Padma, Padma, Padma Lakshmi, am I jealous of the way you look? Darn tooting right I am.  First time I saw you was on the Food Network years ago when you hosted a cross culture cooking show, then the second season of Top Chef: since then I have seen you drive the internet berserk when a hint of gossip surrounds you (is that old geezer really worth it?), then it was the sexy commercials, all the magazine shoots, I even love your jewellery website and now a pregnancy.  The most shocking is 30 Rock alongside a Baldwin, my favourite intelligently written and acted boob toob show.

Just tell me how is it your voice never alters in pitch?  Not up, not down, it stagnates whether you be overjoyed or unhappy; I need your voice coach in as much as my voice can reach pinnacles that give me headache.

On a much sadder note I had to miss the book signing of David Chang.  Thankfully I did not pay in advance – A previously scheduled and un-noted Doctor appointment took priority, especially this doctor. (Thank goodness for reminder calls).  Since recent years living in the land of Medicare; Doctors have the dubious choice of kicking a patient off their appointment list for many reasons primarily missed appointments.  My particular doctor has a 3 year waiting list of patients literally dying to see him and I ain’t giving up my spot for David Chang.  Don’t worry I am not dying; he is a rheumatology specialist who was the only one to properly diagnose and treat my swelling fingers five years ago.  Getting him to agree to see me was a chore too difficult to describe, but Martha Stewart knows, it’s a good thing to know people with ‘pull’. My swelling fingers put a whole new spin on ‘let your fingers do the walking through the Yellow Pages’, or was that just a Canadian thing, those yellow pages?

David Chang, believe me I agonized over you and your ‘buns’.

Monday is a day I will remember forever, I think.  IT was truly a PIZZ ME OFF day.  It was the day a Labradoodle nearly killed my Bugg.  Yes, these are dogs believe it or not.  The dog du jour in my area of the city is a ‘doodle’ anything: a Cadoodle, a Goldendoodle, a Schnoodle – all cross breeds of a standard Poodle.  Mine is a Bugg: 1/2 Boson Terrier 1/2 Pug and all of 16 pounds.  This Labradoodle was my waist height and probably my weight and it took off after my little thing, unprovoked.  All I heard was yelping and crying from my Zoey as the crowd of dog-owners all tried to get that thing off my pup.  In the end, which seemed forever, my traumatized pup was bitten in three places, deep – but thankfully there wasn’t enough time for the Labradoodle to go for the neck – because for sure he would have killed her.  Fighting dogs is a scary sound…I have a hit out on the Labradoodle.

The dog’s owner I think was as horrified as I was.  The worst part is that this dog turned on a dime because the first half hour everyone was at play.  Then I heard from a distance “Natalie pick up Zoey. Pick up Zoey”.  But before I could turn around it was too late.   For the past week, if I were a Kangaroo, my dog’s life would be complete.

My question to the owner was if he had kids.


I may hate Twitter, I know I hate MySpace (does it still exist) But honies, Youtube has to be the genius that revolutionized the internet.  Youtube is what crib notes were to school. What Coles Notes are to Canadian students.

On Youtube I have learned how to tweak Photoshop, and now how to learn the ins and outs of my new camera the Canon SX200.  Out of box, this camera was daunting, especially because it is so small that I needed the extra special set of magnifying glasses I made for small print.


So, what does a middle-aged woman do, who has no patience to learn a camera that I need an engineering degree for:  She googles Youtube for a Tutorial.

Thank you all those people out there who spend the time and hours it takes to actually make a Tutorial on anything…anything…even WordPress.

The award of the week for the best post to Rock is the following copy and paste:

by Eating The Road and to which I was alerted by Diners Journal.  I spent the better part of fifteen minutes reading this intricately written-left nothing out-so true hilarious satire to eating at an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Sensational.

Now I must tell you, the most embarrassing time I had at an all-you-can-eat BBQ ribs outing took place while on vacation at the elegant island of St. Maarten, the Dutch side.  At the hotel restaurant was an all-you-can-eat for bubkes in price, and so we and another couple we met went to dine.  We were all staying in the Time-shares on the beach.  Hungry early, we ordered drinks, whatever appetizers came with the meal, if any, because I have no re-call of anything prior to my humiliation.  Our two big guys, having spent the better part of the day doing all kinds of beach sports, were famished and began their indulgence into man-size ribs drowned in sauce and juice which dribbled down their chins like a gentle waterfall.  The waiter could have put a 3 foot stack of knapkins on the table and it wouldn’t have made a dent in the amount they actually needed AND used.  First came the plates with four ribs twice.  Then ordered again and the four ribs were gobbled up.  Somehow between discussions and talking there was time for their stomachs to empty because the next order shocked the waiter a bit and out came two plates, this time with three ribs each.  The excuse being they were so sweet and melt-in-your mouth made them order another dish.  One rib each.  They needed another.

