In which Michael bids adieu (temporarily)

Hello, those of you who are still bothering to check my blog for new posts.  I know that I haven't been providing much incentive lately to return here.  But I have a good excuse, I hope you'll agree.

I have decided to focus all my creative energies in the coming months on producing a cabaret show.   Like my blog, it's going to be a largely lone venture.  I'm writing the text, choosing the songs, and performing it all myself.  (Well, I AM trying to persuade a certain world-famous model to join me for at least one number.  But we all know how busy Cathy's schedule is.)  When I get a working draft of the show, I will bring in some other people, like a band, a director, a choreographer, and perhaps someone to sew me some costumes.  (I wonder who could do that?)

But, for now, it's just little old me hard at work (between students) writing, practicing, and organizing.  With all these tasks to accomplish, I'm not sure how I'm going to feed myself, much less blog about what I'm throwing together in the kitchen, so I hope you'll forgive me for taking a hiatus from Pleasing My Palate while I indulge another passion.

Thank you all for visiting my blog in the past months -- I hope you'll return once I'm blogging again.  And I hope that many of you will be able to come to my show!  (You might recognize some of the material in that show from this very blog.)

Sincerely,

Michael

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We're off to Marlton, NJ, this morning (without Freddy & Willy, who will be breaking in a new dog-sitter) to attend a 70th-birthday party for my dad.

My dad, who has the best hair EVER.  Even Dmitri Hvorostovsky would covet those thick silver locks, which have been white since Dad's 30s,  if I remember correctly, and which have caused more than one temporarily excited stranger to think she'd just sighted Phil Donahue.

Random Michael factoid: I've always wanted to go prematurely grey, and now it's too late. 

I've chosen today's blog topic in honor of Dad's birthday.  Or, to be more accurate, I am risking breaking the 5th Commandment* by addressing Dad's exasperating perennial question: "What is this dish called?"

*Honor thy father and thy mother.  I hope my Dad is impressed that something stuck with me from all those years in parochial school and Sunday school and church and youth group and church camp and home devotions.  Actually, Dad, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I had to Google this.

In which Michael forges a relationship with Mariah Carey's husband

First I run into George the sexy pleather-clad dancer at the gym.  (Well, he was towel-clad when we "met.")  Then, yesterday, a world-famous fashion designer/fragrance purveyor who shall remain nameless was — Bang! — changing at the locker next to mine in the very same gym.  (How rude of you to wonder if I was tacky enough to snap surreptitious photos of this fit and tattooed but here-unnamed celebrity in his blue and white undies with my phone.  And, no, I'm not going to post them on my blog.)

Well, my encounters with the glitterati continued into today, when I had a long, meaningful 47-second conversation with Nick Cannon — radio and TV personality, actor, comedian, rapper, and husband of Mariah Carey.

April Fool's Day Quiz Results — Blogger Revealed as Inadvertent Liar!

[Note: If you want to try the quiz for yourself, go back and read my April 1 post before continuing on to this one.]

Many savvy readers were correct in suspecting that the April Fool's Day posting date of my quiz (not to mention its title) indicated that something was queer about this one.  (And not just the author.)

As several commenters surmised, all 12 statements contained truth.  In two cases, however — one inadvertent — the truth was only partial.  Read on to find out which statements diverged from actuality, and to find out who won the chocolate.

April Fool's Day Quiz!

Can you spot the one false fact about me in the list below?

In which Michael greatly exceeds the recommended maximum time in the steamroom

The explanation for the before-and-after transformation illustrated below has got to go in the only-in-NYC file. (And probably in the only-in-Chelsea subdirectory.)

Me at 10:00 am on Wednesday

Me at noon on Wednesday

What happened to turn me from a happy (if a little 7-dwarves-ish) man into a shriveled prune?  Read on, dear friends.....the truth is beyond belief.

In which Michael indulges his vanity via a rapidly growing blogging convention

When I first encountered the acronym GPOY, I assumed it was a new gender/sex identity option I hadn't heard of before.  (There are a bewildering variety of ways to "identify": LGBT, FTM, MSBD, and myriads of other options the very thought of which would have tied your great-great-grandmother's bloomers in knots.  Unless you had a really cool great-great-grandma.)

Actually, as I came to discover, GPOY stands for the relatively innocuous "Gratuitous Pic of You," which it has become common for bloggers to post on Wednesdays.  (I think GPOM would make more sense, but who can dictate the direction that linguistic winds will blow?)

In which Michael swoons and creates lovely aromas

OMG, readers, you'll never believe who commented on my post from yesterday:

Jeffrey, my other obsession of the hour

For those of you who do not recognize this studly being, he's the OTHER hunky dancer in pleather shorts from last Saturday's concert!  I still have no idea how he found my blog, but I am hoping that more leather- and pleather-wearing hunks, dancing or not, stumble my way.

