food. It’s better off in the trash, and off my thighs.

This week Dave and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary. To treat ourselves, I picked up the chocolate drip cake you see pictured above. I was trying out a new bakery in our neighborhood and that cake looked spectacular in the display case and I just had to have it.

Unfortunately, the cake looked better than it tasted. The cake part was dry as sand, and it made me question just how long it sat in the bakery before I arrived and salivated all over it. The icing looked so yummy and I assumed the cake that it enveloped would taste scrumpdillyicious. But I learned you can’t judge a cake by its icing.

We would have had no problem eating that whole thing over a few days, had it tasted better. You know how it’s tradition to hold the top layer of your wedding cake in the freezer and eat it on your first anniversary? No chance. We ate the whole thing in two days after returning from our honeymoon. I don’t know who thinks you can keep opening your freezer for the next 364 days and not dig into it. People who do that are just not right.

So what became of our anniversary cake? It went bye-bye in the next day’s trash. It felt sad to dump the whole thing out, but at least it saved us about 6,000 unwanted calories. The next time you want to skip exercising for a day, follow one simple step and throw out the food you were about to eat. There. Now you don’t have to burn it off. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

A couple years ago I noticed what looked like a smiley face on an overly-seasoned snack chip. That curious discovery led to an endless search for other food that looks like stuff.

Weeble Tomato Guy
Mr. Weeble came to me in a bag of home-grown tomatoes given to me by a colleague. His bottom began to dimple and he soon was unable to stand on his own. Weebles wobble and they DO fall down.

Yummy Yammy, The Elephant Man
Found this face in a yam from dinner. Random fork stabs happened to
give Elephant Man a set of eyes.

Meatloaf for Brains
Yummy Yammy accompanied this brain-like meatloaf.
As gross as it looks, it was quite tasty.

Kitty Cat Face
Dave found this kitty cat sleeping in his ice cream.

Garlic Knot Mitten
Submitted by colleague Jason Slipp. Taken with a camera phone, so it appears much larger than it actually was.

The Chip with Heart
Long forgotten in a kitchen cabinet (awaiting its submission to the site), this chip is eight months old. It’s remarkable to me that it withstood changes in temperature over the months and never showed signs of wearing down. Preservatives will kill us all.

Carrot Love
Reader Brad Price submitted this shot of two carrots in a loving embrace. Spooning isn’t just for humans anymore.

Bagel #9

Reader Heather Simoneau submitted this picture of a numeric and tasty bagel she found in a package of Thomas’ bagels.

My 11-yr-old niece loves to read stories in this blog about when her mother, my sister Ann, was a kid herself. She loves to hear about what she was like when she was her age and the silly or stupid things she did.

One such story involves a bike, a serious misjudgment and a pair of Drake’s Devil Dogs.

Here’s the thing about Devil Dogs. It was Ann’s favorite snack food back then and the first thing she’d spend her allowance money on. And she could get them just about any time she wanted. We were lucky to have not one, but two, corner stores near our house growing up. One was called The Apple Shack, which was owned by a woman named — I kid you not — Candy Apple.

The other one was called Verna’s, run by a little old lady and her husband. Located about three blocks from home, it was the quintessential Mom and Pop store. Sure, they sold incidentals like milk and bread for adults, but we kids knew it only as Junk Food Central.

Among other things, Verna sold ice cream, popsicles, homemade cupcakes and shoe-fly pie and giant lollipops bigger than our heads. She had a large wooden, glass-front case where we could peer inside at the array of penny candy and ask Verna to put together a little brown bag full of sugary confections. You could score a pound of goodies for about a buck if you chose wisely.

I always liked to get red licorice shoelaces, Flying Saucers, Tootsie Roll Midgies and Chick-0-Sticks, the latter being something of a cross between a less-sweet version of Butterfingers and pretzel sticks. You had to chisel half of it off your teeth, that is, if you had any left after eating them. Chick-o-Sticks and mortar. Same difference.

Then there’s Ann. Ever the discerning snack connoisseur, she had just one favorite — the Drake’s Devil Dog, a devil’s food cream sandwich whose wafers were shaped somewhat like a hot dog bun, hence the name. She’d eat them for breakfast, lunch and dinner if our mother let her.

One Saturday afternoon in 1975, after getting our allowances, we decided to go on a candy and Devil Dog run to Verna’s. We hopped on our banana-seat bikes, pedaled hard up a two block hill, rounded the corner, dropped our bikes in front of the store, and had Verna throw some stuff together. Me with my grab bag, and Ann with her two Devil Dogs.

