I found this website that posts menus & locations of wandering delicacies like [enter pretty much anything here] on a stick, open-faced chorizo breakfast sammies, and fluffy Elmo cupcakes so sweet your face turns inside out.  They use email and Twitter to locate these delicious little moving targets and broadcast their position so you know when and where to attack. 

In my previous life when I ate meat and dairy, you couldn’t keep me away from trucks like the Flying Pig.  (Read about my pork-induced coma here.)  Imagine watching someone from your office window who you think has absolutely lost her mind, chasing after the smell of sweet swine, knocking down anything in her path.  Now imagine that person when she’s not pregnant, and that would be me.

But now that I’m a hippie and I stick to flax seed and arrowroot, I can only watch and weep as those miraculous engines drive by, leaving behind only a glimpse of their greasy trail. . .

Which brings me to my latest and greatest idea.  As soon as you agree to give me your truck, I’m going to start a business plan for my own little sassy traveling trough.  An edible indulgence that doesn’t make you hate yourself.  It’ll be called something like, “Made to Spoon,” or “High Heels & Wheels.”  I don’t know yet, I still need to shape my schtick, but I know it will be lick-your-fingers good and it won’t make you feel like you have a fuming baby in your belly.    

I can assure you, Dogtown Dog and The Grilled Cheese Truck – I’m on your tail.  Turn around.

To be continued. . .

Update: It has been brought to my attention that beans are musical, not magical.

Think you’re too good for vegan food?  Try again, sister.  Last night I made black bean burgers and after one bite, I was looking for someone to hold me.  They were the easiest thing in the world to make and so much cheaper than the processed, store-bought ones.  (I spent my future children’s college money snowboarding, so I’m poor for the moment.)

First of all, remember that they’re not meat – they’re beans.  They’re not going to taste like meat.  They’re beans.  So, relax and don’t scream at me and say they taste nothing like hamburgers.  You probably won’t have much time to scream anyway because your face will be stuffed with amazement.  Have tissues on hand in case you feel a couple tears coming on.

Here is the recipe I used, but I never like to follow someone else’s recipe exactly – feels like I’m a cheater – so deviate as you’d like, sassypants.  Add scallions, ginger & more soy for Asian burgers or chipotle & chili powder for spicy Mexican, or curry and lentils for Middle Eastern.  Do whatever you want – it’s your day.

1 carrot, grated

2 15oz. cans black beans (rinsed & drained)

1/2 cup chopped green bell pepper

1/2 cup chopped onion

1/2 cup salsa verde

1/4 cup canned corn (rinsed & drained)

1/2 cup chopped rolled oats (or dried bread crumbs if you’re scared of oats)

1/2 cup whole wheat flour

1/2 cup cooked brown rice

3 cloves chopped garlic

1 to 2 teaspoons soy sauce

Sesame oil

1 teaspoon cumin

1/2 teaspoon fajita seasoning

chopped cilantro (however much you want)

pepper to taste

If you don’t have any cooked brown rice on hand, do that first.  You know the drill, 2:1 ratio.  Instead of olive oil or butter though, add a little bit of sesame oil.  I promise you, it makes a huge difference in taste and sesame oil will be your new best greasy little friend.  Then get the oats & whole wheat flour ready by mixing them together in the food processor until the mixture is mostly crumbs.

Grate the carrots and chop the green pepper, onion & garlic.  Sauté them with sesame oil, cumin and a pinch of black pepper.  While they’re getting all hot and bothered on the stovetop, throw the black beans in a food processor, but leave them chunky.  Mix the black beans into the veggie party in the sauté pan and let it all heat up together.  I threw in a little fajita seasoning while it was going, but not much.  Add the corn last.

Take your biggest, fanciest mixing bowl and pour the bean & veggie mixture in; let it cool a little bit.  Throw in the soy sauce, salsa and cilantro and mix it all together.  It should be pretty moist.

Add the cooked brown rice and about half of the flour/oats mixture.  Once you start mixing it, it should start to thicken up – add the rest of the flour/oats mixture as you need it.  If it gets too stiff, add some more salsa (that’s what she. .. ah, never mind).

