Effusive adjective (as defined by Google)
- expressing feelings of gratitude, pleasure, or approval in an unrestrained or heartfelt manner.
- GEOLOGY (of igneous rock) poured out when molten and later solidified (not germane to our discussion today, but interesting nonetheless-debbie).
Best happy dance of all time.
“I could sense your enthusiasm.”-The Café Driade barista, when I discovered they weren’t out of baguettes. Also, what The Kid now says to me when I get excited about something—normally 8-10 times a day, and at least twice that when I’m somewhere I like, or when the weather cools off, or there’s cake involved, or I’m wearing new shoes, or a favorite song is playing…so really, I guess, most of the time.
I know this isn’t technically cake, but just look at that frosting. Hubba hubba!
I’ve always been like that. So much so that my shirt sleeves are permanently stained red from my heart being worn out there.
When I was little I loved when this pretentious baker would appear on Sesame Street to announce and describe the very fancy dessert he carried. He’d then fall down the stairs and end up covered in it. I loved picking out my new lunch box every year at back to school shopping. I loved the look on my big brother’s friend’s faces when I’d catch the football that they threw extra hard to make the pesky little kid go away and stop yelling, “Over here! I’m open!”
I looked forward all week to sitting in front of the TV watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating Lucky Charms with my brother Homer. I loved the Sundays when I’d go along with him on his paper route and then we’d hit Hardees. We left before sunup, it was so early Elizabeth City was deserted and belonged only to us. Eating a Hardees roast beef sandwich at 8AM feels to an eight-year-old like delicious rule-breaking. Sometimes we’d even go fishing after eating.
In elementary school in Puerto Rico, there was an annual event that I eagerly anticipated, but which my parents dreaded and feared—the arrival of the Scholastic book catalog. We’d get the brochure early for browsing and for our parents to write a check. For me, it was the catalyst to week-long negotiations with my own parental check writers. I always got less than I wanted, and they always spent more than they’d planned.
But that’s the definition of compromise, isn’t it?
In junior high in San Diego, I loved our twice-yearly trips to Disneyland. And this Greek diner, Troy’s near our house. It’s where I had my first patty melt; cheesy, grilled ambrosia, and liver; a horrible, horrible practical joke played on my taste buds.
I loved going with my mom to work on Saturdays. She worked part-time during the week so she could take us to school and pick us up, then made up the hours on Saturday. The office was deserted, so I’d pack a couple books and hang out with her. She worked in La Jolla, one of the most exclusive towns in California. I’d go out to pick up lunch for us, or window shop, or visit the library.
I loved that library. It was small, quiet, and had a great young adult section. But best of all, the library had one of my very favorite things. I mean it’s up there with potato salad and new boots. It’s a nook. A little semi-private corner somewhere, preferably a padded window seat, made for curling up, reading and daydreaming. 
I think my personality was pretty much finished cooking by junior high. Looking over my list, all that stuff still makes me happy—even Lucky Charms, and the clumsy Sesame Street pastry chef. Although, now I’d add Petey and The Kid, and walking in the woods with my dog, oh, and mowing the lawn, and lattes, and the State Fair, and Costco, and my Hunter wellies, and new sweats, and…well, you can probably sense my enthusiasm.
Thanks for your time.
One would think, to hear me whine week after week about too spicy this, and hellishly hot that, that my favorite cuisine might be something famously bland.
But I still have the heat tolerance of a snow angel, so I’ve learned some self-protective hacks.
And while some folks prove this doable on a daily basis, I’m the cheapest of cheap drunks who would be swinging from the chandelier or napping under a table after three or four swigs.
Green is usually (but not always, not by a long shot) milder than red. Green sauces normally contain tomatillos, a sour fruit that looks like a green tomato, and brings no heat to the party. And of course there is my very good, very green friend; avocado who feels to me like it cools thing down a bit.
1-8 ½ oz. package Jiffy corn muffin mix
Preheat oven to 400. Spray 13X9 pan with cooking spray.
Makes 8 servings.
Thanks for your time.
If you’re ever out shopping and you see a crazy lady filling her cart with Brach’s pumpkins, Boo Berry and Franken Berry cereal, singing, “It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year”, and looking more like a demented Disney princess and less like a serious journalist, that’ll be me.
