I’ve been living in Brooklyn for over two years now, and there’s never been a second where I regretted it. It’s not like living in NYC is easy: the rents are insane (and getting worse by the day), the subway can make you murdery (unless you’re lucky enough to run into pizza rat), and scoring a movie ticket for less than $15 is a real bargain. Nevertheless, there’s hardly a week that goes by where I’m not reminded of why I belong here.
Case in point:
Yep, Ample Hills, makers of the BEST ICE CREAM EVER, somehow scored a license to make a limited edition Star Wars ice cream. Did I mention that Ample Hills is practically in my neighborhood? That’s right, the night before The Force Awakens opens, I get to walk down the street and pick up my goddamn Star Wars ice cream.
HOLY SHIT, NERDS, THIS IS WHERE I WAS MEANT TO BE.
(Mind you, I paid $36.00 for four pints of ice cream, but whatever: worth it.)
Hey, so remember last week when I said I had grown out of eating weird garbage for the sake of hilarious blog content? And do you remember a couple days ago when I said I wasn’t going to mention Star Wars again this week?
In fairness, I kind of blame Roberta for this, since she gave me a box of the cereal as a joke gift for my birthday (along with several other very thoughtful Star Wars themed gifts, including a boss BB-8 shirt). What am I going to do, not eat it once it’s in my house?
So what’s the verdict? It’s actually shockingly delicious. I mean, full of sugar, and designed to appeal to the palate of an excitable 9 year old who likes the taste of garbage and chicken nuggets. But that said: pretty good. It’s kind of a fun flashback to when I thought cereal had to be marshmallow-laden and fruity to be good (and now you eat plain Corn Flakes every morning, young Aaron! Haw-haw!). I’m certainly not going to buy another box when this one is gone…but I will be kind of sad.
Also, I think eating sugary baby cereal has flipped some kind of switch in my brain, because I also just bought tickets to the Christmas edition of “Spoons, Toons, & Booze” at Nitehawk. Should be awesome. I hope they have Corn Pops.
Sign of personal growth: I no longer have any desire to subject my body to the terrors of novelty Halloween Oreos, Candy Corn M&Ms, or anything of their ilk.
Let’s be clear about this, nerds: as I take my final steps along the road to middle age, I have in no way, shape, or form, forsaken the sweeter things in life. This is still me we’re talking about, and a macaron place just opened a few blocks away from my apartment. Know what I’ve been eating a lot lately? Fucking macarons. Plus, I have Biscoff toast for breakfast every weekend. And our freezer is never short on ice cream. Guys, the point is: I am a gross pig.
But! — and this is a big but, Sir Mix A Lot — if I’m going to eat that shit, I want it to be good. And by good I certainly don’t mean fancy; Ben and Jerrys is still my ice cream brand of choice. No, I simply mean I can’t subject my body to the pain and suffering of caramel apple Twix for your entertainment anymore. Growth! I’m all growed up!
That said, I will apparently still watch terrible horror movie sequels for the sake of blog material. Which, I should probably get back to that. That’ll be…fun.
Today’s post was supposed to be about how awesome I am because I made a Biscoff cake in the goddamned microwave. Alas, the cake did not turn out as I planned. Mind you, I’m still totally amazed that you can make a cake in the microwave, but this one came out dry and bland. It’s entirely possible I screwed it up somehow, but I don’t really care enough to find out. If you try it, and it comes out awesome, let me know.
What I need to do is choose a baking challenge that’s slightly more difficult (and likely more rewarding) than a cake mug, but waaay less complicated than the Grand Budapest Hotel courtesan au chocolate. Good god; I’m glad that L.V. Anderson tried it so I don’t have to.
I know that the “hey, I cooked something!” posts are as boring and self-indulgent as the “hey, I can grow hair out of my face!” posts, but cut me some slack, nerds: this is all new, exciting territory for me. Gone is the babyfaced toast chef; in his place is a bearded creator of irresistible cakes and magical pork dishes. I have new powers, and, as befits our modern society of narcissistic over-sharing, I feel the need to report back to you every time I wield them.
My latest culinary conquering is this Jamie Oliver Steak and Guinness pie recipe. I’ve had it made for me a couple of times, but I’ve never been brave enough to try and make it for myself. Instead, I spent the last two years merely dreaming about it while I crammed burritos into my face and willed them to taste as good. They never did, but in a cruel twist of irony, I now dream of Chipotle all the time.
And guess what? Okay, fine, you guessed correctly: I made it, and it was a success. The pie tasted just as fucking amazing as I remembered it, and I didn’t blow anything up. I did burn a couple fingers, but this nothing new; par for the course. First degree burns are a badge of honor. And besides, the pie was so next level delicious, it was a small price to pay. If you’re looking for a good, hearty winter dish, I can’t recommend this enough. I left out the cheese, but before you dismiss this as me being cheese-o-phobic, I should point out that this is how I’ve always had it, and honestly, I don’t think it would be as good with the cheese. But either way, this will be your new favorite thing ever. Assuming you like things that are good.
Just remember: When the pan’s been sitting in the oven for an hour and a half, it will be hot.