Form the mess into 8 or 10 patties (or make 4 enormous ones, I won’t judge) and put them on parchment paper.  Before you cook them, sprinkle some flour on each side.  Mmmmm, crust.

Focus.

Heat a large skillet over medium/high heat and coat with cooking spray.  Fry the patties for about 8 minutes on each side, or until browned and firm.  Make sure to keep the pan sprayed or you’ll burn those suckers before you know it.  And then the smoke alarm goes off and you hear a fire truck around the corner.  Your neighbors come outside in their slippers and you realize what Mrs. St. Clair looks like without makeup.  It’s just a mess.  So don’t burn them.

This recipe makes a bunch but they freeze well.  If you don’t have room in your freezer, email me and I’ll send you my address.

I had a lot of fun celebrating your birthday.  I rented gear, coordinated my outfit, and made sure I had plenty of french fries in my system for energy.  

Christmas Eve was Day 1, and I kicked it off with a beginners class.   I started off probably how most people start off – awkward, wobbly, scared as hell.  I got up, I came down.  I stood back up, I crashed and burned.  My legs didn’t understand why I was gluing them to a wooden plank and expecting them to smoothly glide back and forth across the mountain.  I’m pretty sure my burning calves whispered to me at some point, “Lady, screw this.  Let’s go back to the fireplace for a hot toddy.”

I persevered, though.  And as frustrated as I was, I did my best to keep the four-letter words in check when I was around children.  I might have let a couple slip, sending a few 4-year old ski bunnies running for their parents, but I tried to keep it down.  You see, they don’t tell you when you fork over your credit card that the two hour lesson is essentially worthless.   They make heavy promises about perfecting the bunny slopes and then shortly thereafter owning the chair lift.  They flip around, “cut the edge” (still figuring that out), use their fancy stoner language and make it seem so easy.  But they’re teaching you on a flat surface.  All of those little tricks you’re learning need to be done with momentum.  If not, you eat it every 15 seconds.  So I finished my lesson and then moved up a notch to a steeper hill.  At that point (for free) I was learning. 

Anyway, I did okay on Day 1 and though I wiped out a lot more than I thought I would, Day 2 started off much better.  At this point, I threw away the $5.00 coupon for my next lesson (how generous, Snow Summit) and felt pretty damn cool when I went straight for the lift ticket purchase.  I attached the little thingie to my jacket, cruised around with my board propped up against my side and perfectly angled my goggles on top of my head – not too cockeyed but just enough to make it seem like I do this sort of thing everyday.  Which I do. 

Day 2 was better than Day 1 but not quite effortless yet.  At this point, I was struggling to keep my legs from buckling underneath me completely since they still burned from the day before.  They felt like jello filled noodles with a serious dose of lactate.  Just sitting down, I had to manually lift one leg over the other to get them crossed.  But I kept at it, and for a period of time my legs were warm enough that it didn’t hurt so bad.  That’s not to say that I didn’t still crash and burn, because I did.  Several times.  At dinner that night, we actually tried to guess how many times I fell over the last two days.  I think we came up with somewhere around 40, taking into account the ratio of falls to trips up the chair lifts.  All limbs were in place and I don’t think I had any concussions, so it was a success in my book.

Day 3 was our last full day in Big Bear and my goal was to make it down the Snow Summit trail (it’s green and for those of you who don’t know what that means, think bowling with bumpers but still playing the game).  More importantly though, I was going to fight that damn chair lift if I didn’t make it off without crashing.  It’s tougher than you think sliding off those things.

So after a couple practice runs on the easier “trails,” I was headed for Snow Summit, up the asshole chair lift.  We got closer and closer to the top and I approached it like Goliath.  

“Boards down, bend your knees, weight on the front foot” the 15-year old lift controller shouted to each chair approaching the end.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard this before and it all sounds great but it would be awesome if my legs understood and just did it.  