And the very best of all, the high holy days of the fall, is the North Carolina State Fair. I love it like a diva loves drama. I look forward to it all year long.
The Kid and I have begun working with Flavor NC host Lisa Prince in judging specialty cooking contests. And as a writer, I’ve been invited to attend the State Fair media luncheon, the Monday before opening day.
Today was that red-letter day.
This year they invented the arepa burger. They filled the arepa with a moist tasty burger, tomato, onion, and those little potato sticks. Then dress them with two sauces; a pink aioli, and a cilantro chimichurri-like concoction. This was the item that intrigued The Kid most, and I was requested to make sure I try.
Pastry chef, Lionel Vatinet, owns the astonishing bakery La Farm, in Cary. Almost everything he makes is the best of its kind I’ve ever eaten. His Carolina Gold rice bread is my absolute favorite bread. His desserts are the stuff of dreams. He makes his own potato chips, for cripe’s sake.
This year, he made s’mores. But these are not the s’mores of camping trips of yore. The crazy Frenchman makes the Graham crackers and marshmallows from scratch. Then he made chocolate ganache for dunking, and before it dried, sprinkled on candied bacon.
But of course Chef Lionel’s treat was so good it transcended any gelatin weirdness. I took one bite out of politeness, and Could.Not.Stop.Eating. I foresee more s’mores in my future, and probably a few road trips to Cary after the fair.
Thanks for your time.
Last week I whined and complained for 600 words about Chef Anne Burrell’s misuse of eggs. The original plan was to limit myself to 50-75 words of grousing, then use the rest of the time to talk the magnificence that is an egg. But it was me hitting those keys—the girl who’s made griping an Olympic-level performance art.
And, eggs are pretty darn wonderful. At 17 cents per, they are cheap nutrition bombs. First of all, unlike say, Cap’n Crunch, Eggos, or even buttered toast, the ingredients list of an egg contains only one item—egg. No need to fret over processed chemicals, refined sugars, or artificial flavors and colors.
Within a healthy diet, eggs contribute to muscle strength, healthy pregnancy, brain function, and eye health.
But the trait that makes eggs a food above and beyond all those other things in your grocery cart is just how many different ways an egg can be cooked—not as an ingredient in a dish, but the dish itself. You know those tall pleated hats chefs wear? The theory is that’s how many ways an Escoffier-level chef can cook an egg. My own culinary-school educated child can make 35 different preparations.
As a kid when I was sick and home from school, my mom used to make me soft-boiled eggs. I honestly don’t remember eating them not on a tray, in bed.
My mother served them in a pastel-colored Tupperware bowl, salted, dressed with a dollop of margarine, and speckled with a liberal sprinkling of pepper. It might not have been fancy, but it was delicious, and always made me feel loved and nurtured.
2 large eggs
Remove from shell into a small bowl, dress and eat. Or, leave in shell, leave out butter, and dip toast fingers into egg. Serves 1. 
Thanks for your time.
I don’t normally keep up with new bands and new songs these days. But occasionally, a TV commercial will play some music that I like. Then I’ll go to the google and find out what it is and who created it.
A few years back there was a Coke advert which showcased this really fun, peppy music. It was a genre I’d never heard of before; electro swing. They take old school jazz and swing music, and remix it with a dance beat. It’s the only music I mow the lawn to anymore.
In the process of learning about and listening to electro swing, I made a musical discovery that has become very important to me and very close to my heart. It’s an odd little British category from a strange, tea-drenched musical corner called Chap Hop. It’s rap but written and performed by eccentric British gentlemen.
Chap Hop is what might happen if Steampunk and Gilbert and Sullivan’s modern major general had a loony love child.
From the biography he wrote of himself on the Tea Sea Record Shop website:
1.) He has an orangutan butler named Geoffrey.
Ah, to me questions like this are the very essence of scientific enquiry. That’s how I ended up with my flock of vampire kittens and the goat with all those extra knees. Usually the simplest way is to create both creatures and then have them fight to the death. It’s still the method used to settle scientific debate in 90% of British laboratories.
I am very much a believer that any day can be perfect if you have enough caffeine, cake and access to potentially dangerous equipment. For me, a day answering the questions of a mysterious yet alluring American journalist is about as good as it gets {debbie here: He means me!}.