When we got outside and prepared to bike back home, Ann realized she should have gotten a bag for her things but didn’t feel like running back inside for one. Standing there, straddling her bike, she maneuvered the handlebars with just the palms of her hands, while she held the Devil Dogs with the tips of her fingers so as not to smoosh them.

I told her, "You’re not gonna be able to ride right if you hold ’em that way."

"Yes I can!" she shot back.

I seriously doubted it, and sure enough, she would soon pay dearly for this error in judgment.

We set off for home, proud that we still had a few bucks left of our allowance and happy to have enough snacks to spoil our dinner. As we approached the hill we biked up on, we prepared to set sail downward. It was always great to pick up speed and catch the wind in our hair. We’d blast through the stop sign at the bottom of the hill, then race each other home in the last block.

But this ride was like no ride before, because somebody cared more about the welfare of her Devil Dogs than getting home in one piece. We’d gotten about halfway down the hill and picked up considerable speed when Ann hit a patch of stones in the road and it was all over in a flash. Because her hands were gripping the Devil Dogs instead of the handlebars, any chance of controlling the bike went right out the window. It was a hopeless situation.

When she braked to try to stop the slide, she was thrust head first over the handlebars and got herself caught in them so that she and the bike crashed to the ground in a twisted metal ‘n legs pretzel. Together they slid for about ten feet. And all along the way, gravel and other road debris became embedded in what were now ripples and ripples of scraped-up skin.

Had her dismount been part of an Olympic event, the judges would have leapt to their feet and pronounced it a "10" because not only did she damage herself quite badly, she also rendered her bike un-rideable. It was a perfectly-orchestrated knockout and both of them were down for the count.

The first thing I did, of course, was run to her aid and see if she could stand up. Crying and moaning, she gingerly rose to her feet and insisted she could walk home. I helped her over to the curb and urged her to sit back down and get her bearings first. I turned around to assess the damage. Looking in the street at her mangled bike, handlebars all askew, I spotted the reason Ann found herself battered and bloodied.

Amid the mangled mess of her bike lie two perfectly rounded, fully-formed, light and fluffy Devil Dogs, still in their micro-thin plastic wrap. The only visible damage was that some of the cream had oozed out the sides, but the wrap hadn’t burst. And they hadn’t been squashed. Ann’s dribbling blood all down her leg, but by God, her Devil Dogs were safe. And wasn’t that the point of all this?

She and her bike had seen better days. I did manage to bend back the front wheel to align it straight enough so she could push it. It squeaked a sad little squeak with each step we took on the slow walk home. After Ann limped through the door, our mother treated and disinfected her wounds and bandaged her hands and leg.

"How in the world did this happen?" Mom asked.

"I was…. sniffle …. trying to …. sniffle …. save the Devil Dogs," Ann whimpered.

"Well I hope you know that’s not a good enough reason."

Mom’s always right, but to Ann, it felt like reason enough. She did what she set out to do and saved the Dogs. And, as a bonus, was excused from having to go to church that night. To this day, despite the mayhem and carnage of that Saturday afternoon, she might even tell you it was worth it.

Tell us, Ann, was it?

Warning: This is yet another post about stuff that goes on at my grocery store. You might think I’m there everyday. You’d be almost right. See, our grocery store is just two blocks from my house, which makes running in for a few items on the way home from work too easy. I promise I’ll get back to non-grocery store posts as soon as annoying things stop happening there.

So I run over to get some cat food since we’re almost out. I’ve been given very specific flavor requirements by Dave, who thinks the cats can actually tell the difference between generic slop and Diet Ocean Whitefish Supreme. Um, they lick their butts clean every day. Do you think they have a flavor preference in the food they eat?

Before I head in the store, I remember to grab my cloth "environmentally-friendly" shopping bag out of the back seat of my car. I don’t use it enough as I should, but this time I remember to bring it. I’m trying to do my part to minimize plastic consumption in our household.

Once in the cat food aisle, I peruse the selections. I cannot find the diet version of ocean whitefish, so I grab a ton of cans of regular ocean whitefish. We’re all gaining weight in the house, so the cats can join in the insanity. A family that eats together gets fat together. I also grab a ton of salmon-flavored and then a bunch of cans that have pretty-colored labels. By the way, that’s also how I root for football teams. If I like your uniforms, you’re in!

A few more incidentals later, I queue up to the self-checkout line, cloth bag in hand. No sooner do I start scanning my items does a bagger from another aisle come over to start loading my items in a plastic bag. I quickly warn her "I have my own. Thanks." She retreats.

