Well, never let it be said that in my cousin's house that the cupboard is bare. It very nearly is. But not BARE.
This is what I scraped together today while she was at work:
Kraft Mac -n- Cheese, Bush's Baked Beans and assorted mixed frozen veggies.
I began with boiling the water, while I chopped red onion,
"Wendy," I asked the oldest daughter, "do you think we'll need two boxes or just one?"
"Just one," she said.
While I was waiting for the water to boil, I made a cucumber sandwich to serve as an appetizer. A white bread roll, heated until steaming in the microwave, slathered with mayo, then cucumber slices -and last, celery seed to finish it, was served promptly. Wendy finished it gratefully and fed some of it to the children (there were children present).
The youngest child (my cousin's grandchild) David walked around carrying two cucumber slices, one in each hand. A double fisted eater!
To the macaroni, I added four tablespoons of real butter, the cheese sauce mix (a disgusting orange color, to be sure) and the onion. It looked a bit dry and I was about to add some milk. But the milk in the refrigerator did not have one of those reassuring "we don't use RBST on our cows" labels. I'm sorry, without that label? I'm not drinking it. The last thing I need is to have some weird hormonal thing happen to me because I had the misfortune to ingest such a noxious substance. So I moistened it with almond milk and you'd never know the difference.
The baked beans went into the pan and cooked while I microwaved each plate with frozen veggies. I fed Wendy first, then Isobel her sister (mother of David) and then myself.
It was okay. The mac-n-cheese needed more flavor, but if you mixed it with the baked beans, it was pretty good.
Wendy failed to eat her veggies.
I was sad about that. But at least she helped me finish off the rest of the mac-n-cheese. She was right. We did only need one package.
Until next time, my loyal fans..
KISSES!!!
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Chinese Food
My darling readers, it's been awhile since I've blogged, mea culpa.
Now to the dish: my mother's Chinese cooking.
The interesting thing about my mother, is that even though she is Swedish, she will cook most any other ethnic cuisine. But she will not be caught dead making Swedish meatballs in brown gravy over noodles, of which, incidentally, I love.
First the beef: tender strips of the finest cut of meat sizzling in a spicy brown gravy, complete with scallions (which I really really like). It is served over brown rice and topped with green beans. This from the farm stand kind, not the frozen variety.
Next, the chicken: the smell of that chicken was so sublime that you would sell your soul, merely to eat some. My nose was in nirvana. Scallions, tomatoes and brown rice were also in this dish, but it was a different sauce.
My mother had learned Chinese Cookery from a book written by two Benedictine nuns who had escaped Communist China. Unfortunately, the book has been lost in the mists of time, ergo, I must seek it out, find it and return it to it's rightful place: my mother's recipe bookshelf.
I have just left the confines of hearth and home to journey to a place far far away: my cousin Danny's house.
Danny is a hoot and plans to take me out for Chinese food. Cheap Chinese food, she says.
Well, just 'cos it's cheap doesn't mean it CAN'T be good, but I will let you, my dear readers know about that!
I remain, still on vacay,
Hilda Stinson, food pornographer extraordinaire
Now to the dish: my mother's Chinese cooking.
The interesting thing about my mother, is that even though she is Swedish, she will cook most any other ethnic cuisine. But she will not be caught dead making Swedish meatballs in brown gravy over noodles, of which, incidentally, I love.
First the beef: tender strips of the finest cut of meat sizzling in a spicy brown gravy, complete with scallions (which I really really like). It is served over brown rice and topped with green beans. This from the farm stand kind, not the frozen variety.
Next, the chicken: the smell of that chicken was so sublime that you would sell your soul, merely to eat some. My nose was in nirvana. Scallions, tomatoes and brown rice were also in this dish, but it was a different sauce.
My mother had learned Chinese Cookery from a book written by two Benedictine nuns who had escaped Communist China. Unfortunately, the book has been lost in the mists of time, ergo, I must seek it out, find it and return it to it's rightful place: my mother's recipe bookshelf.
I have just left the confines of hearth and home to journey to a place far far away: my cousin Danny's house.
Danny is a hoot and plans to take me out for Chinese food. Cheap Chinese food, she says.
Well, just 'cos it's cheap doesn't mean it CAN'T be good, but I will let you, my dear readers know about that!
I remain, still on vacay,
Hilda Stinson, food pornographer extraordinaire
Friday, December 17, 2010
Choclatification: The Chocolate Trifecta
Can we be honest right here and now?
It's about the sin of choclatification.
After dinner, I ate not just a chocolate brownie (rich and smooth, filled with tiny little nuts that crunched so agreeably) but a small container of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Brownie ice cream (which, while rich, cold and creamy, had very little actual brownie in it-if at all) I ate these, I did, while I drank European hot chocolate (the milk being almond milk-because you all know how gross it is to contemplate where cow's milk comes from: cow teats (which, incidentally, is pronounced "tits" not "teets"- just so those of you in the ignoramous community know and are set straight). And let's not go into how FILTHY cows are. 'Cos they ARE!
I wish I could say it was glorious. But all I got was a stomachache. :(
*sigh*
Well, I have to go. Cap is looking expectantly at me. With those puppy dog eyes.
Dammit.
At least tonight he's wearing pajamas.
G'night, my loyal fans!
Kisses,
Hilda
It's about the sin of choclatification.
After dinner, I ate not just a chocolate brownie (rich and smooth, filled with tiny little nuts that crunched so agreeably) but a small container of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Brownie ice cream (which, while rich, cold and creamy, had very little actual brownie in it-if at all) I ate these, I did, while I drank European hot chocolate (the milk being almond milk-because you all know how gross it is to contemplate where cow's milk comes from: cow teats (which, incidentally, is pronounced "tits" not "teets"- just so those of you in the ignoramous community know and are set straight). And let's not go into how FILTHY cows are. 'Cos they ARE!
I wish I could say it was glorious. But all I got was a stomachache. :(
*sigh*
Well, I have to go. Cap is looking expectantly at me. With those puppy dog eyes.
Dammit.
At least tonight he's wearing pajamas.
G'night, my loyal fans!
Kisses,
Hilda
What the Best Cockroach? Cockroach of the Sea!
First, as promised: dish-about the Captain. He DID come to visit. His body pressed against the glass and then through it, on top of me, while I tried to sleep. He tried to cuddle me. I was annoyed. I was tired.
I finally allowed him to have his way with me. He left soundlessly as I drifted off. Finally. I was TIRED! Dammit.
Today was very trying.
Lunch was very uninspiring because it was exactly the same thing I had the day before. And I was tired.
Dinner? It was quite the t'do.
Because I bothered to purchase a lobster tail for myself.
The lobster, for those of you who don't know this- is the cockroach of the sea. Which makes me wonder: why don't people eat cockroaches? If lobster is delicious and the cockroach of the sea, then why can't cockroaches be good? I mean, they would at least be crunchy. But they do have a particular smell to them, if I am remembering correctly (my uncle has a rent controlled apartment in New York that comes complete with cockroaches) from the time I was seven and the fam visited New York. So, they might have to have their flavor disguised somehow. OR people would have to develop a taste for them. Oh. I'm sorry. Am I making you feel queasy? My apologies. But, this IS porno. So suck it up, people!
So I had no clue on what to do with this lobster tail-save boil it, which I thought would be a bit harsh. So I found a few articles that suggested steaming it (thank you, God for the internet!). I steamed it, thought it was done, then changed my mind (it looked a bit raw) and then added some broccoli. So there was the lobster tail, nearly done, and the frozen broccoli, in the steamer, together, making sweet sweet love. Or so we would hope.
I went into the freezer to get some butter and cut some off. I popped a wee bit in my mouth. (You all KNOW how I LOVE frozen butter!)
Eventually the lobster and the broccoli were done and I placed them on the paper plate (I don't "DO" dishes during the week) with the butter.
The lobster still had some shell on it, which I broke off with my fingers. There was black stuff underneath. It was kind of icky looking, but I ate it anyway. I ate all of it, except the shell of course (who eats lobster shells?!).
The verdict? I don't think I would buy it again. I think lobster should be eaten in a restaurant when one is with a boy who loves you. Or WANTS to love you. Part of the joy of eating lobster is having a companion to eat it with-because by itself, it's actually kind of wormy.
Yes. Okay. Back to my veganism. I don't care. Sometimes living things gross me out. I'm squeamish. I don't like the sight of blood. Or hearts beating. It's just disgusting. I don't like to think about where food comes from. I don't.
And to be completely honest? If I'm going to eat flesh? Their 'ent nothing like steak. Filet.
Seduce me with THAT, Cowboys.
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
I finally allowed him to have his way with me. He left soundlessly as I drifted off. Finally. I was TIRED! Dammit.
Today was very trying.
Lunch was very uninspiring because it was exactly the same thing I had the day before. And I was tired.
Dinner? It was quite the t'do.
Because I bothered to purchase a lobster tail for myself.
