Here’s me and Lu. In the nosebleed section of our semi-season-ticketed seats. The very first quarter, before Hines got Ward-er.

 We spent the SunDAY cooking. Foraging through recipes.  Slurping and drooling over clear miso broths, brussells sprouts braised with a small little cross. Roasted veg and thinly sliced shallots. Lu picked out a fancy-shmancy, pear salad. I didn’t get to go cook on this night. I was busy it seems with making things right. I wasn’t successful as I head off to bed…but fuck it, I say, there’s still room for bread. Off on the highway, I’ll leave in the morning, don’t tell me y’all, I didn’t give you no warning…Peace out to you, I hope there’s no bull.. . Lu said my lasagna left y’all full.

See you on Sunday, when I figure it out. Meantime, I’ll drive and ponder and pout…

But the good news is this… La Caretta, is bliss. Bistec empanizado, plantain fritos y mojo. Pastalitos con guava y queso etc…yum. David’s Cafe on East Collin’s Ave. The South Beach hotties I can wake up and just…have.

 It’ll be all good, ‘cuz it’s what I do. See y’all there in spirit or two…

…So there was no final table. Paula was pissed. Angry that the Viking mixer signed by all the Food Network folks auctioned off for less than 3 grand. Bummer, girl. My sister salted away our chips with the determination of a lion to get to that “final table.” Uh-oh. No final table was to be had. Paula, Deer, was pissy. So she opted for the fine print on our tickets that read, “Talent subject to change without fucking notice, bitches!” CRAP! I just fuckin’ sat thru four g-damned hours of poker and shitty food for this?
Screw Paula. AND her whitening strips. At least her husband shook my hand and recognized our joined boredom.

Fast forward to the brunch honoring Jamie Oliver. It was happening at the Loew’s Hotel. I ran into Emeril. No really. I RAN into Emeril. I was out for a smoke when Ffej texted me that the show was starting. I dashed for the escalator when I smacked into a hefty dude. We simultaneously apologized. I never recognize folks on tv without their chef coats…bam THAT.
We had a blast, me and Ffej. Blast in the moments between here and there. We rode busses and drove my car and sped along the ocean blue, walked and stalked and mocked the natives. We tanned and swam and dreamed of netherlands. We read and ate and laid about. I like food. I like attending the the Wine and Food Fest. I missed Alton though. I loved my sister. I drank her up-all her glory. That’s what Miami Beach is for, right? Honoring the glorious? I love that Ffej had a reprieve. It makes 80 degree winters so hard to leave. Thanks for coming, sis. I love you the most.

I was gonna let Paula off the hook. Was. Not any more. It went down like this…

…Me and Ffej arrived early to the Paris Theater. We took the transit near our hotel. We smelled good. We showered and put on our clean and shiny duds. Hopped off the bus with 1.5 hours to spare. Strolling past the Paris I noticed two women-one smoking a smoke. I commented quietly to Ffej: “I can’t believe that woman is copying Paula Deen. I mean geez! Look at her hair!” Ffej looks. The Paula emulater smiles at her. Crap. I’m an idiot. It is Paula Deen. Smokin’. We are number two in line behind radical Deen fans. They’re frustrated because they feel another is about to budge in line. The gal with the walker begins to take the other to task. “You didn’t wait in line, miss! We’re not gonna allow you to butt in.”

Geez. People get fucked in the head when it comes to pseudo-celebs, eh?

Nevertheless, me and Ffej are second.

Let me explain two pertinent factoids.

1) I didn’t drink the happy juice, just here for the food.

2) I loathe and despise cards, poker, slots, gambling in general.

The jist of the evening is to acquire a seat at the “final table” with Ms. Deen on stage.

I am uncomfortable in crowds unless it involves dancing or jello wrestling-neither of which were on the night’s menu. But Ffej is a shark when it comes to card games.

So she commenced to park herself at one of two poker tables. She was kicking ass and taking chips. I was the food/drink getter for the night. Oh and crowd avoider, too.