I scan some more items and a different store employee comes over and asks "Paper or plastic?" I reply, "Neither. I have my own bag. See?" He leaves to go bag someone else’s stuff.

I’m almost done scanning now, but I can see a cashier leave his now-empty checkout lane and approach my bagging area. By now I look like Medusa with snakes writhing out of my head and fire balls rocketing out my eyes.

I HAVE MY OWN BAG!!! I’m sure he thought I was demented. Or, perhaps by the appearance of my thirty cans of cat food and little else, I was just one of those Crazy Cat Ladies. No matter. He left my aisle and walked away with a story to tell his teenaged friends about the woman who went all postal on him for trying to be helpful. I’m sure they’ll call me something colorful. Bag Lady Bitch has a nice ring.

I’m hoping before I die, it will be commonplace to walk in a store with our own shopping bags and we’ll look back and ask ourselves how we could have been so wasteful "back in the day." Until then, I’ll keep fighting the "paper or plastic" question. But I’ll try to be a little nicer to those who ask. Besides, I’m sure I’ll find myself back in the store tomorrow to get something I forgot today, and I don’t want them running away when they see me coming. With my bag.

Recently I wrote about what I perceive to be a shopping club card scam. My local grocery store suddenly pulled a switcheroo on what kind of rewards they were giving to customers who use their club cards.

In the past, it was always a monetary discount, up to 20% off your total bill, depending on your point accumulation. The last time they ran the points redemption period, they gave my husband, Dave and me useless bakeware instead. I gave all three pieces to my sisters, by the way.

Today we got revenge.

Dave ran over to the store for some dinner items: hamburger, ice cream, and macaroni and cheese from the deli counter. When he got home, he announced "That lady at the deli must have the hots for me. She did it again."

What’s "it," you ask?

"It" is undercharging for a pound of macaroni and cheese. "Again" means it’s the second time the same lady did this to him. The first time it happened, we got a good chuckle out of it. Now we just think she’s smitten with him.

Dave didn’t realize this had happened again until he got to the register and self-scanned his items. When the macaroni and cheese rang up, the polite-sounding lady who lives inside the machine said in her best monotone voice, "Five cents."

Yeah, a nickel for a whole pound. See for yourself. Note: I’m blocking out the store name because Dave is actually afraid someone from the store might read my blog (????) and then fire the woman who is repeatedly weighing his stuff in this way.

I asked him what he did when the machine lady reported the surprising discount — loudly, I might add. Everybody in the store knows the cost of everything you’re buying because the audio is jacked up so high. Frankly, I can’t understand how the store employees can listen to the scanner voices all day without wanting to commit hara-kiri.

He said he looked around figuring some store employee would look up and say "Nothing costs a nickel! The machines are malfunctioning! Tech support in Aisle 2! Stat!"

But no one blinked and he wasn’t about to return it to the deli, as half his items had already merrily rolled down the conveyor belt. We’ve decided this makes us even for the club card scam. Karma works like that.

In case you’re thinking it’s immoral for him to not have corrected their mistake, he was punished, in a way.

When Dave started frying up the burgers, he realized he forgot to buy mayonnaise, a staple in his diet and an absolute requirement for cheeseburgers. He had a very unhappy meal tonight. Karma works like that.

My friend Jason showed me a ridiculous item in a cheapo catalog he got in the mail a couple weeks ago. It illustrates just how fat our country has gotten.

I give you The Easy-Fit Waistband Stretcher

From the Heartland America website,

If you’ve added on some winter weight, your favorite pants have shrunk after washing, or you’ve had a temporary weight gain, don’t go out and buy new clothes. Easy-fit waistband stretcher to the rescue! Gently widen your snug jeans, skirts and shorts by putting the device inside the waistband and adjusting until you find the most comfortable size. Works on waist sizes 21-50. 1-year limited warranty.

Don’t go out and buy new clothes?!?!? What? That’s too humiliating? It’s any better to stick this stretching machinery into your jeans, thinking they’ll fit properly? I imagine when you’re done using this device, your pants will be the perfect size and shape to fit Homer Simpson. Not a flattering look.

Oh, and if this works on "waist sizes 21-50," you have bigger problems. You do NOT need to make your pants larger. You need to make your gut smaller.

I haven’t heard of such an idiotic device since the FloBee. You know, the vacuum cleaner that happens to also cut hair. I’d like to say I can’t believe there’s a market for pants stretchers, but I absolutely can believe it. Our country would rather jam our sausage bodies into too-tight pants than get on a treadmill every once in a while.