The lobster, for those of you who don't know this- is the cockroach of the sea. Which makes me wonder: why don't people eat cockroaches? If lobster is delicious and the cockroach of the sea, then why can't cockroaches be good? I mean, they would at least be crunchy. But they do have a particular smell to them, if I am remembering correctly (my uncle has a rent controlled apartment in New York that comes complete with cockroaches) from the time I was seven and the fam visited New York. So, they might have to have their flavor disguised somehow. OR people would have to develop a taste for them. Oh. I'm sorry. Am I making you feel queasy? My apologies. But, this IS porno. So suck it up, people!
So I had no clue on what to do with this lobster tail-save boil it, which I thought would be a bit harsh. So I found a few articles that suggested steaming it (thank you, God for the internet!). I steamed it, thought it was done, then changed my mind (it looked a bit raw) and then added some broccoli. So there was the lobster tail, nearly done, and the frozen broccoli, in the steamer, together, making sweet sweet love. Or so we would hope.
I went into the freezer to get some butter and cut some off. I popped a wee bit in my mouth. (You all KNOW how I LOVE frozen butter!)
Eventually the lobster and the broccoli were done and I placed them on the paper plate (I don't "DO" dishes during the week) with the butter.
The lobster still had some shell on it, which I broke off with my fingers. There was black stuff underneath. It was kind of icky looking, but I ate it anyway. I ate all of it, except the shell of course (who eats lobster shells?!).
The verdict? I don't think I would buy it again. I think lobster should be eaten in a restaurant when one is with a boy who loves you. Or WANTS to love you. Part of the joy of eating lobster is having a companion to eat it with-because by itself, it's actually kind of wormy.
Yes. Okay. Back to my veganism. I don't care. Sometimes living things gross me out. I'm squeamish. I don't like the sight of blood. Or hearts beating. It's just disgusting. I don't like to think about where food comes from. I don't.
And to be completely honest? If I'm going to eat flesh? Their 'ent nothing like steak. Filet.
Seduce me with THAT, Cowboys.
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
Thursday, December 16, 2010
When Food Loses All Meaning
I had a date the other night.
He was a GENUINE Southern Gentleman. Yeah. Even his name was Southern: Beau.
He was tall, he was dark-and yes, readers, he was handsome. And, I completely, well, not COMPLETELY, but somewhat, did, forget about food. He made me laugh. I made him laugh. We drank, we ate, we kissed. It was sheer perfection.
And I had lost my edge.
But let's get back to what I'm good at. What I really love-and I think you should know by now what THAT is.
Today I had a craving for a peanut butter sandwich with cucumber on sprouted wheat bread. I ate half a sandy. HALF. Because there was more. I'm still force fluidating, so an entire bucket of beef broth. The usual cucumber, sliced thick and served with seaweed chips (sixty calories for a WHOLE package-and you get the sensation of eating potato chips) was delicious.
But what I really love lay baking in the oven: it was a turkey meat loaf muffin. The mashed potatoes are lightly infused with parmesan cheese and heavy cream. So delicious. But oddly enough, they don't bake so well in the oven, they are better from the microwave-and since I don't have one, I've decided to just eat these at work from now on. Yeah. It wasn't so good. Dammit!
And I ate half a greek salad. I'm just full. I blame the bucket of beef broth.
This is my modus o: I write, I toggle between the kitchen (the computer) and the main closet room (I live in a closet) where the tv is. When a particularly boring commercial comes on, I get out of bed and lunge back toward the kitchen and my computer.
For dessert this evening, I will fantasize about the chocolate covered ginger cookies that I didn't buy today at Trader Joe's. These cookies have a dark chocolate coating and the cookie inside is chewy and the chocolate crumbles so nicely in your mouth as the cookie is eaten.
So there it is.
It was a good dinner. I had just done Root Lock AND Indie Prime (two new vids I'd recently purchased) so it was all right. The Captain had popped in to watch me. He wore grey sweatshorts and a matching grey t-shirt. He sat on the edge of my mat, his legs crossed, knees halfway up to his chest. I could tell he was curious. And I wondered, would he be visiting me later?
I'll let you know.
Pornoliciously yours,
Hilda
kisskiss
He was a GENUINE Southern Gentleman. Yeah. Even his name was Southern: Beau.
He was tall, he was dark-and yes, readers, he was handsome. And, I completely, well, not COMPLETELY, but somewhat, did, forget about food. He made me laugh. I made him laugh. We drank, we ate, we kissed. It was sheer perfection.
And I had lost my edge.
But let's get back to what I'm good at. What I really love-and I think you should know by now what THAT is.
Today I had a craving for a peanut butter sandwich with cucumber on sprouted wheat bread. I ate half a sandy. HALF. Because there was more. I'm still force fluidating, so an entire bucket of beef broth. The usual cucumber, sliced thick and served with seaweed chips (sixty calories for a WHOLE package-and you get the sensation of eating potato chips) was delicious.
But what I really love lay baking in the oven: it was a turkey meat loaf muffin. The mashed potatoes are lightly infused with parmesan cheese and heavy cream. So delicious. But oddly enough, they don't bake so well in the oven, they are better from the microwave-and since I don't have one, I've decided to just eat these at work from now on. Yeah. It wasn't so good. Dammit!
And I ate half a greek salad. I'm just full. I blame the bucket of beef broth.
This is my modus o: I write, I toggle between the kitchen (the computer) and the main closet room (I live in a closet) where the tv is. When a particularly boring commercial comes on, I get out of bed and lunge back toward the kitchen and my computer.
For dessert this evening, I will fantasize about the chocolate covered ginger cookies that I didn't buy today at Trader Joe's. These cookies have a dark chocolate coating and the cookie inside is chewy and the chocolate crumbles so nicely in your mouth as the cookie is eaten.
So there it is.
It was a good dinner. I had just done Root Lock AND Indie Prime (two new vids I'd recently purchased) so it was all right. The Captain had popped in to watch me. He wore grey sweatshorts and a matching grey t-shirt. He sat on the edge of my mat, his legs crossed, knees halfway up to his chest. I could tell he was curious. And I wondered, would he be visiting me later?
I'll let you know.
Pornoliciously yours,
Hilda
kisskiss
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Back from the Dead
I am back, my dear readers I am back!
I lusted in my heart over a chocolate cake frosted with white coconut icing (which was on a magazine cover at the check out at Target) and YES, I shopped.
It was amazing.
At Target I found, in the girls' dept, no less, cords for 10 bucks each. (I have no hips and I'm short, so I can sometimes wear a girls' size 16). And they look FABULOUS!
AND shoes. Me finding shoes. Is that not incredible (you have to know me to know how amazing this is)? I found two pairs. One a shoe boot type and the other a dress shoe for job interviews.
Oh the excitement!
And I bought new rubber gloves for the dishes.
Extra exciting.
I just thought everyone should know.
*WINK*
Love and hugs to all my fans!
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
I lusted in my heart over a chocolate cake frosted with white coconut icing (which was on a magazine cover at the check out at Target) and YES, I shopped.
It was amazing.
At Target I found, in the girls' dept, no less, cords for 10 bucks each. (I have no hips and I'm short, so I can sometimes wear a girls' size 16). And they look FABULOUS!
AND shoes. Me finding shoes. Is that not incredible (you have to know me to know how amazing this is)? I found two pairs. One a shoe boot type and the other a dress shoe for job interviews.
Oh the excitement!
And I bought new rubber gloves for the dishes.
Extra exciting.
I just thought everyone should know.
*WINK*
Love and hugs to all my fans!
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
Friday, November 26, 2010
T-day
First, I must make a lame excuse: I've been sick. So sick that when I lie down in the quiet of my parents' luxurious home on their couch (they are notoriously anti-guest room ever since the stay in of '99) I can hear my heart beating. It beats quickly. Beatbeatbeatbeatbeat..as if in eighth notes. It disgusts me. The sound of the beating of my very own heart. It disgusts me even more than the phlegm I've been coughing up.
Last night:
"Let me see," my father says to me.
I show him what I've coughed up into a tissue.
"Well, you're not being very productive there, Hildy," he says shaking his head.
"Yeah. It's like I'm a slovenly, lazy employee with my low mucus production. You should fire me," I say, being funny.
"We'll take you to the clinic tomorrow," he says.
It's tomorrow. Surprise! The clinic is closed. Apparently, the doctors and nurses in this barren little town want to have a holiday.
But I prevail and drink lots of hot tea. And spray my collodial silver.
But I suppose I should, for you, my dear readers, write about the feast my mother prepared.
At the risk of offending my fellow foodies, I have the following announcement: I am beginning to be disgusted by the idea of animal products and am at risk of becoming a vegan.
In the moment, the turkey was all right, but to remember and think about it, disgusts me.
The mashed potatoes were dry, but okay with the gravy. I do love potatoes!