I parked my rather large posterior on the stage. Nice. Quiet. Away. Nobody near me. Until…

The food network shmoozers arrive. I can see Ffej in front of me taking the smarty-ass boys to task. Then here comes Paula. She tells a dirty joke but flubs the ending. No one is really interested. Enter an older gent with a British accent near to where I’m parked. He whoops it up. He says; “Hey Paula!” She looks over and introduces Gordon Elliot as her savior. At this point people have taken notice. They bum-rush the stage. I’m frantically waving at Ffej to whip out her camera. She is oblivious to me and the goings-on above her head.

I see Paula and her “handler.” I see Bobby, Guy, Giada and Todd, Cat Cora and Katie Joel. They’re kissing each other’s cheeks and acting as though there’s no one else in the room.

My legs are dangling from the stage and I feel a man between them. I have no idea who it is until I hear Bobby Deen ask where Gina is. The man between my legs is Pat Neely and it’s making me uncomfortable. He returns the question by asking where Jamie is. By this point Bobby is crouched by my shoulder and is fully engaged in a conversation with the latest addition the Food Network family. I’m appalled, yet feel strangely lucky. I mean, there are all these women around vying for the right position to snap a photo. Asking me this question about who was that and who that was and so on. I revelled a bit in the moment. Until…

Mr. Neely goes off on his tear telling Bobby Deen how he told the head of Food network that he, “already had a fuckin’ Lexus and already had sent his fuckin’ daughter to college…” I was mesmerized. Only because I find it rude when total strangers think it’s ok to swear like that. I mean, I wouldn’t swear in front of total strangers, I wouldn’t dream of it. Get to know you though, and look out!

So there I am, sitting on the stage hearing a weird conversation between Pat Neely and Bobby Deen. I notice four things just then. 1) Bobby smells yummy. Whatever cologne he has on is working. 2) He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. 3) He does not use even one curse word. 4) He knocked me over accidentally at one point but instantly apologized by placing his hand on my shoulder and acting as though I was his sister.

I was impressed by him. Even though he’s a boy and I’m generally anti-boy.

But his Mum? Here’s where the wheel began to take leave of the cart…

Eating. That is the verb that circled ’round my brain today. I was thinking back to long ago. As far as my mind would travel.
Thinking of what I was first taught, first led to do.
Eat. That was it. Eat.
I do not know my birth mother. But I do know that I wasn’t taught to breathe that first breath. Sneeze that first sneeze. Cry those first tears. Cough that first cough. Eliminate that first, well…you get the idea.
The first thing I had to be shown, taught even, was to eat. I’m not sure when that was. If it was a rubber or flesh flavored nipple.
But I’m thinking that I’ve been trying to perfect that one task ever since. The first thing that was left up to another human being to teach me, I’ve perfected over the years. No, not the nipple thing, the eating thing.
I can eat, I can savor, I can enjoy, taste, revel and spew the thing that someone, somewhere, first taught me.
I miss my heritage. I feel alone at the dinner table. Should I be eating pita and hummus? Or corn and flatbread?
I guess it just doesn’t matter to anyone but me.
I’ll keep eating. All foods, all flavors, all regions, all countries. Because that’s the first thing that I needed another human for. And if I have to walk the plank, matey, I’ll not do it with an empty stomach. Nope. Because someone, somewhere, taught me to eat.
Most appreciated, whomever you are.

I love my tastebuds. They are one of my favorite humanistic gifts. They please me like almost no other part of me. I wouldn’t trade the other 4 senses for them, mind you. But they encompass so much of my life. My social skills, my culinary vocabulary. Everything, it seems, revolves around the next gathering of plates. And palates. My finicky fetishes are accomodated by a host of well-wisher. Food-pushers, as I like to call them. I can think of at least three off the top of my head that can cook their asses off. And one, in particular, whom should replace that spazoid Rachael Ray. She’d show her exactly where to stick her 30 minute meals.
Aaaahh…my tastebuds. I love you. Never leave me.