A Little Pasta Party

I'm Italian, as I imagine you are too. Maybe it's just a sweeping cultural generalization, or we actually do have hotter blood pumping through our veins. Either way, we only deal in one of two emotions: unrelenting rage and jubilant gaiety. Rarely do the two mix. Except in the bedroom. The joy is brought about by many things such as pie, booze and the gentle purrs of my cat. The rage is triggered by mostly everything...from misplaced sunglasses to one of the good plates getting broken. Nothing is too small to get worked up about. Unfortunately for you non-Italians, there's no delicate way to deal with these unpredictable bouts of passion. It's best just to wait it out because there will probably be a pasta dish once the tantrum subsides. I keep this relic of my dad's college days in my kitchen to warn strangers that they're walking on eggshells. 

A Little Sunday Funday

Sunday mornings Chez Toulouse are an occasion worth looking forward to - we grocery shop at our local farmer's Aldi, then come home and clean the apartment to our favorite Judy Garland and Fleetwood Mac records. It's the Lord's day and I intend to do whatever the hell I want with it. Neighbors bedamned! Gin rickeys, holistic toilet bowl cleaner and The Man that Got Away sound like a Sunday-Funday to me. While I scoop the litterbox and work on my vibrato, a homemade marinara sauce usually simmers away on the stove. My hot Italian blood is only good for two things: exaggerated emotional outbursts and one helluva pasta sauce. I don't believe in jarred sauce, but I do believe in spending just as much and working twice as hard on sauce that basically tastes the same. In my poorer years, I lived on pasta and Ragu. Now that I'm a grown man with love handles, I try to consolidate my carb-intake to one night of the week. This ever-romantic weekend tradition is known as Pasta Sunday at my house. When all my chores are done, my plus-one and I slip into our best elastic-waisted bottoms and plop our fatasses down in front of a movie I rented from the lib'ary. That's amore!

A Little Spring Fare

I made five pies for a fundraiser this weekend (including a chocolate chess pie), but I won't be showing you that. Let's face it, winter is mostly over and while all the snow has melted away, the fat on your ass probably hasn't. Everyone told me after the age of twenty-five your metabolism slows down, I just figured like most laws, it didn't apply to me. Twenty-five breezed by in late night burgers and ice cream and I stayed skinny as a whippet, partially because of the manic period, but mostly because of good genetics. Now that I'm twenty-six, I'm a little bit wiser and a little bit wider. As a former fat-kid this is all cause for worry. My mom warns me about the hereditary "spread" that happens to people on her side of the family; a non scientific condition in which the hips and ass spread wider than the shoulders. As many of you know, I have an ass that won't quit, but after taking a good look around at the holidays, I'm realizing my fate if I keep eating with reckless abandon. I'd rather hate my reflection for all those hateful things it said to that bus driver than its flabby butt. That's why I'm starting with me. 

My plus-one recently embarked on a #cleaneatingchallenge which was just as annoying as it sounds. I did learn something though, and that is life's too short to count calories and read labels. Eat what you want. You can trust big food companies. That's why I choose Kraft Easy Mac for my family...