My aunt had brought salad (not enough avocado)-damn, I'm, WHINY when I'm sick- but with the best dressing EVER. I can't remember what's in it. I think it had an apple cider vinegar base. And there was some ground mustard. Again: being sick is tampering my ability to remember things.
The cranberry sauce was sublime, sweetened with honey and with a slight orange aftertaste, it was the perfect compliment to the turkey. Imagine if you LIKE turkey. Which, I've decided I don't. Although, perhaps in a sandwich smothered in mayo. I do like mayo. But that too is animal -esque. Maybe it's a phase: this thinking about where the food COMES from.
The green beans were perfectly plain.
It was delicious! There was also a sparkling white wine that my aunt and uncle had brought.
"Five bucks at Trader's!" My aunt had exclaimed, "and it's imported from Italy."
I drank three glasses I think. This may have helped my illness along by putting me behind on my fluidating.
But onto the desserts!
My mother makes the world's best blueberry pie. First, the crust is made out of rice flour (so you can imagine how delicate it is) and the filling is made with blueberries and honey. It is profoundly delicious.
There was a carrot cake, which was dropped off by a friend of my parents I'd never met. Originally it was going to be a chocolate cake, but the guy who made it, thought that carrot was more appropriate for Thanksgiving. This bummed me out, quite a bit because I am an absolute freak about chocolate cake. But, since I was the only one who could eat it (everyone else is avoiding wheat) I took a small slice.
Here's what was on my dessert plate: A small sliver of cake, a sliver of pie AND some Hagen Daz chocolate chocolate chip ice cream. I drank decaf coffee with it. YUM.
I don't have much time. My parents have just given me some real cough syrup. The kind with codeine. Dad had some left over from last year. Who says it's a good idea to throw out medication you don't use? Seriously. What a bunch of stupid idiots. If they'd thrown that out, I'd be suffering instead of on my way to being cured.
Again, dear readers, I know, I'm off my game. I'm not 100%. But I am, profoundly ill.
I leave you,
at Death's door,
and I am,
Hilda Stinson
Last night:
"Let me see," my father says to me.
I show him what I've coughed up into a tissue.
"Well, you're not being very productive there, Hildy," he says shaking his head.
"Yeah. It's like I'm a slovenly, lazy employee with my low mucus production. You should fire me," I say, being funny.
"We'll take you to the clinic tomorrow," he says.
It's tomorrow. Surprise! The clinic is closed. Apparently, the doctors and nurses in this barren little town want to have a holiday.
But I prevail and drink lots of hot tea. And spray my collodial silver.
But I suppose I should, for you, my dear readers, write about the feast my mother prepared.
At the risk of offending my fellow foodies, I have the following announcement: I am beginning to be disgusted by the idea of animal products and am at risk of becoming a vegan.
In the moment, the turkey was all right, but to remember and think about it, disgusts me.
The mashed potatoes were dry, but okay with the gravy. I do love potatoes!
My aunt had brought salad (not enough avocado)-damn, I'm, WHINY when I'm sick- but with the best dressing EVER. I can't remember what's in it. I think it had an apple cider vinegar base. And there was some ground mustard. Again: being sick is tampering my ability to remember things.
The cranberry sauce was sublime, sweetened with honey and with a slight orange aftertaste, it was the perfect compliment to the turkey. Imagine if you LIKE turkey. Which, I've decided I don't. Although, perhaps in a sandwich smothered in mayo. I do like mayo. But that too is animal -esque. Maybe it's a phase: this thinking about where the food COMES from.
The green beans were perfectly plain.
It was delicious! There was also a sparkling white wine that my aunt and uncle had brought.
"Five bucks at Trader's!" My aunt had exclaimed, "and it's imported from Italy."
I drank three glasses I think. This may have helped my illness along by putting me behind on my fluidating.
But onto the desserts!
My mother makes the world's best blueberry pie. First, the crust is made out of rice flour (so you can imagine how delicate it is) and the filling is made with blueberries and honey. It is profoundly delicious.
There was a carrot cake, which was dropped off by a friend of my parents I'd never met. Originally it was going to be a chocolate cake, but the guy who made it, thought that carrot was more appropriate for Thanksgiving. This bummed me out, quite a bit because I am an absolute freak about chocolate cake. But, since I was the only one who could eat it (everyone else is avoiding wheat) I took a small slice.
Here's what was on my dessert plate: A small sliver of cake, a sliver of pie AND some Hagen Daz chocolate chocolate chip ice cream. I drank decaf coffee with it. YUM.
I don't have much time. My parents have just given me some real cough syrup. The kind with codeine. Dad had some left over from last year. Who says it's a good idea to throw out medication you don't use? Seriously. What a bunch of stupid idiots. If they'd thrown that out, I'd be suffering instead of on my way to being cured.
Again, dear readers, I know, I'm off my game. I'm not 100%. But I am, profoundly ill.
I leave you,
at Death's door,
and I am,
Hilda Stinson
Monday, November 22, 2010
"And Looooove.."
"..such a silly game we play, what is love? What is love? What is love? I just want it to be love."
Is quite possibly the very first love song dedicated to food.
It makes me hot to hear this song.
But I immediately shut down like a frozen pipe when I see the product: McRib. Really? Not a gorgeous cheesecake, or a box of frosty donuts or a plateful of beautiful cookies (check out http://yfrog.com/6ffv2lj -and a thank you to Mr. Nathan Fillion, actor who so graciously played a certain Captain with whom I have had some magical relations with- for the cookie pics, they were inSPIRing, to say the least.
In other news, I have something wonderful to report: today, at work, someone actually referred to me as "skinny"-and surprise! SHE was also thin. I was staggered. Usually it's the fatties gazing upon me wistfully who say, "God, I wish I were thin like you." and, less wonderfully, the really thin girls who say, "I wish I were healthy looking like you." *sigh*
SO, my dear readers, I leave you with this:
"What is love? What is love? What is love? I just want it to be loooove."
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
(characta fictionata)
Is quite possibly the very first love song dedicated to food.
It makes me hot to hear this song.
But I immediately shut down like a frozen pipe when I see the product: McRib. Really? Not a gorgeous cheesecake, or a box of frosty donuts or a plateful of beautiful cookies (check out http://yfrog.com/6ffv2lj -and a thank you to Mr. Nathan Fillion, actor who so graciously played a certain Captain with whom I have had some magical relations with- for the cookie pics, they were inSPIRing, to say the least.
In other news, I have something wonderful to report: today, at work, someone actually referred to me as "skinny"-and surprise! SHE was also thin. I was staggered. Usually it's the fatties gazing upon me wistfully who say, "God, I wish I were thin like you." and, less wonderfully, the really thin girls who say, "I wish I were healthy looking like you." *sigh*
SO, my dear readers, I leave you with this:
"What is love? What is love? What is love? I just want it to be loooove."
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
(characta fictionata)
Monday, November 15, 2010
Lusting in my Heart
I believe it was a 1976 issue of Playboy where Jimmy Carter, then the President of the United States, confessed to "lusting in my heart." Over women.
In my case, we are talking about food. Women are nothing special. Well, most of them aren't. But then, I'm not really very gay, so I suppose that I'm being entirely unfair. But I digress.
I was at Ralph's today, after having gone to Trader Joe's, which can be a minefield of temptation. The trick is to know what you want before you even go in, rush through the shopping and not buy anything sinful. I can do that. Sort of (today I purchased some ginger chews..oh..dios mio. But it's for my bronchitus. It might help). My fingers tremble with anticipation as I peel the wrapper off and then the powdered sugar coating hits my tongue and I am helpless. I allow myself three.
But back to Ralph's. I had two reasons for going to Ralph's today: 1. to get cash to so I can go to the Chinese Pharmacy to purchase some Zhi bai di huang wan and 2. to use use up a really good Healthy Choice coupon. I got two of my favorites: the chicken strips and the meatloaf. And then I walked down the cookie isle, but I wasn't going to look at the cookies, no, I was here to gaze with great lust upon the donuts.
The donuts sat with the Hostess cupcakes (which I also love) and beckoned to me, "You know you want me. You know you want to take a bite of us. And ohhhh. Check out us chocolate coated ones too. We are especially delicious. Oh baby. Come and TAKE US!"
I ignored the donuts.
I could tell it made them mad, but I could not afford to bury my face into an entire box, my face coated with donut powder and chocolate crustings. No. I could only lust in my heart.
Lustfully yours, I remain,
Hilda Stinson
In my case, we are talking about food. Women are nothing special. Well, most of them aren't. But then, I'm not really very gay, so I suppose that I'm being entirely unfair. But I digress.
I was at Ralph's today, after having gone to Trader Joe's, which can be a minefield of temptation. The trick is to know what you want before you even go in, rush through the shopping and not buy anything sinful. I can do that. Sort of (today I purchased some ginger chews..oh..dios mio. But it's for my bronchitus. It might help). My fingers tremble with anticipation as I peel the wrapper off and then the powdered sugar coating hits my tongue and I am helpless. I allow myself three.