If nothing else, this discovery makes me more motivated to get out and exercise. I may not get down to my "skinny jeans" weight again, but you can be sure I won’t be ruining any of my clothes to make them fit. Homer Pants aren’t a good look for me.

Today I hit my first roadblock in an effort to lose weight. Not because I snacked on candy (I didn’t). Not because I didn’t take the stairs enough (I have). And not because I’ve lost my will already (no chance). Hell, even I can keep a resolution for at least one day.

So why am I having so much trouble today? I smell like cookies and now I want to eat a whole package of cookie dough. Raw. Right out of the package.

I know you’re probably thinking "Oh, poor Kathy. I realize she’s struggling to lose weight and I wish there was something I could do for her to encourage her to stay motivated."

Or maybe you’re just thinking "Why does she smell like cookies?"

Lemme ‘splain. I was working on a client’s PC fixing a problem one day and my work was lasting longer than I expected. I was supposed to have lunch with my sister and it was looking like I wouldn’t make it since I was stuck with this PC problem.

I called her to let her know we’d probably have to postpone, and while talking with her, I noticed my client had a bottle of Bath and Body Works hand lotion on her desk. I picked it up to smell what kind it was. The "flavor" was Warm Vanilla Sugar and it smelled exactly like sugar cookies.

I told my sister what I’d just done and how much I loved the aroma of fresh baked cookies. In a hand lotion! She made a mental note of this and gave me a bottle of it for my birthday shortly after.

What I didn’t realize is that if you use cookie-scented hand lotion, like I did today, it makes you hungry. Very hungry. Eat your fingers right off your hand hungry. This is not helpful.

I know there are freak scientists in the world whose job it is to make chemicals smell like food. I watched a rather disgusting movie this weekend, Fast Food Nation, in which a chemist whips up an additive that is used to make a barbecue burger smell like a barbecue burger. Believe me, you don’t want to eat anything off a Micky D’s menu if you watch that movie. What you think is burger is more like something that only smells like burger. Well, maybe there is some meat in there, but you can’t be too sure. They can make anything smell like anything they want. Eat at your own risk.

There is a lesson here. If you’re going to go on a diet, do not use a product on yourself that smells like an item you’ve just crossed off your acceptable foods list. It’ll drive you insane. Dieting is hard enough without wanting to eat your own fingers.

My sister Marlene treated her daughter, Amy, and me to an afternoon at Dorney Amusement Park on Saturday. Every year her company gives its employees free passes, plus two for their guests. Excellent deal, since tickets normally go for something like 30 bucks. I know I’ll still pay a fortune on food, drink and at least one impulse purchase. But since I’m not starting out $30 in the hole, it’s all good. Plus, the park hosts "Halloweekends" in October, where they decorate every square inch for the fall holiday. Even if you don’t go on rides, it’s really nice to just stroll around and get into the Halloween spirit.

But I do go on rides. At least the ones I think I won’t die on.

We meet at my house and pile in one car. For the next half an hour, we complain about the extra weight we’ve put on, how we hate exercise and that we’re doomed until we get serious about weight loss. We get to the park, walk through the entrance, look around and the first thing out of our mouths is "Where do we want to eat?" What did we JUST SAY people???

We head down a pathway that leads to one of the park’s many Dippin’ Dots carts. Dippin’ Dots is (are?) ice cream molded into the shape of tiny beads. Strangest ice cream I’ve ever had, and difficult to maneuver, since half of those little buggers tend to escape and roll away with every spoonful. Whatever. We each pay $5 for a small cup. And I do mean small. I’m done with it in 2.5 minutes, but that could also be because half of the beads have jumped the cup and are now bouncing happily away.

We decide it’s time to consider going on rides. When I say "we" should go on rides, I really mean just Amy. I’ve appointed her the ride inspector and the "oh-come-on-you’ll-be-OK" motivator. It works this way — She picks out a ride she likes, or thinks I’ll like, gets on the ride and then reports back to me about how violent said ride felt. Then I decide whether I can handle it. She gives me the blow-by-blow account of each one, and then we determine how much I would cry and how embarrassing a scene I would make.

While discussing whether I’m going on any rides, Marlene whips out her digital camera and begins taking the first of several hundred pictures in the park. We shall refer to her now as The Sisterazzi. Nobody’s safe. "Look over here! Amy! Kathy! Stand in front of this! Over here! Just one more picture! Oh, wait! Come over here!"