But, magically, they did.  I glided right off that stupid thing and over to the top of the trail where I could lock in my other foot.  Santa, I can’t tell you how proud I was.  I didn’t even care that the controller said, “yeah, but let’s see you do that again.”  I beat the chair and I wasn’t paying attention to him.  (By the way, if you’re out there reading this, Controller Man- I’ve now had a chance to absorb that and I wanted to tell you that you suck.)

So here I am cruising down Snow Summit, not a care in the world, enjoying the cool breeze and focusing on all of the little things I had learned the last couple days.  I got this.  I totally got this. 

I look over to my right and there’s a jerk guy packing up some fresh snowballs.  No freaking way was he seriously throwing snowballs at beginners.  Who would do 18 unintentional back flips with the slightest mistake.  On Christmas weekend.  (I know, your birthday.)  But he was, and I was the next victim.  I glance over and watch in slow motion as he lobs one at me and BOOM, I’m on my knees flipping forward like an Olympic somersaulter.  Once I came to a stop, I had to seriously sit there for a minute to regain my cool because I was about to flip the eff out on this dude.  It’s been a long time since I was that pissed off and I promise you that if I a) knew how to quickly unbuckle my bindings and b) had any strength left in my arms, I would have ventured back to my softball days and thrown my board as hard as I could right towards his face.  I don’t apologize for the four-letter words that time.  No way.  They were necessary and they felt good. 

Eventually I got over my pity party and made it down the rest of the mountain.  It had been a long, but really fun few of days, and not taking into account the Grinch on Snow Summit, I had an absolute blast snurfing.  It was a great trip and a fun way to celebrate the holiday – Happy Birthday, Santa. 

Yours bruisly,

Emily

For the most part, I think the month of December brings out the best in people.  NBC nightly news airs that fuzzy “Making a Difference” segment.  All of the Food Network shows are based on nostalgic comfort food (just one more stick of butter, they’ll never know. . .).  Office buildings decorate their façade, albeit generic and non-denominational.  A FedEx delivery guy actually walked though the halls of my office yesterday singing Christmas carols – and it wasn’t creepy.  It was kind of refreshing.  Not so refreshing that it made me jump up from my desk, grab the closest taper candle and sing along in cadence, but it was nice. 

But back to my point, I think that generally, December and the holidays are good things.  But then there’s that turn.  That unexpected wtf moment.  I’m not talking about the fact that more often people steal from each other in desperation during the holidays.  Yes, that sucks but it’s not my gripe today.  Today I’m convinced that the decline of American dignity is emphasized during the month of December for one reason: Christmas sweaters.  

Now before you get all puffy, defending that thing you’re wearing right now (uh huh) that was passed down from your great-grandmother to your grandmother to your mother and now to you, hear me out.  There’s a fine line between celebrating the season and just looking absurd.  Safe: that one [solid] red sweater you only wear for Christmas & Valentines Day or earrings made out of mini ornaments.  Shoot, have fun with it.  Inappropriate:  an angry reindeer sweater, anything that’s in 3D, makes children cry or has to be plugged in.  

I don’t get it.  Why do you do it on purpose?  The other day I got a text message that said, “ugly sweater party at the bar, free beer if you’re wearing one and no cover charge.”  I thought about it for a second, wondering why I would go out of my way to spend money on something like this just for a free beer.  I’m no scrub, I’m happy to buy my own beer.  And I can have a hell of a time with friends wearing something normal.  

I can only imagine that walking home after an ugly sweater party brings the type of embarrassment one has after leaving a Chicago Bears game with every inch of their skin painted orange and navy, wearing a big, dead, stuffed bear head.  And they lost the game in the first half.  Or stopping to get gas after a bachelorette party still wearing those penis necklaces.

It’s true, I’ve been asking for a Snuggie since mid-August (breast cancer awareness pink or limited edition cheetah?) but wearing something that inappropriate is only done in the comfort of your own home, far from any bar, office or random social gathering.  And it certainly isn’t adorned with little jingle bells. 

So as my one Christmas wish (for today), I kindly ask that you think twice about risking it all just for a laugh at the company holiday party.  They won’t forget and pictures last forever.  Come on people, have respect for yourselves.  And while you’re at it, shave that mustache.  You look ridiculous. 