But back to Ralph's. I had two reasons for going to Ralph's today: 1. to get cash to so I can go to the Chinese Pharmacy to purchase some Zhi bai di huang wan and 2. to use use up a really good Healthy Choice coupon. I got two of my favorites: the chicken strips and the meatloaf. And then I walked down the cookie isle, but I wasn't going to look at the cookies, no, I was here to gaze with great lust upon the donuts.
The donuts sat with the Hostess cupcakes (which I also love) and beckoned to me, "You know you want me. You know you want to take a bite of us. And ohhhh. Check out us chocolate coated ones too. We are especially delicious. Oh baby. Come and TAKE US!"
I ignored the donuts.
I could tell it made them mad, but I could not afford to bury my face into an entire box, my face coated with donut powder and chocolate crustings. No. I could only lust in my heart.
Lustfully yours, I remain,
Hilda Stinson
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Chocolate Cheesecake
Hello, my darling readers! Always a pleasure to see you. As I sit here, in my darkened room, typing, my long blonde hair frizzing in the heat, I am drawn to thoughts of a certain cheesecake I once knew.
I am, of course, a veritable master in the kitchen. I think that goes without saying. I am a genius. And yet, I am so misunderstood and ignored. Like the time when I sent in my recipe for chocolate cheesecake to the Bake Off people. *sigh* I should have known better than to use sucanet. But I didn't care, it was important to me to use quality ingredients. And if I had to use their product (well, I DID have to use their product-it was in the rules!), I was going to try to minimize any damage by making the rest of the cake out of whole quality ingredients.
I was ignored.
But I know why you're here. You want your daily dose of porn-and nobody does it quite like Hilda, do they?
The cheesecake: It's infused with melted chocolate. And NO, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS NOT HERSHEY BARS! (God, Hershey bars have come to suck! I HATE HATE HATE THEM!) I am talking about the extra expensive kind that you buy at Whole Foods. It's melted into the cream cheese mixure (cream cheese, sucanet and eggs) and then it is baked-wait for it-------oh..on a chocolate chip cookie dough crust. Yes. Last, it is frosted with whipped cream, meaning heavy cream I have whipped myself and sweetened with stevia. The result is a silky chocolate confection that contrasts nicely with the sweet chocolate chips and cookie that crunches ever so nicely in your mouth. Last, there is the whipped cream, which is a foil for the sweetness, as it is not so terribly sweet, just a creaminess that takes the hard edge off the intensity of the chocolate.
I'm breathing heavily just thinking about it and my skin is moist with perspiration. Any moment now, I will begin to spoil in the heat. I can imagine that there is someone out there, who waits for me. Patiently, and without any pain, he waits. I am in love with a certain Captain from 500 years in the future-and I have watched him eat. He likes his food. He devours passionately and I can imagine what he would do with my cheesecake.
"What's this?" he would say.
"Chocolate cheesecake. I baked it myself. From scratch."
"Really?" He would sit down and smile at me benevolently. "I didn't know you could cook."
"Uh, huh," I would say, sliding into his lap (again, I am terribly compact and would fit perfectly).
"Now, how am I supposed to eat this with a lap full of Hilda?"
"You'll see," I say and get up to get a knife to cut him a slice.
"And where do you think you're going?"
"To get a kni-" I start to say, but he puts a finger to my lips.
"No knives," he says.
"Okay," I grab a handful of the cake and break off little bits and feed it to him.
"It's good!" He sounds surprised.
"I know," I take a bite.
But we can only eat so much, because it is extremely rich.
"Hilda, you have made the happiest man in the verse at this very point in time," he says.
"Oh, Honey, you have not yet begun to experience Hilda Stinson." I get up, go over to the sink and wash the cake off my hands. Then I return to his lap and look deeply into his eyes, "Captain?"
"Hmm?"
"You have got a good time coming your way, whether you like it or not."
He closes his eyes and just gives in to the inevitable.
As well he should!
I remain, my dear readers,
Hilda Stinson!
I am, of course, a veritable master in the kitchen. I think that goes without saying. I am a genius. And yet, I am so misunderstood and ignored. Like the time when I sent in my recipe for chocolate cheesecake to the Bake Off people. *sigh* I should have known better than to use sucanet. But I didn't care, it was important to me to use quality ingredients. And if I had to use their product (well, I DID have to use their product-it was in the rules!), I was going to try to minimize any damage by making the rest of the cake out of whole quality ingredients.
I was ignored.
But I know why you're here. You want your daily dose of porn-and nobody does it quite like Hilda, do they?
The cheesecake: It's infused with melted chocolate. And NO, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS NOT HERSHEY BARS! (God, Hershey bars have come to suck! I HATE HATE HATE THEM!) I am talking about the extra expensive kind that you buy at Whole Foods. It's melted into the cream cheese mixure (cream cheese, sucanet and eggs) and then it is baked-wait for it-------oh..on a chocolate chip cookie dough crust. Yes. Last, it is frosted with whipped cream, meaning heavy cream I have whipped myself and sweetened with stevia. The result is a silky chocolate confection that contrasts nicely with the sweet chocolate chips and cookie that crunches ever so nicely in your mouth. Last, there is the whipped cream, which is a foil for the sweetness, as it is not so terribly sweet, just a creaminess that takes the hard edge off the intensity of the chocolate.
I'm breathing heavily just thinking about it and my skin is moist with perspiration. Any moment now, I will begin to spoil in the heat. I can imagine that there is someone out there, who waits for me. Patiently, and without any pain, he waits. I am in love with a certain Captain from 500 years in the future-and I have watched him eat. He likes his food. He devours passionately and I can imagine what he would do with my cheesecake.
"What's this?" he would say.
"Chocolate cheesecake. I baked it myself. From scratch."
"Really?" He would sit down and smile at me benevolently. "I didn't know you could cook."
"Uh, huh," I would say, sliding into his lap (again, I am terribly compact and would fit perfectly).
"Now, how am I supposed to eat this with a lap full of Hilda?"
"You'll see," I say and get up to get a knife to cut him a slice.
"And where do you think you're going?"
"To get a kni-" I start to say, but he puts a finger to my lips.
"No knives," he says.
"Okay," I grab a handful of the cake and break off little bits and feed it to him.
"It's good!" He sounds surprised.
"I know," I take a bite.
But we can only eat so much, because it is extremely rich.
"Hilda, you have made the happiest man in the verse at this very point in time," he says.
"Oh, Honey, you have not yet begun to experience Hilda Stinson." I get up, go over to the sink and wash the cake off my hands. Then I return to his lap and look deeply into his eyes, "Captain?"
"Hmm?"
"You have got a good time coming your way, whether you like it or not."
He closes his eyes and just gives in to the inevitable.
As well he should!
I remain, my dear readers,
Hilda Stinson!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
How I Look
At this point, dear readers, you are probably wondering what I look like.
"Sure," you're probably thinking, "she's a REAL fatty," because of what I said about myself weighing a lot.
Well, I do.
But I am incredibly "compact"-as one suitor put it.
My mother was quite tall, quite blonde and incredibly stupid. It was her destiny to fall in love with my father, a short light skinned British black man, who resembled Sherman Helmsley (okay, George Jefferson, since most of you don't bother to learn the names of the actual actors)-and if you still don't know who I'm talking about, you are hideously ignorant of our nation's comedy TV history and I suggest you HOP to and "get with it", so to speak, as The Jefferson's was quite possibly one of the best, if not THE best sitcom of the 1970's.
I am white. As in, positively marmoreal, a neat trick for someone who is supposed to be "half black". My hair is light blonde and the texture is, I'm afraid, less than smooth. I am forced into the salon everything three months to get it "Brazilian-ed" so that it will behave.
My eyes are frog colored. This is what happens when you get the incomplete dominance between dark brown and light blue. You get frog. Or, legally, as it says on my driver's license (who said I could DRIVE?!) my eyes are hazel. Oddly, I get a lot of compliments on my eyes, and naturally on the color of my hair.
As for my figure: believe it or not, I am a work out freak. I own over 100 workout videos and I use them all (some more than others). I am currently working on "functional fitness" which sounds like doing housework, but it isn't. It's more like doing decline push ups off a balance ball, among other things, that, if you had never seen it before, you'd think to be impossible. But I do them all.
But back to my actual figure: my mother, being Swedish, had enormous boobs, which I inherited, except that on HER it looked proportionate. I am unfortunately short, like my father and so, at five three, to have a cup size of triple D is a bit much. My boobs always enter the room before I do and they never fail to catch any stray bits of food that happen to drop. I am, as a result, a very careful eater.
You would think that since I am half black that I would at least get what they call "the sista butt", but, I did not. It's flat. Like my mother's, so I have to build it up with heavy weights. It's small and somewhat round, but I will never ever be mistaken from the back as "black", unfortunately.
Last, I feel it only fair to comment on my facial features which are a rather exotic combination of the Negroid and Caucasian, so that, in profile, I do look, decidedly black, but only in profile. And I have stopped trying to convince people of my heritage;it takes entirely too much time.