Then came that paralyzing moment: a moment never ever repeated again thus far in my life, thankfully.  The waiter refused more ribs.  The higher being told the waiter to serve them no more.  That is exactly what the waiter said: “No more because we need to have for the rest of the guests and I am not allowed to serve you more.”  I wanted to die of embarrassment: they wanted to argue the point.

It is like going to a Chinese restaurant and having the waiter tell you, you assume for your own sake, that you ordered too much food.  Then ignoring him, proceed to wipe the plates clean, proving him wrong.  Yes, that happened too, and still does sometimes.

Eric Ripert, oh Eric Ripert could your accent be more sexier – it is nothing like the French Quebecers who speak English, no, no comparison but you know that…I  am talking Eric Ripert’s On The Line hardcover book that I just finished reading.  If reading is what you can call it, because it is far too involved a book just to be a read – it is the adult version of Pat the Bunny Book without the touchy feely pop-ups.  On The Line is at the top of my great books list because if readers who have been reading this blog know, I love to read cookbooks, and menus and anything I can get my hands on that talks about the ins and outs of owning and running a restaurant like Le Bernadin and this book is a must read on that subject.

Most importantly though, kudos have to be given for the layout of this book. If I could have one wish for books, it would be to have this designed layout. There isn’t one inch of unused space on any given page and the eye darts from left to right, up to down, making it almost impossible to want to turn the page and making each page a wonderful stay for a much longer length of time.  Plus the bios of all the chefs, their duties relating to their stations; the layout of the kitchens both up and down and ultimately and in detail, the front of house.  A pure pleasure visually, an intellectual and learned read, I found On The Line to be the best book I invested in this year and why I know this is because I am constantly going back to it and re-reading parts just for the pure pleasure of reading elements of its contents.

This is too fine a book not to lend out and yet it will not leave my possession.

Lastly, not only and always thinking of food I do read the gossip columns on the net.  I don’t know, it’s just instinct perhaps and a desire to know the ultra rich also have their demons.  When I read of Hulk Hogan and his fight with Rick Flair it brought back flooding memories of a Rick Flair story I have.  Having once owned a Time-share in St. Maarten we always spent March break there (in Canada March break dates differ from the States and it is always so much quieter).  Apparently so did Rick Flair whom I knew from nowhere.  One day at the beach, a quiet day, this gigantic white haired, muscular man, who looked 60 back then, approached me and asked if my kids knew who he was, as they were the only two in the water with their dad.  I said, ‘I don’t know, who are you?”  He answered “Rick Flair”, I wrestle with some kind of wrestling organization and I think he said WWF cause it’s the only one I actually knew about. Yes, okay, I had been known to be found sitting at a few WWF shows with a huge crush on the Hulk. Past tense. Oh, okay so go ask them I thought.

A half hour went by and they were already back on the towel but not for long as they zoomed back to the water, with me in tow this time.  Rick Flair came into the water and as he was tiptoeing his way right next to us, he kindly came over and asked the kids the same question.  They definitely knew who he was and together the three of them spent the next hour playing in the water together.  He was down there making plans to open a gym at the hotel, spoke of his kids who at the time were in their twenties and how he was getting ready to retire.  A nice guy; and what interested me the most was he was all about my kids and their having spent time with him, which I found to be a real act of character for the man, but definitely he was a tad whacko.

Later we found out he was staying in the villa directly above ours and made plans to get together, which never happened.  But the most interesting thing I observed was his not-so-beautiful wife asleep on her water lounger slowly drifting out to sea and him scrambling up and down the rocks frantically looking for a way to get to her: this act in and of itself not so glamorous, not so WWF, but genuinely human.  In the end everything came up fine but I never did see the two of them together that entire week.  Now the secret: how he gets his hair to stay so white: he dyes it every day with bleach so much to the point the hairdresser at the hotel refused to do it but instead let him have complete access to the salon: Here, I always thought vanity thy name is Woman, but I guess it is also vanity thy name is Celebrity. My Rick Flair story.

Have a great weekend.

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