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Strangers Things 2: Nerds Getting s*** DONE.

Strangers Things 2: Nerds Getting s*** DONE.

Here’s my rambling breakdown of what worked and didn’t work in Stranger Things 2. SPOILERS LIKE CRAZY ARE AFOOT! Proceed with caution. The Stranger Things sequel had a lot to live up to, so I was delighted to hear the Duffer Bros explain on the ST2 after-show that they began cooking up ideas before the series had even been renewed for a second season. That means they were, at the time, mostly…

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I Watched 'Disjointed' So You Don't Have To: True Confessions of a Netflix Junkie

I Watched ‘Disjointed’ So You Don’t Have To: True Confessions of a Netflix Junkie

Oh Netflix. I really wish I didn’t have to write about this, but here we are. Netflix original series deserve the benefit of the doubt. Even if the genre isn’t necessarily my cup of tea, overall, I’ve found many to be well-written, well-acted, inventive, and pretty ballsy. So, a stoner sitcom isn’t something I’m gonna go looking for, but it has Kathy Bates and it’s on Netflix and funny is funny…

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https://soundcloud.com/kandyharris/new-ghost-escape

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https://soundcloud.com/kandyharris/ghost-escape-new-improved

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https://soundcloud.com/kandyharris/crazy-things

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https://soundcloud.com/kandyharris/crazy-things-rough

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https://soundcloud.com/kandyharris/resolution-rough-wfake-instruments-1

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https://soundcloud.com/kandyharris/resolution-rough-wfake-instruments

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https://soundcloud.com/kandyharris/if-you-havent-yet

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https://soundcloud.com/kandyharris/live-53117-performance-of-original-audience-disney-sing-along-anchor-open-mic

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Larry David + 'Curb Your Enthusiasm': Why I Need Dark Fictional Characters

Larry David + ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’: Why I Need Dark Fictional Characters

[NOTE: This post contains explicit language.] I relate to Larry David more often than I am alienated by him, but I’m not proud of it. And, by Larry David, I mean the character of ‘Larry David’ on the HBO series Curb Your Enthusiasm. I have no doubt that the actual Larry David functions mostly fine amongst polite society. Or, maybe he doesn’t. I don’t know Mr. David, but I know Larry David from…

[kandyswatchblog]

In my latest posts, I address my questionable work-from-home habits, my obsession with screwed-up anti-heroes, Nicolas Cage’s sweaty tantrums, and Samurai Cop’s wig’s lack of self-awareness. All this and more on Kandy’s Watchblog...

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Heartbreak Smothered in Tomato Sauce, Vol. 1

Looks delicious, doesn’t it? 

Well it’s not. Words cannot express my devastation over the failure of this culinary frolic.

[trans. “This shit sucks. I’m going to cry into a half-empty box of expired Entenmann’s cheese danish now.”]

By all accounts, it should’ve been a game-changing meal, a way to cheat the system, a path to my beloved spaghetti without a massive gutbomb comprised of semolina flour slowly taking on the mass of dark matter in my stomach. IT’S CALLED SPAGHETTI SQUASH FOR CRISSAKE.

See, I love pasta. Let me rephrase that. I love dishes comprised of an ambulatory device for conveying delectable sauce into my slathering maw. That generally describes spaghetti pretty nicely, although said ambulatory conveyance for said sauce could be a piece of torn-off hot dog bun. But I digress. I prefer my conveyance in strand-form, or small and tubular, or, during flights of whimsy, shaped like the Doctor’s bow tie. I don’t really care what they’re made of, as long as they get the sauce right into my mouth at least 90% of the time.

So, spaghetti squash should work, right? In theory. If you halve and roast a spaghetti squash, you can drag a fork through it and make long strands. Long ambulatory strands for conveying sauce, containing zero percent semolina gutbomb. Finally! I beat the System!

But no. System: 1. Kandy: 0.

Maybe it was the sauce, which I painstakingly constructed using fresh minced garlic, fresh basil and tomatoes from my own garden MY OWN GARDEN I SAY, and chopped onion, all fried in butter. I then added plain tomato sauce to the mix and simmered. And simmered. And simmered. As I sat at my computer, looking up baby sloth videos as you do, waiting for the sauce's aroma to tickle my nostril hairs, I noticed that my nostril hairs remained decidedly un-tickled. I went into the kitchen, lifted the lid to the pot, and took a big whiff.

Nothing.

Well, something. It smelled like tomatoes and basil, maybe a hint of garlic, but mostly, it smelled like nothing, so I went in for a taste.