I remain,
faithfully yours (and yours and yours and yours!)
Hilda Stinson
"Sure," you're probably thinking, "she's a REAL fatty," because of what I said about myself weighing a lot.
Well, I do.
But I am incredibly "compact"-as one suitor put it.
My mother was quite tall, quite blonde and incredibly stupid. It was her destiny to fall in love with my father, a short light skinned British black man, who resembled Sherman Helmsley (okay, George Jefferson, since most of you don't bother to learn the names of the actual actors)-and if you still don't know who I'm talking about, you are hideously ignorant of our nation's comedy TV history and I suggest you HOP to and "get with it", so to speak, as The Jefferson's was quite possibly one of the best, if not THE best sitcom of the 1970's.
I am white. As in, positively marmoreal, a neat trick for someone who is supposed to be "half black". My hair is light blonde and the texture is, I'm afraid, less than smooth. I am forced into the salon everything three months to get it "Brazilian-ed" so that it will behave.
My eyes are frog colored. This is what happens when you get the incomplete dominance between dark brown and light blue. You get frog. Or, legally, as it says on my driver's license (who said I could DRIVE?!) my eyes are hazel. Oddly, I get a lot of compliments on my eyes, and naturally on the color of my hair.
As for my figure: believe it or not, I am a work out freak. I own over 100 workout videos and I use them all (some more than others). I am currently working on "functional fitness" which sounds like doing housework, but it isn't. It's more like doing decline push ups off a balance ball, among other things, that, if you had never seen it before, you'd think to be impossible. But I do them all.
But back to my actual figure: my mother, being Swedish, had enormous boobs, which I inherited, except that on HER it looked proportionate. I am unfortunately short, like my father and so, at five three, to have a cup size of triple D is a bit much. My boobs always enter the room before I do and they never fail to catch any stray bits of food that happen to drop. I am, as a result, a very careful eater.
You would think that since I am half black that I would at least get what they call "the sista butt", but, I did not. It's flat. Like my mother's, so I have to build it up with heavy weights. It's small and somewhat round, but I will never ever be mistaken from the back as "black", unfortunately.
Last, I feel it only fair to comment on my facial features which are a rather exotic combination of the Negroid and Caucasian, so that, in profile, I do look, decidedly black, but only in profile. And I have stopped trying to convince people of my heritage;it takes entirely too much time.
I remain,
faithfully yours (and yours and yours and yours!)
Hilda Stinson
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Butter is Better Frozen
It's amazing how long I can retain ideas for my blog in my mind. The inspiration for this one came, quite frankly, about a week ago. So, yes, my darling readers, I am negligent and a wastrel.
But let's move on.
I was driving and saw an ad for steak and lobster at a casino. The lobster was pictured, as is often the wont, with a cup of melted butter next to it. I'm sorry. I don't LIKE melted butter. I like it frozen, and I like to put little slivers of it in my mouth and to just let it melt.
The lobster was inspiring because it did make me think of how I prefer to eat my butter frozen. I like to bit off tiny chunks from the stick as I'm eating a slice of bread. It's divine. And if you don't believe me, you try it. And if you try it and don't like it, then I stick my tongue out at you!
But let's move on.
I was driving and saw an ad for steak and lobster at a casino. The lobster was pictured, as is often the wont, with a cup of melted butter next to it. I'm sorry. I don't LIKE melted butter. I like it frozen, and I like to put little slivers of it in my mouth and to just let it melt.
The lobster was inspiring because it did make me think of how I prefer to eat my butter frozen. I like to bit off tiny chunks from the stick as I'm eating a slice of bread. It's divine. And if you don't believe me, you try it. And if you try it and don't like it, then I stick my tongue out at you!
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Frozen Dinners and Me
Hello my darling fans. Forgive me, I've taken a few days off to recuperate from my wild weekend of eating.
You may not believe this, but I have happened upon a new taste sensation and I think everyone out there should try it:
Peanut butter (with flaxseeds in it, you know the kind from Trader Joe's?) on seven grain sprouted bread with cucumbers. It's delicious. I don't care what you say. The only thing that could improve this sandwich is mayonnaise..and since I'm too lazy to make it anymore, I'm off the stuff.
Yes, my darlings, I used to battle this tiny closet I lived in-and I would cook. I would make homemade everything. But the truth is, there was no one but me to appreciate-and even though I did, I couldn't keep doing it. I was exhausted. So now, I confess, I eat a lot of frozen dinners. I suppose I could write an entire article on the best frozen dinners. And by best, I don't mean by brand. I mean by individual dinners. As in, Vons has this wonderful lemongrass chicken with brown rice in the sauciest little sauce. It's to die for. Really. But in the same line is the chicken enchilada, which could only pass for Mexican food in England (where they boil EVERYTHING - AND you must remember, the only reason the English conquered the world was to get a decent meal! But I can say this because I AM black- I mean, English. Yeah. I am. On my dad's side (so there!)) The meatloaf is also quite good in the Von's line (just don't make the same mistake I did and have a fish patty with it to up the protein).
The problem with most frozen dinners is that they are mostly cheap carbohydrate, white rice, usually, which, incidentally has a higher glycemic index than white SUGAR..OMG, the last time I had one of those meals, I came down with this awful headache and then overate the rest of the day. Ixnay on the whitericeay!
SO if there is anyone out there is food land who would like to manufacture frozen dinners with me, by all means, give us an E or something. Because I know what a frozen dinner SHOULD be. And it should not be mostly carbohydrate. I mean even the vegetarian tofu dinners are mostly white rice. I mean really? Tofu? En serio? The cheap meat substitute that was going to save the world, even the tofu is skimped on! And don't even let me start on the chicken. The five pieces of orange chicken on the cover? That is all you gon' get in there. Yup. And the rest is white rice. I want a decent meat portion with my rice. NOT MOSTLY RICE. And the veggies! Oh. These tiny cut up little bits, as if veggies are OFFENSIVE or something. Really? How about some big succulent stalks of broccoli? Courage, people, courage!
The truly good frozen dinner would be VERY light on the carbs. If any. I mean a nice fish in a creamy sauce served with a whopping portion of broccoli or spinach. Perhaps a small bit of sweet potato, or BROWN rice. Of course, I can just go buy a steak and the broccoli and just cook it. But I like the idea and the convenience of the frozen dinner. *sigh*
I remain,
devotedly yours,
Hilda Stinson
PS. Brian will NOT go away. It's insane. I mean he's GAY!
You may not believe this, but I have happened upon a new taste sensation and I think everyone out there should try it:
Peanut butter (with flaxseeds in it, you know the kind from Trader Joe's?) on seven grain sprouted bread with cucumbers. It's delicious. I don't care what you say. The only thing that could improve this sandwich is mayonnaise..and since I'm too lazy to make it anymore, I'm off the stuff.
Yes, my darlings, I used to battle this tiny closet I lived in-and I would cook. I would make homemade everything. But the truth is, there was no one but me to appreciate-and even though I did, I couldn't keep doing it. I was exhausted. So now, I confess, I eat a lot of frozen dinners. I suppose I could write an entire article on the best frozen dinners. And by best, I don't mean by brand. I mean by individual dinners. As in, Vons has this wonderful lemongrass chicken with brown rice in the sauciest little sauce. It's to die for. Really. But in the same line is the chicken enchilada, which could only pass for Mexican food in England (where they boil EVERYTHING - AND you must remember, the only reason the English conquered the world was to get a decent meal! But I can say this because I AM black- I mean, English. Yeah. I am. On my dad's side (so there!)) The meatloaf is also quite good in the Von's line (just don't make the same mistake I did and have a fish patty with it to up the protein).
The problem with most frozen dinners is that they are mostly cheap carbohydrate, white rice, usually, which, incidentally has a higher glycemic index than white SUGAR..OMG, the last time I had one of those meals, I came down with this awful headache and then overate the rest of the day. Ixnay on the whitericeay!
SO if there is anyone out there is food land who would like to manufacture frozen dinners with me, by all means, give us an E or something. Because I know what a frozen dinner SHOULD be. And it should not be mostly carbohydrate. I mean even the vegetarian tofu dinners are mostly white rice. I mean really? Tofu? En serio? The cheap meat substitute that was going to save the world, even the tofu is skimped on! And don't even let me start on the chicken. The five pieces of orange chicken on the cover? That is all you gon' get in there. Yup. And the rest is white rice. I want a decent meat portion with my rice. NOT MOSTLY RICE. And the veggies! Oh. These tiny cut up little bits, as if veggies are OFFENSIVE or something. Really? How about some big succulent stalks of broccoli? Courage, people, courage!