It’s located just outside Rhyl in Wales, the only surviving business on the once thriving seafront. It opens for exactly one afternoon a year and if you are still inside when the doors shut, you will have to wait the full year to be released.
4.) If I were to ask the Queen, “Professor Elemental?” what might she say?
Gosh, I have a soft spot for both of them really. They represent both sides of the American dream- that one day you could get famous for doing something you love and marry a prince, or alternatively that you could get famous for just being awful.
Every single Sunday is Thanksgiving to us. EVERY SUNDAY. Yes we vary the meat, whether roast chicken, lamb, beef or badger, but the basics remain the same. We never tire of it. Never. Basically, we don’t like change in Britain and fear things we don’t understand. That’s why we only got the internet last month and still watch comedy programmes from the 1970s every Christmas day.
I listen to all of the American rap, well apart from all that mumbling nonsense. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince were my gateway into the world of Hip Hop and I love everyone from Pete Rock to Joey Bada$$, from De La Soul to Black Thought. There are a few chaps over here that your readers should check out too. Have a look for Dr Syntax, Dizraeli, Ocean Wisdom and Longusto for a slice of British Hip Hop pie.
Exactly as you’d hope, but more so. It took place in a grand British club in Mayfair and featured some of the most beautifully odd people you have ever met in your life. The whole thing was a wonderful window into a whole other world. I rather liked it.
100% Umbrage Free
1.) The first song of yours I ever heard was, “All in Together”. Would you mind talking about it?
2.) Do you care to speak about Brexit, and do you believe Europe and nations to the west *ahem, ahem* have demonstrated what others have categorized as a romance with the far right, and a flirtation with fascism?
Watching the likes of Trump or Farrage break the delicate strands of civility that hold our society together means that we have to be much more outspoken in our positivity. We need to straddle that fine line between standing up for what we believe in and not stooping to the level of the opposition.
If the idea of an increasingly divided world seems overwhelming, then I take the opinion that you should try to help the people around you: do good deeds for strangers, say nice things to people you respect on the internet, volunteer with people who need it. You might not be able to change the whole world, but you can change your world.
That was my favourite song on our last ‘Menagerie’ album (a non-professor hip hop group featuring Dr Syntax, Nick Maxwell and Tom Caruana). Austerity did untold damage to the most vulnerable people in our society- hundreds of libraries closed, benefits to the disabled were savagely cut, school budgets were cut to the bone. Sadly, that divide grows ever wider too, I was just with a friend who works with young people and a teenager client of his killed himself after counselling sessions were cut. The human cost of all this is terrifying. Political Hip Hop might not change things in and of itself, but it can take a snapshot of where we are and how we got here.
6.) Famousbirthdays.com calls Professor Elemental a comical musician, similar to Weird Al Yankovic. Although I’m a Weird Al fan, I take extreme umbrage to this description on your behalf. Prof is a creation of Shakespearian complexity and is the W. C. Handy of chap hop. Please speak of the creation process, and tell our readers whether you harbor any amount of umbrage on your own behalf?
I am completely umbrage-free. Like most creative people who manage to make a living out of it, I am incredibly lucky. The Professor came on the scene just as Steampunk was taking off, without Steampunk, there’s no way this would have been a career. Thanks for the nice compliments, if anything the Professor owes an awful lot to comedy archetypes before him from Chuck Jone’s Daffy Duck to Toad of Toad Hall. There’s a lot of Vivian Stanshall in there too.
I was just starting to lose my way as a middle aged, white, middle class rapper. I continually made bad choices in front of a regular rap crowd (wearing an easter bonnet or doing a show in drag) The Professor took me away from the over-serious UK rap scene towards a tribe of like-minded weirdos to party with.
9.) What do Brits get wrong about Americans?
10.) Might you share one piece of advice for Donald Trump, and one for Elizabeth Windsor?
Anne Burrell is kind of a big deal at Food Network.
But as a baker, she has really blond hair. And, as a baker, she loves spending time in upstate New York with her family. And, as a baker, Chef Burrell studied cooking in Italy. All this witty bush beating is my way of saying that her baking muscles are either undeveloped or atrophied.
Remember, these contestants are folks who show up and make their signature dish of mole marinara spaghetti studded with peanut M&M’s or matzo ball gummy bear gazpacho. They believe that eggplants are some sort of purple bird egg and corned beef is both a meat (beef) and a vegetable (corn).