Last night I was at Houston’s for a drink, sporting some pretty swank riding boots.  You know that feeling when you’re wearing something new, you know you’re looking good, and you prance around like Victoria Beckham.  The overbearing scent of your confidence is slightly disgusting but you don’t care.  They only wish they had boots like yours.  And even still, they have huge feet so they definitely wouldn’t look as cute.  I felt like that in these boots.

It was a good night, I was in good company (hi, lover) and there was a good looking crowd.  I got up to find the restroom and make sure everyone noticed my boots.  I’m pretty sure I heard ooohs and ahhhs, but that’s still unconfirmed.  Anyway, I’m making my way back downstairs – who the eff only has restrooms on the second floor anyway? – and just as I started my strut past the kitchen and into the bar, a little gnome jumped out, tripped me and next thing I know I’m brushing off my knees.  

Okay so maybe there was no gnome, but I do think somebody sprayed slick oil on the floor when I walked by because they were jealous of my boots.

A server walked by and I vaguely remember her asking if I was alright; the only thing I undeniably recall is her telling me that it was surprisingly graceful.

You’re damn right it was.

So I walked back over to my seat (and wine) at the bar asking my squeeze if he saw it.  Explain to me why the first reaction after falling is to say, “Did you see that?!?!”  If they saw it, they’d say something and if they didn’t, then shutyourmouth.  But he didn’t and I still said something.  I was halfway through describing the fall of a gazelle when the manager came over to check on me.  She also asked if I was alright, interrupting my answer with, “just a bruised ego?”  Umm, have we met?  I have the ego of a gladiator and it’s going to take a lot more than a graceful slip to take me down.  But, yes, you can buy me a glass of wine.

She asked to take down my information like we were in a car accident and said they’d like to follow up with me in a few days to make sure I’m okay.  I told her that wasn’t necessary but she insisted (as did the random guy next to me who told the manager he was my lawyer).  So I mentioned to her someone might want to clean the floor over there so no one else falls and she said, “our hardwood floors are frequently polished so they do become slippery sometimes.”

Well clearly this happens all the time and perhaps you should make them un-slippery.

I wasn’t upset until she made me feel like it was my fault.  It was my fault for wearing amazing boots, for having the audacity to get up to use the restroom, for not recognizing the fact that they oil their hardwood with WD-40.

At that point, the only thing that could possibly make me feel better was french fries – and they did.

Next time I’ll wear my fabulous rubber shoes with velcro straps, just to be safe.

You don’t know Hollywood until you’ve experienced the sparkle that is Thai Elvis. 

Last week I went to a work dinner at Palm’s Thai and found my one true love.  They say you don’t find love when you’re looking and sure enough, he found me.  There he stood shoveling panang curry and silken tofu at the bar with his jet black hair perfectly coiffed and gold rimmed shades glaring in my direction.  I tried to overlook the buttons on his polyester suit, which were coming oh so close to popping open, revealing a chest full of fur you wouldn’t otherwise expect.  He posed against the bar top, admiring his admirers, and owned the room like it was an obligation. 

After downing half the menu in about 10 minutes, he threw down his napkin and approached the stage ready to rock and roll.  The room was filled with bustling conversation, but slowly, one by one, each guest put down their chicken satay and focused their attention on stage.  He went through “All Shook Up,” “Love Me Tender” and “Blue Suede Shoes” without breaking a sweat and I just knew he was singing directly to me when he belted out “Hard Headed Woman.”  I swooned and wondered what it would be like to experience the real thing and not just his Thai cousin who migrated to Hollywood.  It was truly an experience.

I managed to pull myself together and sent a text message to a friend, knowing it would be hard to believe what I just witnessed had he not been there himself.  His response was, “did he sing ‘ruv me tender?’” and my laugh quickly snapped me back into reality.  Turns out Thai Elvis was singing to all the ladies and I, like many others in his path, fell for his charm. 

I feel like such a sucker.