We tolerate this because she loves taking pictures. But we have requirements. Our hair can’t look like any of the scarecrows dotting the park. Above-the-waist shots only. No rear shots. We think Sisterazzi complies, but I haven’t seen the pictures yet. It was too sunny to make them out on the tiny screen.

We head over to the one ride I’ll consider, Talon. It’s one of the best in the park due to its smoothness. Steel tracks are the best. Wooden ones will cause teeth to fall out of your head and you’ll be a bruised and battered mess when it’s over, assuming you survive at all. We wait for Amy to go on Talon once, alone. She’ll report back about how long the line is and whether the teenaged ride attendants look responsible enough to trust our lives with.

Sisterazzi is busy taking pictures of other people on other rides, while I’m getting my stomach in knots just thinking about going on Talon. What freaks me out most is not the ride itself. The ride is awesome. It’s having to walk the stairs to the platform where you queue up for seats. I have real trouble standing still in high places. I have no problem hurdling to the earth at breakneck speeds (possibly literally break neck speeds), but I can’t handle waiting in line up really high, long enough to realize that the ground is way down there and I’m way up here.

Amy returns from her quick trip on Talon and begins her motivational speech. She assures me she’ll talk me through the ascent and that I’ll love it as much as all the other times I’ve been on it. And, no doubt, we’ll ride in the front row. If you ride a coaster, the only good seat is the front seat. Totally clear view of the ground coming up fast at you. There’s no better thrill, except maybe bungee jumping or skydiving. Those I won’t do, because I can’t hang my life on a string. But I will fly through the sky if I’m nailed to a seat.

We decide around now it’s time to eat a real meal and head off to a pizza place. The line is very long, so we briefly contemplate going over to a Subway instead. None of us wants to eat healthy, despite our complaints about wanting to lose weight, so we remain in the long line and then pay a small fortune for a slice of pizza and bottled water, $10. Extortion pizza.

As soon as we sit down at a table in the shade, Sisterazzi is at it again. This time, taking pictures of Amy and me with stringy cheese hanging out of our mouths. Thanks for that. We feel better now that we’ve had food and gotten out of the sun. But it’s a record-breaking 85 degrees on this October day, and we’re suffering a bit from meaty paw syndrome. Amy suggests we could cool off more if we go on Talon and I’m back to stressing about whether to go on it.

We slowly walk up the hill toward the ride and I remind myself that the reason I want to do it is for the exhilaration of flying through the air for little over a minute. There are four inversions: a vertical loop, a zero-gravity roll, an Immelmann loop (whatever the hell that is), and a corkscrew.

Two things happen in this environment. You briefly cannot breathe (wheeee!) and your hair winds up looking like this. At least mine does.

I decide I’m ready for the climb up the stairs and onto the platform. Fortunately, the line is short and I don’t have to spend time standing still on the stairs. But I do need some encouragement from Amy. She distracts me from the reality of my situation by discussing a very boring topic. Routers and wireless access points.

She goes into a long discussion about what kind of network she has at work and talks about getting a wireless router for home. I ignore where I am for a moment and talk about a new laptop and wireless router I’m thinking of buying so I can blog anywhere in the house. I’m hearing all kinds of screaming from passengers already on the ride, but I ignore this. Amy also directs me to look at a spot on the platform full of people and that doesn’t overlook the ground below. I pretend I’m anywhere but there.

We are soon led like cattle into the front row chute. We are shocked that they’re sending the ride out without a full front row. What’s wrong with these people? The front row is the BEST seat in the house. I’m all cocky about it — until it’s my turn to get in the seat.

Blogger’s note: I’ve begun to sweat just writing this. The memory of front row seat lockdown is fresh in my mind and I’m very tense right now. My keyboard has asked me to stop pressing so hard.

So we are led to our seats and we get nailed in. I’m thankful that the ride operator clicks the metal harness into my lap even lower than I got it to go myself. This makes me happy for two reasons: 1) It tells me that my stomach is not as huge as I thought it was, and 2) I’m 100% bolted in. I no longer worry that I’ll somehow slip out of my chair and die a horrible, screaming, bloody death. Wheeeee!!!!

We begin our ascent up the 100+ foot hill and Amy’s still talkin’ about routers. I have my eyes closed because I hate the ascent. She asks me if I want to know when we get to the top, and I reply "No, I’ll know it when we’re about to fall off the face of the earth. Thankyouverymuch."

The ride is exceptional. Smooth, fast and breathless — exactly as I remember it. Since it’s hard to scream when you can’t breathe, I opt for the silent descent. I just smile a toothy smile the whole way through.