(Mom, if you're reading my blog today, please know that I am totally inventing this infatuation with partially nude muscle boys for the sake of entertaining my readers.  Rest assured that my priorities are still pleasing you and finding inventive ways to use up leftover beans.)

In which Michael tries to butch it up with a big pot of okra

I wonder if it's possible for a male couple to become too gay?

I mean, all stereotypes aside, our lives are mostly similar to that of any other family — well, maybe any other slightly kooky family of outside-the-box-thinking, artistic mavericks with demented Chihuahuas.  But our proximity to the nucleus of gay American culture — Chelsea 10011 — brings us into frequent and intense contact with all sorts of queer influences.  (I'm using that Q-word in its co-opted, political sense.  You aren't allowed to use it in this way unless you're queer too.  Oh, and please stop using "gay" to mean "stupid," as in "That's so gay."  There I am, on my soapbox again!)

Following on the (high) heels of last weekend's fabulousness — attending the opening and after-party of Priscilla, 50% of us in a dress — Peter and I were given tickets for this past Saturday night's "Big Gay Sing 3D" concert of the New York City Gay Men's Chorus.  (One of my voice students is in the chorus and had an extra pair of tix.)

This choral extravaganza — actually more of a variety show — made Priscilla look like an NFL football game by comparison.  The evening was chock-full of everything gay men (well, ones like me anyway) hold dear: hunky tenors, drag queens in beaded gowns, showtunes, emceeing by a huge out Broadway star, a diva songstress with pipes of gold, hunky men in pleather shorts, hunky baritones, hundreds of costumes and wigs, hunky men in Prince Charming outfits, campy humor, bawdy humor, hunky basses, Donna Summer songs, sequins, sequins, sequins, and hunky men in the audience.

(Oh, and hunky men wearing MPB apparel and the Debbie shirt, respectively.  I gayed up Debbie's gorgeous creation with my tightest skinny Levi's and a pair of motorcycle boots.  If only she'd made me a gingham codpiece to match.)

In which Michael resigns himself to forever cursing the darkness

I like my living/teaching environments (they're highly overlapping) to smell good.  To me, it is important that every one of my 5 senses — and those of my visitors/students — gets triggered with pleasant stimuli.  (Or at least 4 out of 5.  Ironically for a food blogger, taste is the sense that I invoke the least in my professional work.)  I have gone to great lengths to choose restful colors for the paints and fabrics in my teaching room, to provide soothing white noise that masks harsh sounds from outside, to touch my clients with respect and gentleness, and to make the room agreeably, but not overpoweringly fragrant.

This last step, to bring about a pleasing olfactory environment,  has not been easy to bring about.  In short, most of the scenting products out there stink.

Back in My Own Little Corner

Now I know how Cinderella must have felt the day after the ball, when, with memories of her glittering gown and her handsome prince and her night out among the VIPs still fresh in her mind, she found herself back at the hearth, scrubbing her fingers to the bone.

Not that my pretty wonderful life feels like hearth-scrubbing, but I am suffering from a sort of withdrawal from the heady, glamorous, rather unreal-seeming activities of last night.  On most Sunday evenings, I find myself lying on the couch in my sweats, reading a mystery novel while my chihuahuas groom themselves underneath the tatty old afghan they share with me.

So how on earth did I find myself yesterday evening, well past my usual bedtime, dancing to classic disco hits alongside Broadway stars and drinking glass after glass of champagne with a gorgeous dame on my arm?  And was that enormous pink sparkly high-heeled Manolo pump merely a figment of a temporarily delusional state?

Michael decidedly outside his element.  (But looking pretty happy about it....)

In which Michael seizes the day and the saffron

In yesterday's post I described an uncomfortably close brush with Death that inspired me to make a covenant with myself — and with Life.  My chosen metaphor for my resulting new attitude towards life is not saving the saffron.  I chose to interpret this quite literally on the inaugural day of my covenant, and created a saffron-rich chicken stew that I will show you how to make...

...that is, if you, too, are ready to use up your saffron.

Go ahead; DO IT.  What better way to acknowledge that today is special?

Don't I look like I'm saying, "Go ahead; DO IT!" in this picture?  In my boomingest voice?