The truly good frozen dinner would be VERY light on the carbs. If any. I mean a nice fish in a creamy sauce served with a whopping portion of broccoli or spinach. Perhaps a small bit of sweet potato, or BROWN rice. Of course, I can just go buy a steak and the broccoli and just cook it. But I like the idea and the convenience of the frozen dinner. *sigh*
I remain,
devotedly yours,
Hilda Stinson
PS. Brian will NOT go away. It's insane. I mean he's GAY!
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Resistance? Futile
I have a particular skill, characteristic to those of us in fiction-land and it's this: my delusions are absolutely true and they do happen. Wait. That was redundant. But I don't care.
The very next day, Brian followed me to work. So when I sat, facing my audience, he was in the back, beckoning me to come and be in his arms.
Next, he came and sat in my chair-and pulled me on top of him, so that I was in his lap.
It was a lucky thing that my audience couldn't see him.
We had left things unresolved. And it bothered me that a gay man would so relentlessly pursue me, as if I were something that he really wanted. Like Brian has ever really wanted anything, save a new account! So I ignored him. Eventually frustrated by my lack of response, he faded gracefully away. He'll probably be back tonight. And when he comes to me, in my bed, as I fall asleep, I will not be able to resist. Kind of like last night.
Last night, I had a date. I had decided that it was high time that I actually date someone I really like, whether or not this someone was appropriate for me or not. He was 27. I'm not.
Clarity. It came to me during a phone conversation with an "age appropriate for me" braggart, who was trying to impress me, but was failing miserably. The icing on the cake? An exasperated sigh when I mentioned a certain experiment. He assured me that he had "taken physics" and that I need not go on. Well. That was quite the smarmy little put down. And I had enough. I wasn't going to take it. So I called up A because I remembered that he had been nice and would NEVER say anything like that. A was a nice person. A person who had always treated me with kindness and respect. So I decided to ring him up. Plus I was hungry.
I had a big fat craving for a thick juicy sit down restaurant burger. We went to Crazee burger and it was rustic. Ordering at the counter and all.
But the burger? Relatively sublime. Not quite the burger of my fantasies, but just as well. A burger like that would have been entirely too caloric. This one was thick (but not too thick) and pink in the middle with just the right amount of tomato, onion and lettuce. Bibb, I believe it was. Of course, I has to discard the bun. It didn't appeal to me. I let my companion eat it. And there was a salad. Mostly iceburg, but very fresh. Pear cider. The perfect drink and it was the perfect amount to go with the amount of food I had. It evened out. Maybe it was a sign. A was incredibly cute with dark hair and eyes. And skin. Let's not forget the contrast between my marmoreal epidermis and his burnt bread color-very hot. Perhaps the two of us would "even out", so to speak, despite the age difference.
After dinner, we went to Von's to get bevvies to continue our drunky (my drunky, his slight, if EVEN buzz). First we had to go to the pastry department because there is nothing more sinful than a supermarket pastry department. I wanted to see and be turned on by all the various kinds of cakes, cookies, cupcakes and puddings.
The first thing that struck me were the chocolate chip cookies in the clear shiny boxes: oh so moist and tender! I was driven mad with desire. The chocolate chips evenly dotted the creamy textured cookie portion and made me want to open the box and slowly bite down into the cookie again and again, until it was gone.
My companion was struck with the fruit tarts, which were shiny with sugar glaze, but much of the fruit was askew and the cakes appeared lopsided. I wasn't feeling it. But then, I saw the shiny boxes of chocolate cake with white icing. I inhaled sharply, "Oh!"
"Do you want that?" he asked.
"Oh. Do I. DO I!" I exclaimed.
He put his hand out for the box, but I stopped him.
"No. I can't. I can only look."
"Okay," he took my hand.
"I, can't afford it," I told him. "All I can do is look."
He smiled. "Okay, let's go get the drinks,"
So we got the drinks and a tiny little serving of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Brownie ice cream, which, while sinful, I could afford to eat HALF of.
He later allowed me to eat most of the ice cream. And then, he took me upstairs for a ritual post prandial calorie burning.
Sublime. (What? What did you expect? I sleepy and I was full.) Resistance WAS futile.
Speaking of which, look who's here. Completely naked. In my bed (rolls eyes).
I told you he'd come.
Hugs and Love,
Hilda
The very next day, Brian followed me to work. So when I sat, facing my audience, he was in the back, beckoning me to come and be in his arms.
Next, he came and sat in my chair-and pulled me on top of him, so that I was in his lap.
It was a lucky thing that my audience couldn't see him.
We had left things unresolved. And it bothered me that a gay man would so relentlessly pursue me, as if I were something that he really wanted. Like Brian has ever really wanted anything, save a new account! So I ignored him. Eventually frustrated by my lack of response, he faded gracefully away. He'll probably be back tonight. And when he comes to me, in my bed, as I fall asleep, I will not be able to resist. Kind of like last night.
Last night, I had a date. I had decided that it was high time that I actually date someone I really like, whether or not this someone was appropriate for me or not. He was 27. I'm not.
Clarity. It came to me during a phone conversation with an "age appropriate for me" braggart, who was trying to impress me, but was failing miserably. The icing on the cake? An exasperated sigh when I mentioned a certain experiment. He assured me that he had "taken physics" and that I need not go on. Well. That was quite the smarmy little put down. And I had enough. I wasn't going to take it. So I called up A because I remembered that he had been nice and would NEVER say anything like that. A was a nice person. A person who had always treated me with kindness and respect. So I decided to ring him up. Plus I was hungry.
I had a big fat craving for a thick juicy sit down restaurant burger. We went to Crazee burger and it was rustic. Ordering at the counter and all.
But the burger? Relatively sublime. Not quite the burger of my fantasies, but just as well. A burger like that would have been entirely too caloric. This one was thick (but not too thick) and pink in the middle with just the right amount of tomato, onion and lettuce. Bibb, I believe it was. Of course, I has to discard the bun. It didn't appeal to me. I let my companion eat it. And there was a salad. Mostly iceburg, but very fresh. Pear cider. The perfect drink and it was the perfect amount to go with the amount of food I had. It evened out. Maybe it was a sign. A was incredibly cute with dark hair and eyes. And skin. Let's not forget the contrast between my marmoreal epidermis and his burnt bread color-very hot. Perhaps the two of us would "even out", so to speak, despite the age difference.
After dinner, we went to Von's to get bevvies to continue our drunky (my drunky, his slight, if EVEN buzz). First we had to go to the pastry department because there is nothing more sinful than a supermarket pastry department. I wanted to see and be turned on by all the various kinds of cakes, cookies, cupcakes and puddings.
The first thing that struck me were the chocolate chip cookies in the clear shiny boxes: oh so moist and tender! I was driven mad with desire. The chocolate chips evenly dotted the creamy textured cookie portion and made me want to open the box and slowly bite down into the cookie again and again, until it was gone.
My companion was struck with the fruit tarts, which were shiny with sugar glaze, but much of the fruit was askew and the cakes appeared lopsided. I wasn't feeling it. But then, I saw the shiny boxes of chocolate cake with white icing. I inhaled sharply, "Oh!"
"Do you want that?" he asked.
"Oh. Do I. DO I!" I exclaimed.
He put his hand out for the box, but I stopped him.
"No. I can't. I can only look."
"Okay," he took my hand.
"I, can't afford it," I told him. "All I can do is look."
He smiled. "Okay, let's go get the drinks,"
So we got the drinks and a tiny little serving of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Brownie ice cream, which, while sinful, I could afford to eat HALF of.
He later allowed me to eat most of the ice cream. And then, he took me upstairs for a ritual post prandial calorie burning.
Sublime. (What? What did you expect? I sleepy and I was full.) Resistance WAS futile.
Speaking of which, look who's here. Completely naked. In my bed (rolls eyes).
I told you he'd come.
Hugs and Love,
Hilda
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Temptation: Frozen Now
Every time I buy bread I buy "flourless sprouted wheat" and every time I get out of control.
You read yesterday's blog. Well there it is.
This morning, I threw what was left of the loaf into the freezer.
When I came home, the smell still haunted me and I sniffed with longing.
Then I napped.
Post nap, I did "Dynamic Strength and Power" (with Cindy Thorp). It was hard. Then Core.
Then it was time for a snack. Chocolate whey powder mixed with water with half a spoon of flaxseed peanut butter and that half of a banana left from this morning.
Dinner? Disappointing.
Instead, I'd like to discuss a daydream I had as I drove home (or was it TO work?)
Gale Harold is the actor who played Brian Kinney (my HERO) on "Queer as Folk" and lately he's been on "Hellcats", which if you don't know, is a show about cheerleaders. It's mildly entertaining. But when I saw Gale, I cheered because I love him.
He was looking a little thin. So today I thought about what it would be like to help fatten him up.
So let me give you a little background about me. Gay men like me. As in, "Are you SURE you're really gay?" And they like to kiss and hug me. Hold my hand. Cuddle me. So this isn't completely impossible to imagine:
I would walk into his office and he'd be sitting in a chair, slouching (he's a great sloucher) and I'd be carrying a seven layer cheesecake masterpiece.