Without further ado, here’s how the ride went. It’s my one impulse purchase. The park used to offer still shots of riders screaming their heads off, but now they offer DVDs of riders screaming their heads off. That’ll be me on the left, and Amy on the right. We appear 30 seconds into it.

Amy wanted a picture of me when we got off because I looked like I’d just been electrocuted (sign of a great ride!). We don’t have a camera, but of course Sisterazzi does. She gets the shot and now we can relax a little because I don’t have to stress anymore about doing this ride. I’ve done the deed.

We stroll around the park for another hour or so, jump on a train that chugs throughout the park and decide we’ve had our fill and start thinkin’ about what to eat again. Everything we do begins and ends with food. Will we never learn?

So Saturday was the day I didn’t die on a ride. I’ll have to pencil this in again for next year and, with Amy as my co-pilot, I’ll do just fine.

I love a good deal. One of the best is combining my grocery store club card with a pile of coupons to realize fairly significant savings. It gets better when my store runs a program where you can redeem points for an additional percentage off, depending on the amount accumulated from past purchases. Dave and I amassed about 1,200 points, so that would earn us 20% on top of our regular savings. We were looking at about 35% off the total bill.

Until we got to the register.

After filling two carts to the brim with a lot of things we don’t buy until this gigantic points program runs, we gleefully queue up to the register. I announce to the cashier with great fanfare that we’d like to redeem our points.

She begins scanning our items and says “Do you want include these points for the bakeware?”

“Bakeware?”

“Did you pick out all your bakeware already?”

“Bakeware?”

Dave chimes in, “Bakeware?”

“Yes, certain pieces are worth certain points and you turn them in against your total points.”

Again, Dave. “Bakeware? I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The poor cashier must’ve thought we were on drugs or stupid or both, given our stoney-faced stares and furrowed brows. “We usually give a percentage off discount for the points program, but this time you get bakeware instead of a percent off.”

We didn’t want bakeware. We don’t cook. We microwave, we use the stovetop, but we definitely don’t cook. Besides, there’s nowhere to store bakeware since our kitchen cabinets are too small. I’m not happy about this little turn of events. Dave just wanted to get scanned and get out, but I wasn’t about to leave empty-handed.

I look at her all hangdog and ask “Where is this bakeware?” She points to a display nearby and off I go to pick out bakeware I have no intention of using. EVER. When I get to the display there’s another woman scoping out what to get and I chat it up with her how this bakeware thing is such a scam. She agrees, “Yeah, they offer a percent off every other time and then we get bakeware now. No warning. Just bakeware.”

I choose three items whose point value gets me near the 1,200 mark. I pick them out based on who I think I’ll be giving them to right after I get them home. I think my sisters will like what I selected. They use their ovens.

After packing up all our things, I look at the so-so discount for this trip. I’m severely peeved because it could have been a great one. Today’s discount amounted to only 12%. Had the store run its usual program, it would have been 32%.

Yes, I know we’ll use everything we bought, but it would have been nice for the store to have posted a notice somewhere that this points redeeming period would not get us any kind of savings. Bakeware is not a deal unless you cook, and even then it’s not much to write home about. Bastards.

Does anyone know whether or not there are grocery stores in the Lehigh Valley where you can place an order of deli meats and cheeses in advance, and have them ready for you when you get to the store?

It would seem to me that in our technologically advanced society, where one can order up just about anything via phone or internet, we can muster up a system that keeps me from waiting in line behind twelve other people who need four kinds of cheese and two kinds of meats, all sliced to different thicknesses.

To make matters worse, sometimes my local store has a ticket dispenser available, and sometimes not. Do they not feel like taking people in order some days? I want a ticket!!

It would make sense to me that they can take advance orders. They do it in the bakery section for cakes. Why not cheese? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to make a crank call for 3/4 lb. Heidi Ann Swiss and a half pound Schaeffer’s baloney. They can DO this! No one would abuse the system, I’m sure.

And I’m not even asking that there be a special pickup place for it. I’d get in line like everyone else. It’s just I wouldn’t have to announce my order, one cold cut at a time, and then wait forever while they go to the case, find my item, unwrap it, go to the appropriate slicer, ask me again how much I wanted, walk to the scale, weigh it, not get it right, walk back to the slicer, get a couple more slices, walk back to the scale, get it close enough, and then ask "Will there be anything else?"

I could just walk up and say "I’m here for my cheese." Pick up my order and go. What’s so hard about that?

