Sometimes, after being stuck indoors with The Heinous Dreaded Holiday Cold of 2011 for a few days, you just have to just go on walkabout to take pictures of stuff…of anything…if only to remind yourself that there really IS a real and tangible world out there. It’s not all just Facebook and Twitter, Flipboad and Tumbler. Yep…time to slap on the pit-stick, swish some Listerene, lace up the Dr Martens and hit the neighborhood pavement. Besides, I desperately wanted a mimosa and there was not a drop of orange juice in the refrigerator!

Hello, favorite local grocery…long time no see!


The cruel fallacy that are flowers in winter…


A plethora of olives: No one can eat just one


A local favorite: caught, cooked and ready to eat…pass the drawn butter, please!


Let them eat CAKE! 🙂 Sweets for the sweet…and for good luck in the new year…


Time to pay The Piper…


Aaaannnd…Ta-DAH! We emerge victorious, mission accomplished.
(Note: Doesn’t Darling Daughter look cute in her hammy pose? LOL)


All photos copyright D. Kessler 2012. Unauthorized use strictly prohibited. All rights reserved.

Tonight we sup on simple savory: Creamy neufchâtel, Cougar Gold White Sharp Cheddar (from the WSU campus in Pullman, Washington), French camembert, medium cheddar from Tillimook, Oregon, Italian dry salami, rye crackers, Fresh Hot House Roma tomatoes & spicy green olives. Mmmm…wash it all down with some holidazey Woodchuck Amber Hard Cider. Oh, and the Michael Bublé Christmas Special. Yeah it’s Felízidades hoy!


Tonight is about many cherished friends, copious quantities of outstanding food and outrageously good times. A very Happy Birthday to my dear friend Meg…partner in crime these long 19 years. Holy crap…it doesn’t feel that long!

So, here’s a picture of dinner…well, what’s left of it anyway…

Ivar’s Salmon House for Sunday Brunch…with twenty other people…all in honor of a new life arriving in a few weeks via one of my oldest friends. Yes, that’s right…A baby shower. Not your normal baby shower…for Not-Your-Normal crowd of unusual suspects. It was lovely.

Copious quantities of crab legs, prime rib, oysters on the half-shell, salmon of various preparations, eggs benedict, various porcine breakfast meats, crepes, to many salads to count, fruits and breads and tarts and eclairs. Mimosas, Bloody Marys, Coffee. Oh god, yes…Coffeeee.

I was too preoccupied with consuming the food to take pictures of it, so here instead are some snaps of the room, starting with the vaulted ceiling above our table…hung with ancient hand-hewn canoes and Native art:


A portion of the wall mural behind our table:

Mural (crop)

Some beautiful proud people gone before line the hall from the buffet to the dining room:

Old Ones 3

Let me just say that I could go on from here and rant and rave about the atrocities that have been done against those proud people at the hands of the evil white eye in search of profit and power. I have a pang in my gut that is not due to too much hollandaise or a questionable oyster or too many sweeties, but rather from the commercialism and greed thinly cloaked in a ambient tribute to those that have lost so much, even their own culture. They are not now the same peoples as they were for hundreds of years. They have been manipulated and marginalized, crushed into the background of society.

Yes, I could. I feel I should…but I just don’t have the energy. My fire has been doused with a dawning of futility. That and so much wonderful food today, with friends dear…and so now I must sleep.

Too. Much. Food.

© 2011 D. Kessler

I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t know how to eat like a skinny person. Well, actually, let me clarify. I do know how to eat like one very specific skinny person…the skinny person that I used to be.

For over 35 years I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, in quantities I wanted…and never gained a pound. I was that skinny bitch you hated, the one that wore a size 2 and ate burritos the size of a small child…WITH all the extra cheese and gi-normous glops of sour cream. I ate cake and pie for breakfast, drank breves instead of lattes, ordered fries drowning in melted cheese and dunked them in brown gravy before I washed them down with a full-bodied micro-brew amber ale.

The carbs and fat grams were off the charts. The party on my taste-buds was that to rival an exclusive event on Ibiza…and I drank to match. Oh yes, I drank a lot….frothy girly drinks, heavy wheat beers, sweet liqueurs and of course vodka. Vodka with juices. Hel-LO…can you say calories?

Through all of that…all those years, well into my late 30s…I remained a lithe 5-foot-6-inch 115 pounds.

Oh,I didn’t work out…I didn’t need to. Yes, my feet were my main source of transportation…that and public transit…and I didn’t have a sit-down job, but neither did I have job that required a ton of energy either. I wasn’t running around all day and night, lifting and moving or breaking a sweat…almost never. I just was that lucky girl with the amazing metabolism.  Until…

I’m not sure what happened. Could it be that age really just kicks in one day? I mean, it was like…*snap!…all of a sudden I was growing in places I didn’t want to grow. Sure, I finally got the much coveted “Twins”, but the heck made the deal to let their “cousins” move into The Upper and Lower Asslands, and gave permission to all manner of their “extended family” to take over bodily neighborhoods I didn’t know I had!  My awesome expensive club clothes…Lip Service, Catherine Coatney, Betsy Johnson, all of them…no longer fit. My work clothes weren’t comfortable…and my ankles started bothering me if I wore heels for too long.

So, I did what everybody always says to do: I cut back on all the things you’re supposed to, and then even cut them out altogether. It didn’t seem to help, not one bit. I tried going to the gym…I really did…but I all that happened was my appetite went up and, even though I didn’t give in to it, the scales still stayed the same. I try to eat sensible: small portions, whole grains, naturally low fat…it’s not working. It’s gotten so that I’m afraid to eat anything at all…anything…AT ALL…and I get serious guilt if I eat, period.

