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50 Days Of Bummer

So on March 16, the day our offer on a house was made and accepted, we sat near the window at Brasa, eating braised beef and catfish sandwiches, fried yuca, yams with andouille, and apple-cabbage slaw.

Closing is, if things go as planned, on May 5. And in the 50 days between, we're going to try not to eat out At all. At least on our dime. This is, in all probability, a completely unnecessary action fueled by fiscal paranoia, but what the hell.

Learning By Fuckup

I learned some things about very, very, very unripe avocados last night:

Comments Redux

Since the comments restrictions are clearly more trouble for people than it's worth, and since I found a place where I can mass-delete comments instead of deleting them one by one, I've gone back to normal-style comments, and will just nuke spam as soon as I see it.


As a semi-permanent measure, because of the comments spam, I've had to disable posting from users without an account or not logged in.

I'll chat with Mikey and see about options, but it's either this or approvals, since they seem to either be cracking Captcha faster than we can update it, or they've found cheap labor able to cut and paste three comments per minute

Either way, I think we're all sick of counterfeit Ugg ads. If you have password issues the site can't resolve, contact me using Twitter or the link from YAD.

By The Way...

Statistically speaking, I can't imagine that the mush smaller Forkbastard audience includes people who don't also read You Are Dumb, but if not, you may want to pop over and take a look this weekend.

Instincts Vs. Recipes

I've written before about the importance of just developing your instincts when cooking, but it's also important to listen to them. What follows is a stirring tale of two meals - one meticulous and mediocre, one improvised and successful.

Some Notes And Stuff

Just a few small items of interest as we finish out the week:

Things That Suck In The Kitchen, Volume 94: Having to remake the first part of a beet salad because, as one goes to season it, one's squeeze-bulb one-handed pepper grinder disintegrates in your hand, sending about a cup of whole peppercorns, plus bits and pieces, plus chunks of plastic, into the bowl. I love the convenience of those things, but beyond that, they just suck.

Apparently, I Like Cherries

So Friday evening, I found myself at a gathering of friends at the Longfellow Grill, a neighborhoody sort of place on Lake Street down near the river. The details aren't important for Forkbastardry purposes, but I was there, a bit hungry after dinner, and perusing the appetizers.

Spam Death

The recent spate of comment spam has been dealt with, and measures have been taken behind the scenes to hopefully prevent anything that egregious from happening again.

Thanks to everyone for not replying to any of them.

A Few Quick Notes

First, a quick memo to an unnamed and unknown neighbor. I understand wanting a snack at 9:30 pm on a Sunday. I understand wanting that snack to be bacon. I understand not being able to swing thick-cut heirloom pork hand-smoked artisinal bacon. BUT.

Your bacon smells like Band-Aids. Seriously. And your bacony bandaid waft permeated my apartment. Stop buying bacon at the dollar store, or, alternately, take the plastic wrap off before you cook it. Dear god.

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