When it’s all said and done, baking is science. It’s chemistry. If you can read, follow directions and learn a few terms and techniques, you can be a successful baker. You may not be an inspired pastry chef, but you can turn out after school treats, bake sale cupcakes, and pie for Thanksgiving dinner without blowing anything up or killing anybody.
My English teacher, Mrs. Flood told me something that I’ve come to believe is true in most endeavors: first you have to learn the rules, then and only then can you bend and/or break them. She was talking grammar, but it applies to baking. Thus, when teaching novices, it’s imperative that they are taught best practices.
I let out an involuntary shriek and got angry on behalf of all the attentive students, both on the show, and at home watching.
Secondly, you never dump egg from shell straight to bowl. An eggshell shard that has escaped along with the egg will be impossible to find and remove amongst the other contents. Nothing quells my appetite faster than eating an egg dish and feeling that crunch of doom as you bite down on an errant shell. 
And what if something is wrong with the egg? Do you want a bunch of blood in your white cake? Or what if it’s rotten? Yuck. You’ve just wasted every other ingredient that made it into your bowl before the eggs. And what if you don’t have enough on hand to recreate the recipe? You have to run to the store or abandon the project.
So, the grasshopper must be taught diligently, paying strict attention to proper procedure. Then when the educated cook chooses to cut corners, they take an informed risk. And if/when it gets screwed up, then I know I have only myself to blame.
Hi,
Today I bring you a story that almost didn’t make it to print. I am The Kid, the offspring of your normal columnist, and recently back from vacation in Budapest and Vienna.
These days, curious tourists are welcome to tour the labyrinth, with only occasional arrow signs on the walls as guides. Not long after entering, you are greeted with a fork in the road. One side leads towards more of the dimly lit labyrinth. The other heads towards the Maze of Darkness. This section is totally unlit, and your only guide is the rope attached to the wall. By the end, the rope was my best friend. I feel like the rope really understood me.
Thanks for your time.
Greetings from sunny Budapest!
Regular readers will be familiar with The Kid, the offspring of your regular columnist. I just got back from vacation, and she asked if I would be willing to talk a little about the food of Budapest. I offered Toronto as well, but as I never left the airport, it would be “Yes, Starbucks here tastes like nearly every other Starbucks.”
As every meal shared amongst friends in Budapest starts with a small glass of palinka, I’ll start there. Palinka is a clear fruit brandy that is traditionally served before a meal. The idea is that you drink the palinka, and it prepares your digestive system for food. Every restaurant and pub I went to had at least 5 and 20 flavors. I guess they were all just hoping to ready people for digestion? I’m sure that was it.
My first meal in Budapest was Chicken Paprikas. It was at a restaurant my Airbnb host pointed me to, and it was a perfect introduction to Hungarian food. Chicken Paprikas is slow-cooked chicken, in a creamy red gravy. It’s full of Hungarian paprika, and served with spaetzli, a homemade egg noodle. While it’s traditional and delicious, I learned later that most Hungarians save Paprikas for the cooler months at my next culinary outing.
There is a dinner hosted by a local, called Meet and Eat in Budapest. While the host is from Budapest, she moved away to go to school for a hospitality degree. When she got back home, she found that there just weren’t enough jobs, so she made one. Four nights a week, she opens her home to tourists of all different nationalities. With the help of her parents, she cooks family recipes and pairs each of the three courses with a different wine.
All the courses were amazing, and so was the company. Who would have thought that I would spend my Hungarian vacation sharing a meal with people from Scotland, France, and England? The stand-out dish, though, was the dessert. It was a Dobras Torte, a chocolate and vanilla mouse sandwiched between chocolate sponge cake. It was fluffy and lightly sweet. I don’t really have a sweet tooth (a stark difference between myself and your regular columnist, who would list birthday cake as her favorite food), so the cake was a perfect end to a wonderful meal.
If my prattling on about Budapest has got you excited for the food, try this one on for size:
¼ cup butter + 1 tablespoon
For the past few years when the entire Matthews Family band can gather together, we try to catch an on-demand episode of Face Off, a SyFy network special effects makeup competition. The show has made me both more aware of the creations and more appreciative of what folks go through to create believable science fiction productions.
But there were a couple of things during Voyager that made me yell at the TV in frustration.
Dear Picard,
Trek on!
bull city mom 