Add to that that I live with two adults that can eat anything and do and seem to think I should eat what they’re eating, when they’re eating it. AND I have a mother-in-law that thinks the world revolves around pasta and processed/packaged foods, so she delivers such to my house every Saturday…from Costco…gratis. I’m at my wits end.

Don’t get me wrong…I’m not shopping for clothes in the plus-sizes…yet. Oh-gawd-shoot-me-please-before-that-happens. But I sure as hell don’t know who the frak that woman is in the reflection as I walk past the glass-fronted shops and cafes on my way to and from The Slave Box…but she isn’t me and I don’t like her.

No sirree. I don’t like her one bit.

© 2011 D. Kessler

Someone I know broadcast on Facebook that they were making a cake. A man-friend. Making a CAKE. Not so very unusual, really, but further prompting and various questions by various other faces on Facebook revealed the oddity: Pineapple Upside-Down Cake! Wow.

My Gran’mere used to make that silly cake. I loved it as a kid, what with the ooey-gooey sticky “topping” & the marischino cherries peeking out like one-eyed monsters from their pineapple-ring rimmed sockets. However, even back then it confused me some. Even as a child I was aware there was something inconsistant with that silly cake & Gran’mere’s normal baked goods. She was eclaire & madeleine queen! Oh, and rum bundt cake with orange icing drizzled in perfect drips over its top & down its sides… & almond ring with its marzipan center… & these fried lacy cookie thingies with powdered sugar. Ah yes…this silly cake, with it’s beginnings in a box of Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker yellow cake mix (a MIX! o_O) & canned (?!) Dole pineapple rings was simply just not the same animal at all! It didn’t even belong in the same zoo!

Oh, but there was something about it that would make my eight-year-old mind turn a blind eye to that confusion, quiet the voice inside my head that questioned my Gran’mere’s reason, & put a huge smile on my face when I would discover it upon entering her empty kitchen through the back porch after school. Plop me in front of my afternoon cartoons & Gilligan’s Island re-runs in her living room with a large slab of that silly cake & a HUGE glass of ice-cold milk and I was as close to heaven as I cared to be! Be gone homework, household chores & clamouring friends & enemies outside! I had CAKE!

Ok. *sigh* Now I miss her mint green kitchen cabinets (mint green?!?) & the smell of the orange peel that she would put on the stove’s gas burner for the scent…

Who has a time machine, anyone? Anyone?? I promise perfect silly cake for anyone who gets me passage back to that perfect moment of bliss…

Food.  Ya gotta eat it or you die.  Fun, huh?  

You take some substance that used to be living…some plant or animal or derivative of such…kill it and maybe subject it to heat for a period of time in order to break down the molecular structure, therefore making it easier for your body to extract and utilize its nutrients.  Then you put in it your mouth and mix it around with bodily fluids that contain enzymes that even further break down its molecular structure, mashing and grinding it with the bone-bits protruding from your gum tissue, eventually transforming the dead plant/animal part into a pulpy and slightly lumpy paste.  After the paste is the sufficient gross-out texture, a slimy muscle in your mouth, with weird tiny bumps all over it, maneuvers the paste to the back of the mastication zone and shoves is down a tube which in turn squeezes the paste along its entire length to a bag full of acid where it sits fermenting for a few hours before being flushed into another extremely long tube that constricts and releases in turn, moving the paste-acid concoction along its entire length of anywhere from 20 to 27 feet.  Along its journey, the convulsing tube will extract moisture and elements that the body deems necessary.  After the concoction has run the gambit, the body, via the convulsive-tube-organic-extruder-machine pushes whatever it can’t use out your ass.

Yummy, huh?

Why do we do it? I mean…yeah, yeah, ya gotta eat or you die, but we do it far more than we should.  According to the CDC, over one third of adult Americans are obese.  Obviously, some part of it the aforementioned process is enjoyable.  To quote a certain very annoying Alaskan Governor…Ya betcha! 

Pile on all that ooey-gooey cheese on a chewy-crunchy carb-filled crust and add your choice of fatty animal-based proteins chock full o’ spices and smoky goodness!  A single slice of Domino’s Pizza can have 30 gm of fat, and 47 gm of carbs…and we all know we can’t eat just one slice!  Add one single 12 oz beer to that and you’ve added another 12 to 20 gm of carbs.  Ah-haah…it’s starting to make sense.

Also ever notice how good pizza is when you’ve got a hang-over?  I swear the best hang-over food is pizza, Mexican or Chinese food.  Why?  Um…the excessive carbs, protein and fat help to repair your battered body tissue is my guess.  And thank Zeus you can get it delivered!  ‘Cause you know the last thing in the world you want to do is get dressed and go out in public with a groggy cloud of what feels like fiberglass insulation wrapped around your head and scouring your eyeball sockets.

So, kiddies…that’s where we have ended up, right next to the “Name Your Item of Thanks Here” ATM-thingy:

I am thankful for DELIVERY.  The delivery of Dominos Pizza, the delivery of Chen’s Chinese Cuisine, the delivery of Insert-Your-Favorite-Establishment-Here.  Oh yes…because HELLL no, was I gonna get my ass anywhere near any place today that anyone could see me.  Not after last night at The Mecca with Cory and Dave and Attilla and Stevo and Kirsten and Erica and Andrea and Kaitryn…and whoever else I saw there last night in my celebratory haze.

HELLL no.  Give me the dark, comfy cave of my apartment and the glow of my ‘puter and some ooey-gooey cheesy goodness…and I’m back to sleep now…

© 2008 D. Kessler