Okay, let's be real, it's not Gale, it's Brian. Really. Brian. Because it has always been Brian. I'm wearing a black trenchcoat over my lingerie, a black bustier (which really cinches my waist) and matching black lace panties. I shuck the coat.
He turns and gives me a look.
I put the masterpiece on his desk, go over to him and get on top of him, my hands stroking his face. I kiss him.
"Umm," he moans and runs his hands over my body.
"Gay, right?"
He shrugs and pulls off his tie and I kiss him again.
"You might want to rethink that one." I get up off him and walk over to the cake. I dab a spot of it onto his nose.
"You WILL lick that off," he says.
I oblige. And then unbutton his shirt. His skin is smooth, hairless, like I like it.
"Nice nipples, " I tell him.
"Which you will suck now," he says.
I laugh and take a dollop off the cake and smear it over his chest. And then, I pull him to his feet and run my fingers over his nipples, which are now covered in whipped cream and cheesecake. I lick some of it. He picks me up and puts me face down on the desk.
"This abomination is coming off," he patiently removes the bustier and then spins me around and dabs cheesecake on me. It is rich and thick, the cheese portion mingliing with whipped cream and strawberries and he bends down over me and sucks a strawberry off my stomach, carefully avoiding any of the cake and the cream. "No carbs," he smiles wickedly at me.
I laugh.
The cake sits a few feet away, its layers beckoning. Sponge cake, made of the finest flour, sugar, butter and eggs, cream cheese mixed with sucanat and lightly flavored with lemon extract, a layer of sliced strawberries which are fresh, organic and bursting with red juice, a hard dark chocolate crust, like what one might use to cover a vanilla ice cream cone, a layer of sweetened marscapone cheese mixed with agave nectar and then a layer of strawberries, thinly sliced, dipped in white chocolate and last, whipped cream.
"I'm going to feed you," I say.
(to be continued...)
You read yesterday's blog. Well there it is.
This morning, I threw what was left of the loaf into the freezer.
When I came home, the smell still haunted me and I sniffed with longing.
Then I napped.
Post nap, I did "Dynamic Strength and Power" (with Cindy Thorp). It was hard. Then Core.
Then it was time for a snack. Chocolate whey powder mixed with water with half a spoon of flaxseed peanut butter and that half of a banana left from this morning.
Dinner? Disappointing.
Instead, I'd like to discuss a daydream I had as I drove home (or was it TO work?)
Gale Harold is the actor who played Brian Kinney (my HERO) on "Queer as Folk" and lately he's been on "Hellcats", which if you don't know, is a show about cheerleaders. It's mildly entertaining. But when I saw Gale, I cheered because I love him.
He was looking a little thin. So today I thought about what it would be like to help fatten him up.
So let me give you a little background about me. Gay men like me. As in, "Are you SURE you're really gay?" And they like to kiss and hug me. Hold my hand. Cuddle me. So this isn't completely impossible to imagine:
I would walk into his office and he'd be sitting in a chair, slouching (he's a great sloucher) and I'd be carrying a seven layer cheesecake masterpiece.
Okay, let's be real, it's not Gale, it's Brian. Really. Brian. Because it has always been Brian. I'm wearing a black trenchcoat over my lingerie, a black bustier (which really cinches my waist) and matching black lace panties. I shuck the coat.
He turns and gives me a look.
I put the masterpiece on his desk, go over to him and get on top of him, my hands stroking his face. I kiss him.
"Umm," he moans and runs his hands over my body.
"Gay, right?"
He shrugs and pulls off his tie and I kiss him again.
"You might want to rethink that one." I get up off him and walk over to the cake. I dab a spot of it onto his nose.
"You WILL lick that off," he says.
I oblige. And then unbutton his shirt. His skin is smooth, hairless, like I like it.
"Nice nipples, " I tell him.
"Which you will suck now," he says.
I laugh and take a dollop off the cake and smear it over his chest. And then, I pull him to his feet and run my fingers over his nipples, which are now covered in whipped cream and cheesecake. I lick some of it. He picks me up and puts me face down on the desk.
"This abomination is coming off," he patiently removes the bustier and then spins me around and dabs cheesecake on me. It is rich and thick, the cheese portion mingliing with whipped cream and strawberries and he bends down over me and sucks a strawberry off my stomach, carefully avoiding any of the cake and the cream. "No carbs," he smiles wickedly at me.
I laugh.
The cake sits a few feet away, its layers beckoning. Sponge cake, made of the finest flour, sugar, butter and eggs, cream cheese mixed with sucanat and lightly flavored with lemon extract, a layer of sliced strawberries which are fresh, organic and bursting with red juice, a hard dark chocolate crust, like what one might use to cover a vanilla ice cream cone, a layer of sweetened marscapone cheese mixed with agave nectar and then a layer of strawberries, thinly sliced, dipped in white chocolate and last, whipped cream.
"I'm going to feed you," I say.
(to be continued...)
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Ginger Chews
As I write this, my mouth is burning and my teeth are sticky with the residues
of Ginger Chews.
The outside is green paper, the interior a white wax. And then the candy itself is covered with fine powered sugar. I savour the dusty feel of the sugar on my tongue as I roll it around in my mouth and then: chew.
Oh me. Foodgasming as we speak.
I am also having a nice Shiraz with this. Second glass..
Okay, I never pour myself a FULL glass because, well, I'm such a light weight.
Now I'm on my third. Naughty Hilda! I unwrap another chew, as if it's a boy I'm about to kiss. And EEEEAAAT it. And then, I guzzle more wine.
You see? This is more than just fantasy. Licking the powdered sugar off my finger, I unwrap another, and another until my mouth is so sticky and burning that I just have to stop. I lick my fingers again. Finish my third half glass of wine.
And now, my dear readers, I will now chronicle today's sins.
Breakfast and lunch? Same as yesterday. I am hideously boring sometimes.
For dinner? Half a peanut butter sandwich on sprouted wheat with crushed fresh organic raspberries (pauses to lick fingers). And the rest of the small plastic box of raspberries. They are sour/sweet. Then three more pieces of bread with some frozen butter that I BITE right into. SO good. And there's the wine and the ginger candies. Sinful. (Re-licks fingers) I am so sweet and full of green tea (with which I put in three scant tablespoons of sugar)..Lawd have mercy. I am wrecked and ready for BED
But, before I go, I must right a wrong from my first post. In my first post, I made a gross generalization about celebrities. That the don't TRY. Well, okay maybe they do. Perhaps they are just as representative of any X man in the population. In which case, it would mean that only 1 out of 10 actually knows what he's doing.
I'm just SAYIN'.
I remain, lost in the passion of my fooding,
Hilda Stinson
of Ginger Chews.
The outside is green paper, the interior a white wax. And then the candy itself is covered with fine powered sugar. I savour the dusty feel of the sugar on my tongue as I roll it around in my mouth and then: chew.
Oh me. Foodgasming as we speak.
I am also having a nice Shiraz with this. Second glass..
Okay, I never pour myself a FULL glass because, well, I'm such a light weight.
Now I'm on my third. Naughty Hilda! I unwrap another chew, as if it's a boy I'm about to kiss. And EEEEAAAT it. And then, I guzzle more wine.
You see? This is more than just fantasy. Licking the powdered sugar off my finger, I unwrap another, and another until my mouth is so sticky and burning that I just have to stop. I lick my fingers again. Finish my third half glass of wine.
And now, my dear readers, I will now chronicle today's sins.
Breakfast and lunch? Same as yesterday. I am hideously boring sometimes.
For dinner? Half a peanut butter sandwich on sprouted wheat with crushed fresh organic raspberries (pauses to lick fingers). And the rest of the small plastic box of raspberries. They are sour/sweet. Then three more pieces of bread with some frozen butter that I BITE right into. SO good. And there's the wine and the ginger candies. Sinful. (Re-licks fingers) I am so sweet and full of green tea (with which I put in three scant tablespoons of sugar)..Lawd have mercy. I am wrecked and ready for BED
But, before I go, I must right a wrong from my first post. In my first post, I made a gross generalization about celebrities. That the don't TRY. Well, okay maybe they do. Perhaps they are just as representative of any X man in the population. In which case, it would mean that only 1 out of 10 actually knows what he's doing.
I'm just SAYIN'.
I remain, lost in the passion of my fooding,
Hilda Stinson
Monday, October 18, 2010
Promises, promises
It is my ambition to get a camera. A real camera to where I can upload photos onto my computer (when I get the new baby, which should be with me soon.)
I will take pics of notable pornalicious food for you, my dear readers to salivate over and fantasize.
Now for today's dish: so to speak.
Last night I dreamed that I had moved in with Serena Van de Wootson (ala Gossip Girl) and that even though I wasn't attracted to her, I kissed her on the lips anyway. She was surprised, but she liked it. (rolls eyes)
Being a fictional character isn't easy, especially in your very own infancy, but I do want to tell you about my day.