Me thinks I’m getting cranky again. Is it Friday yet?

In keeping with my new plan to stop being such a crankypants about everything, here’s something that deserves a hearty shout-out. I joined a friend of mine for lunch last week at the Caffeine Cafe, a great little eatery at 501 E. 4rd St., Bethlehem. Their menu includes sandwiches, wraps, soups, pastry and other goodies.

The owner, Dave Smith, takes great care of his customers and you feel welcomed as soon as you set foot in the door. It reminds me a lot of the Paris cafes my husband and I loved to visit. Caffeine Cafe has a wonderful relaxed atmosphere, you feel completely removed from the stress of the day. They even have free wireless access! Do yourself a favor and head over for your morning cup ‘o joe or a quick lunch. You won’t be disappointed.

I’ve been working through a food dilemma with the owner during my last few visits. On my very first visit, I hadn’t been able to decide on what to order off the menu. So I asked him to tell me what he liked on the menu. (When in doubt, always ask restaurant staff what they eat, since they’ve probably sampled everything). He said stuff he throws together for himself isn’t actually on the menu. I asked him to describe a typical sandwich he makes. It sounded great, so that’s what I ordered.

I promptly forgot what was in the sandwich by the next time I lunched there, so I had to ask him again "Can you make that sandwich I like?" He’s not 100% sure we’re in agreement on what I want, so I explain its contents as best I can remember, and he makes it up perfectly, just as good as the last time.

Fast-forward to my recent visit. Again, I walk up to the counter and ask for "the sandwich I always order, and by the way, I forgot what’s in it again. Yes, I’m a very dumb person."

He looks at me like always and I know what’s coming next. "Care to take a stab at what’s in it?"

"OK, to the best of my knowledge, it has turkey, some kind of cheese, lettuce, tomato, and a fantastic cranberry sauce thing. It’s not a sauce, you know, it’s like a sauce, but not a sauce. Know what I mean?"

He suggests to me the sandwich he’s made in the past, and I finally use my brain and write down what’s in it so I can remember the next time. What I’d rather see happen is that the sandwich go up on the menu board so I can just say "Give me the Number 5."

While Dave’s gathering ingredients, we hit a little snag. He informs me that he just ran out of cranberry mustard (I knew it wasn’t a sauce!) and would I care for the raspberry instead? I’m all about the raspberry and so that’s what I ordered.

When I took my first bite, I realized I liked the raspberry mustard even better than the cranberry. And I don’t quite remember this cheese being the cheese of sandwiches past. It is deadly good. With that, he had just improved upon what I thought was already the perfect sandwich. This, my friends, is the perfect sandwich:

Sliced turkey
Thick slice of Brie cheese
Leafy lettuce and tomato
Raspberry mustard
On rye toast
Pickle on the side

I kidded with him about adding it to the menu and giving it a name, so people (OK, just me) can order it easier. I suggested he name the sandwich in my honor. I’m sure he was kidding when he said he would, but I would bet that if you walked in and asked for "The Kathy Frederick," he’d know what to make you. If you order it, I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. No doubt you’ll love the cafe no matter what you order. Bon appetit!

See how I don’t hate everything?

FYI, Caffeine Cafe is open 8-2, Mondays, 8-5 Tues through Friday, 10-5 Saturday, closed Sunday.

While trying to get to Lauter’s Furniture store in Easton on Sunday, Dave and I got sidetracked by numerous road closings due to what I later learned was the Via Lehigh River Relay Marathon. We tried every conceivable way to get to our destination, but kept getting redirected elsewhere by policemen.

In frustration we turned around and headed west up Northampton St. and as we approached 7th St., I shouted "Let’s stop at Easton Baking!" At least the trip wouldn’t be a total loss. Easton Baking is a fixture in town, been there forever. Located on a tiny residential street, there’s nowhere to park, but nobody cares. You just throw your car in park wherever you want and run inside. The neighbors must love this.

I dart into the store and get in a very long line. I’m not worried about the wait, since it’s moving quickly. Almost too quickly. I wanted time to peruse the selections, but the line moves so fast, I couldn’t get a very good look. It was all just a sugary blur.

I see immediately they have a system here and everyone but me knows how to work it. You get in line at the right, announce your order, have your money in hand and pay on the left. Absolutely no deviation is allowed. If you’re familiar with the Seinfeld "Soup Nazi" episode, this is the bakery version of that. I get the sense if you don’t do it right, an angry mob will chase you out the door and beat you senseless with fresh and crispy baguettes. "No bread for YOU!"