Not nothing, but not much.

Particularly, it was missing the onion-y sting that tomato sauce desperately needs. Then, I smelled my hands. No onion. I started to question my sanity. I did just chop an onion, right? Oh look there's the other half still sitting on the counter I'll just sniff it...

My onion smelled like nothing. It was a broken onion.

Nevertheless, I soldiered on, forked my squash, poured on the sauce, and took a bite. I don't even know if it's possible for spaghetti squash to be too al dente, but if so, that's what I got. Slightly crunchy squash with some slimy, mushy strands mixed in, smothered in a completely flavorless sauce, made over the course of an hour of my life I'll never get back.

Nuke me up a Hungry Man, ma. I'm calling it a day.

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Let’s talk about pie. I seem to be pie obsessed. There’s something about putting a variety of foodstuffs into a crust and baking/frying it until it’s crunchy and golden brown fills me with a sense of enormous satisfaction. Such an alchemy happening behind the oven door at a temperature of 375F, all the simple ingredients breaking down and melding into one cohesive blend of flavor while still shielded by a protective shell. 

That protective shell is critical to the success of the pie. It is the essence of the pie itself. The crust is the crux of the pie. You, no doubt, agree, since you are a thinking person who appreciates the finer points of pie assembly. And because you are a such a person, you’re probably already handworking your pie crust with cubes of cold butter. But if you’re not, allow me to blow your pie-lovin’ mind.

Start with cold butter. It HAS to be cold, colder even than your embittered heart. Cube a whole stick of cold butter. Keep it cold! Trust me, those chunks of cold butter will eventually melt in the crust while it’s baking and create a universe of flaky butteriness that will bring you to your knees. Put 1.5 cups of flour in a bowl with pinch of salt and a bit of sugar. Keep some cold water nearby. Dump the cold butter cubes into the flour and work it together with your fingers. Try to make big buttery flakes of flour. Add little drips of cold water to keep the crust workable but not wet. Once you’ve got yourself a cohesive pile of dough, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for an hour or two or three or a Netflix bingewatch of American Horror Story. Doesn’t matter. Just let it soften before you roll it out. Make a pie with it. Invite your friends over to eat it, or maybe you shouldn’t. This much butter deserves some Alone Time.

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Mashed potato and garlic spinach fried pillows of happiness and joy. For those times when your whole world is falling apart and your child is making you insane and the only thing you can think to do is just...throw fried food at the situation. And mashed potatoes. Note to self: When everything is awful, throw fried food and mashed potatoes at the situation.

Here’s how you make it: Make mashed potatoes. Try not to shame eat the whole pot while sitting naked in your bathtub. Saute some frozen spinach (or fresh spinach, but you should know that nobody likes a show-off) with chopped garlic and lemon, S&P to taste. Try not to go crazy with the salt. You know the mashed potatoes are salty enough because you possess taste buds and enjoy things with flavor.

Bust out the wonton wrappers and drop a bloop of mashed taters and a matching bloop of spinach on one wrapper. Cover with additional wonton wrap, wet the edges until they seal, and crimp with a fork, much like you would a ravioli. Because these are ravioli. Ravioli filled with the love you never had as a child. Fry your unrequited love ravioli in oil. If you don’t have a deep fryer in your kitchen, shallow fry them and use a spoon to splash the oil over the ravioli until they’re golden brown. Drain, add salt (Always Add Salt to Fried Food = AASFF). Dip in sour cream. Go to sleep feeling less alone for once in your goddamn life.

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Burritos I Have Loved, Parts I & II:

Behold the guacamole burrito from Bubby’s. It doth bursteth fortheth with spicy chipotle sauce and a robust portion of black beans. We ate ours in the car during the rain on Date Night, and if you don't think that shit’s romantic as fuck, there’s a charred hole where your heart should be.

Behold the black bean burrito. It doth hail from a flea market just outside of Newburgh. There is nothing like the rush of taking your gastrointestinal system on a thrill-ride through the culinary offerings of an indoor flea market. Lucky for me, the Latinas running this indoor flea market burrito stand know what they're doing, because this burrito did not suck. 

[kandyswatchblog]

Look, the culinary feats are not always stringy melted cheese and golden brown crusts. Sometimes, you decide to steam the broccoli in a colander over the boiling pasta water because you don't want to dirty more dishes. And sometimes, steaming the broccoli over the boiling pasta water leaves you with pasta water that smells like a broccoli fart. You take the good you take the farts and you take them both and there you have the Farts of Life.