Breakfast was the usual: whey protein with cacao chips, three tiny squares of dark chocolate and half a banana. Yes, I know that "nobody eats half a banana"-well, I DO, so there.
Snack was also the usual: an apple and seven raw brazil nuts.
(uh oh, you're starting to think I'm WAAAY to healthy to be a food pornographer. I don't care what you think. I'm ficticious and can do anything I WANT (sticks out tongue))
Lunch. Okay, lunch lacked imagination. It was a diet salad from Trader Joe's and a can of sardines. Chocolate yogurt. I felt too full. Which was interesting. But keeping a close eye on the food intake is paramount to the degree in which I can enjoy it. I can't enjoy food unless I'm truly hungry. Or fantasizing about it. When I fantasize, I don't have to eat.
This afternoon's conversation was about eating alligator. Yes. Alligator.
"Well," I said, "if you deep fry anything it will taste like chicken."
And, as we all know, anything deep fried is by its very nature delicious.
We also spoke of McDonalds. And you know what? I thought a Big Mac had over 700 calories, but when we looked it up, it was only about 470. Interesting. I'm still not going to eat one.
On the way home from work, I thought about McDonalds. The french fries. I just wanted a small fries. It was all I wanted. But instead, I thought about tummies smothered in cellulite and went to Trader Joe's instead.
At the market, I purchased almost exactly the same lunch I had today for tomorrow, except I decided to try a Yoplait yogurt which I would have to purchase from Ralphs. Well, guess what? It has high fructose corn syrup in it. Yeah. And after all that blathering on tv about how, "Oh, I even LOST weight." Oh really? Well maybe because you stopped eating donuts? OMG. I am so sick of food companies bragging about how great they are for weight loss and then they go and put HFC in their products. Pisses me off no end. So I looked at Light and Fit (a product hawked by one of my alter egoes, Heidi Klum) and I was shocked. Red dye number 40. Really? So I found a generic brand that only had the sin of sucrolose (chlorine sugar) and acesulfamate K to dis-rec it. But only 80 calories, which was a lot less than today's chocolate yogurt.
When I got home, I ate a can of tomato soup and a peanut butter/flax seed blend sandwich on sprouted wheat bread. Delicious. Then a nap. I was tired.
For dinner a tiny filet (I love filet mignon and think that it should be considered a drug of sorts-the way it makes me feel!), a few sprigs of broccoli and half a yam (a small one). Then green tea with a Ben & Jerry's cookie dough single serving. Bam. Too much food. But the ice cream was sublime. The cookie dough and the chocolate chips and the creamy texture of the ice cream. Veritable foodgasm.
Tomorrow I will repent and turn to Jesus....
I will take pics of notable pornalicious food for you, my dear readers to salivate over and fantasize.
Now for today's dish: so to speak.
Last night I dreamed that I had moved in with Serena Van de Wootson (ala Gossip Girl) and that even though I wasn't attracted to her, I kissed her on the lips anyway. She was surprised, but she liked it. (rolls eyes)
Being a fictional character isn't easy, especially in your very own infancy, but I do want to tell you about my day.
Breakfast was the usual: whey protein with cacao chips, three tiny squares of dark chocolate and half a banana. Yes, I know that "nobody eats half a banana"-well, I DO, so there.
Snack was also the usual: an apple and seven raw brazil nuts.
(uh oh, you're starting to think I'm WAAAY to healthy to be a food pornographer. I don't care what you think. I'm ficticious and can do anything I WANT (sticks out tongue))
Lunch. Okay, lunch lacked imagination. It was a diet salad from Trader Joe's and a can of sardines. Chocolate yogurt. I felt too full. Which was interesting. But keeping a close eye on the food intake is paramount to the degree in which I can enjoy it. I can't enjoy food unless I'm truly hungry. Or fantasizing about it. When I fantasize, I don't have to eat.
This afternoon's conversation was about eating alligator. Yes. Alligator.
"Well," I said, "if you deep fry anything it will taste like chicken."
And, as we all know, anything deep fried is by its very nature delicious.
We also spoke of McDonalds. And you know what? I thought a Big Mac had over 700 calories, but when we looked it up, it was only about 470. Interesting. I'm still not going to eat one.
On the way home from work, I thought about McDonalds. The french fries. I just wanted a small fries. It was all I wanted. But instead, I thought about tummies smothered in cellulite and went to Trader Joe's instead.
At the market, I purchased almost exactly the same lunch I had today for tomorrow, except I decided to try a Yoplait yogurt which I would have to purchase from Ralphs. Well, guess what? It has high fructose corn syrup in it. Yeah. And after all that blathering on tv about how, "Oh, I even LOST weight." Oh really? Well maybe because you stopped eating donuts? OMG. I am so sick of food companies bragging about how great they are for weight loss and then they go and put HFC in their products. Pisses me off no end. So I looked at Light and Fit (a product hawked by one of my alter egoes, Heidi Klum) and I was shocked. Red dye number 40. Really? So I found a generic brand that only had the sin of sucrolose (chlorine sugar) and acesulfamate K to dis-rec it. But only 80 calories, which was a lot less than today's chocolate yogurt.
When I got home, I ate a can of tomato soup and a peanut butter/flax seed blend sandwich on sprouted wheat bread. Delicious. Then a nap. I was tired.
For dinner a tiny filet (I love filet mignon and think that it should be considered a drug of sorts-the way it makes me feel!), a few sprigs of broccoli and half a yam (a small one). Then green tea with a Ben & Jerry's cookie dough single serving. Bam. Too much food. But the ice cream was sublime. The cookie dough and the chocolate chips and the creamy texture of the ice cream. Veritable foodgasm.
Tomorrow I will repent and turn to Jesus....
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Hello Loyal Fans!
I am Hilda Stinson.
You don't know me yet, but you will.
To begin with, I am in love. With food.
Most women fantasize about shoes. I find this laughable because shoes are so damn uncomfortable, as are most articles of clothing. But more about that later.
Some women fantasize about movie stars and having sex with them.
I haven't actually had sex with a movie star, that much is true. But I can tell you this: it's probably the same as having sex with any other guy, except it might not be as good because "the star" will think he doesn't have to put forth any effort. This would not be good enough for Hilda Stinson. And shouldn't be good enough for any women. But some of you have low self esteeem. And there 'ent much I can do 'bout THAT one.
But back to ME. And my fantasies. This is, after all, a blog about porn. Food porn. Oh. YES. (Foodgasm)
Well, let's begin at the beginning:
Chocolate. Cake, to be exact. A large chocolate cake with white icing in a large wineglass. A wineglass so large that I can fit inside it (with the cake!).
There's a lift that takes me up to the top of the glass (which is incredibly sturdy, because, honey-chile, Hilda is a HEAVY one, lemme tell you!) and I step off into the glass.
As I step, my foot (completely sanitized (yes I have germ issues, shut up, nobody asked YOU)) steps into the mounds of chocolate cake, which is still warm and the icing, which is chilled creates a contrast on my skin. I lie down in the wine glass and little chocolate bonbons filled with neopolitan ice cream are delivered into my hands.
I lie and meditate in the cake, bon bons in my hands. And then I begin to eat and roll around in the cake. Finally, exhausted from writhing around in the cake, I fall asleep, completely sated.
(sigh)
I love cake.
And, you, my loyal fans.
H+K,
Hilda
You don't know me yet, but you will.
To begin with, I am in love. With food.
Most women fantasize about shoes. I find this laughable because shoes are so damn uncomfortable, as are most articles of clothing. But more about that later.
Some women fantasize about movie stars and having sex with them.
I haven't actually had sex with a movie star, that much is true. But I can tell you this: it's probably the same as having sex with any other guy, except it might not be as good because "the star" will think he doesn't have to put forth any effort. This would not be good enough for Hilda Stinson. And shouldn't be good enough for any women. But some of you have low self esteeem. And there 'ent much I can do 'bout THAT one.
But back to ME. And my fantasies. This is, after all, a blog about porn. Food porn. Oh. YES. (Foodgasm)
Well, let's begin at the beginning:
Chocolate. Cake, to be exact. A large chocolate cake with white icing in a large wineglass. A wineglass so large that I can fit inside it (with the cake!).
There's a lift that takes me up to the top of the glass (which is incredibly sturdy, because, honey-chile, Hilda is a HEAVY one, lemme tell you!) and I step off into the glass.
As I step, my foot (completely sanitized (yes I have germ issues, shut up, nobody asked YOU)) steps into the mounds of chocolate cake, which is still warm and the icing, which is chilled creates a contrast on my skin. I lie down in the wine glass and little chocolate bonbons filled with neopolitan ice cream are delivered into my hands.
I lie and meditate in the cake, bon bons in my hands. And then I begin to eat and roll around in the cake. Finally, exhausted from writhing around in the cake, I fall asleep, completely sated.
(sigh)
I love cake.
And, you, my loyal fans.
H+K,
Hilda
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