My anxiety is made worse knowing I haven’t a clue what to buy. When it came my turn, I blurted out "Just grab a big box and I’ll point at stuff I want!" I figured this was the fastest way to go about it and would ensure that others behind me wouldn’t punish me for not being prepared. I managed to fill the box with an assortment of stuff I may or may not have wanted.

While waiting to pay, I met eyes with a guy who’d been staring at me a while. I thought for sure he was going to say "You don’t have a clue, do you lady? You silly, stupid woman." What he did say weirded me out a little:

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like Cher?"

"Um, no. That’s a first. Thanks…. I think."

Maybe it’s the longish curly hair, maybe it’s the nose, maybe I looked all drag queen at 11AM in the morning. For the record, I don’t see the resemblance, and neither does Dave.

But it got me thinking of other women people have told me I looked like. Here goes:

Stacy London of TLC’s makeover show "What Not to Wear."
I think we have the same nose, and I can’t say I’m happy about it.

Justine Bateman of "Family Ties" fame. Back when I wore my hair straight. And again with the nose.

Amy Winehouse, who has a popular song out now called Rehab, with a running lyric "They tried to make me go to rehab, but I said no, no, no." She’s in rehab now.

Madolyn Smith Osborne, the actress who played opposite Chevy Chase in 1988’s Funny Farm.

So what do you think? Do I look like any of these women? You can leave a comment, but if you stick one Cher song title, one Cher reference, one Cher anything in there, you’re banned for life.

What’s remarkable about this chip isn’t so much that it has a heart built into it, but that it’s eight months old and isn’t sporting any hair, mold or little green fuzzies. Dave’s been saving it since winter for my Food That Looks Like Stuff site, reminding me periodically to take the damn picture already so we can throw it out! But I’d always forget. He moved it from place to place and I guess I thought it was gone for good.

Just today he found it in a kitchen cabinet behind some junk. It’s very scary to me that it has not aged a bit. Looks just as good as the day I pulled it from the bag. I’m sure they use the same preservatives in chips that they do in McDonald’s french fries. Beware the potato snack.

This week I watched as my local grocery store jammed its shelves with Halloween candy. We’re not out of summer yet, but we have our sights on fall already. I’m sure the onslaught of Christmas isn’t far behind.

In the tradition of preparing for holidays well before its time, I give you Butterfinger eyeballs. These make a fun addition to your Halloween parties and kids just love the "gross out" factor.

They’re very easy to make. Here’s the recipe. In place of Goobers, I used Butterfinger BBs for the pupils. Be warned, though. The eyeballs are very sweet. One goes a long way.

There’s a Pizza Village (IV) over by Weis on Crawford Avenue in Hanover Township. I’m sure their pizza is fine, but we always go for their burgers. Taste completely homemade, just the way we like. And you get more burger than bun, which is also a plus.

Dave paid them a visit and came home today with some burgers (and pierogies — about the best in town, second only to Pete’s Hotdog in South Side Bethlehem). I’m glad one of us isn’t afraid to go. He went because I refuse to anymore. Why? Because the big guy behind the counter refers to me loudly as The Cheeseburger Lady, since the only thing I ever get from there is cheeseburgers.

For a while, I was picking them up about once a week. I’m sure he meant to be funny about it, but it’s embarrassing to be referred to that way. I’m afraid there’s a picture of me in the back with four cheeseburgers dancing around my head and a caption that reads "The usual."

The day they start calling Dave "The Cheeseburger Guy" is the last time we set foot in there. Anyone know of another great burger joint in town? We just might need a new place.

Ever since Groman’s Bakery on Second Ave. in Bethlehem closed shop, I’ve been on the lookout for great new bakeries. My vegetarian friend and colleague, Jason Slipp, recommended Vegan Treats at 1444 Linden Street. For Dave’s birthday I bought an assortment of cakes, brownies and their awesome Chocolate Bombs.

This collection cost about $35. Pricey, perhaps, but totally worth it. The shop boasts a wide array of delectables, making it tough to choose just one. And aside from the vanilla cake, front row left, you’d never know they were made from vegan ingredients. The cake was slightly dry, and a little "off" tasting from normal cakes. But the rest were heavenly! That Peanut Butter Bomb in the front and Chocolate Bomb in the back got "forked" as soon as Dave lifted the lid. He ate his way through each decadent dessert little by little over the next week, right out of the box. Who needs a plate?

One other thing to love about this terrific little shop — they have a wonderful sense of humor. The day I visited they had the front door propped open with a miniature cast iron cow.