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

"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)

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

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!

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

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!