Before we get to the stew recipe, though, I have to make a confession.  I fear I have been interpreting carpe diem as license to spend every crappy dime.  In my eagerness to display lust for life, I recklessly engaged on a brief binge of monetary spending:

Kitcheree & Picture-me Updates

Thursday night we learned of another benefit of kitcheree — it stretches take-out Indian farther!  To make a very filling dinner, I ordered just one vegetarian dish and an onion kulcha (bread) from our favorite South Indian restaurant, and served them with reheated kitcheree and some spicy pickle.  A very satisfying way to round off a busy teaching day.  There's still enough kitcheree in the fridge for another meal over the weekend, I think.  Perhaps I'll serve it along with a tomatoey chicken stew that's simmering in my brain, if not yet on my stovetop.  I'm thinking tons of onions and garlic — and saffron and sausage — I seem to be in a Cajun state of mind.  Come back in a day or so to find out what became of my Amish chicken legs....

Earlier on Thursday, our mailman had delivered a care package from Debbie, who reads Peter's and my blogs regularly.  This box contained treats for the dogs — note to self: an entire chicken-leg treat in one sitting engenders copious poop in a tiny chihuahua — some wonderful natural grooming products, and — ta da! — the gorgeous shirt that Debbie has been working on for me as part of Peter's mens shirt sew-along:

Getting some color

As you can see in this picture that I took on my way to the gym, today is very grey here in Manhattan:

I decided that if Mother Nature was not going to provide us New Yorkers a glorious springtime palette, I would take it upon myself to dabble in color.  So what follows today is just a bit of silliness....a polychromatic pictorial panoply of brightly colored images.  I hope it makes you smile, whatever the weather in your neck of the woods.

And now: a public service announcement

I just got back from Whole Foods. . .where my shopping was Wholly Foolish. What went wrong?

I know enough to eat something hearty before going to the grocery store, because my internal hunter-gatherer becomes indiscriminate when he's hungry. If I have an appetite, every densely caloric treat in the store looks like a good idea, and soon, my cart is overflowing with marginally necessary items like breads, cakes, cheeses, beers, and snack foods.

Where did I learn this wisdom? Believe it or not, on TV. I still recall vividly a public service announcement from the Armed Forces Network (AFN) that was broadcast frequently in the 1980s on the U.S. military bases throughout Europe, where I was stationed. Its catchy rap-style tag line went, "Don't shop when you're hungry — no, no, no!"   I couldn't find this gem on Youtube, but I was able to find a clip containing other spots from that era, just so you'll know I'm not making this up. [Update in Jan 2021: a reader posted a link to the hungry shopping video in the comments below!]

Cook-Along with Me: Pasta w/radishes and their greens — and FENNEL!

Here's how I recently made a tasty vegetarian supper, a little out-of-the-ordinary on account of the cooking of a veggie normally served raw and the unexpected fusion of Eastern and Western flavors.

Well, perhaps my fusion project did not turn out THAT out-of-the-ordinary in comparison to Boy George.  I miss his gentle kookiness and his appealing fusion of genders and musical styles.  Back in the 80s, when I was still confused about my sexuality, Boy George opened my mind to a whole new way of presenting oneself unapologetically.  Even though by his standards, my own self-presentation was on the tame side, I took from him a valuable lesson about not having to mold myself into what was expected of me by others.

We interrupt this food blog...

...to bring you hot news from the world of sewing!

Yesterday's mail included a package from Florida from my reader Debbie.  "My reader" is perhaps not so accurate here.  The package has much more to do with Debbie's being a Male Pattern Boldness reader...and even more, a participant in Peter's mens shirt sew-along.

By some bizarre stroke of good fortune, it turns out that I am Debbie's sewing muse.  (Which is especially hard to understand when you see how hunky certain men in her life, like her son and his friend, are.  Check out her blog if you like pictures of handsome guys in Marine uniforms and/or renaissance doublets.  Now there's a sentence that's probably never been uttered before.)  As strange as it may seem, without the inspiration of creating clothing for me, her living Ken doll, Debbie could never have propelled herself to these heights of sartorial splendor:

Find out what bowls me over in my kitchen

Today I'm continuing to describe my rationale for keeping certain tools in my kitchen and discarding others. By the way, the tests I'm describing are not a conscious mental process I undergo.  When I assign a spot on my countertop to appliance A and relegate appliance B to the big box to-be-put-downstairs-for-someone-else-to-take, I'm really just operating out of intuition, but I came up with these tests after the fact to explain — to you and to myself — why I made the choices I made.

THE FREQUENCY-OF-USE TEST

Some items in my kitchen I find myself pulling out day after day after day.  These are the "go-to" tools whenever anything needs to happen, the tools I consider my sidekicks.  First on the list?  My trusty cutting board and knives:

What a strange pair!

When I woke up today, I found I'd been transformed...

...into some sort of woodland creature right out of The Hobbit:

Oh, actually, that's Willy.  He almost always looks like a (slightly deranged) woodland creature.  But some kind of overnight spell seems to have been cast on me:

Best bed-head ever

If anyone calls, I'll be outside frolicking naked amongst the toadstools with my friends Badger and Woodchuck. . . .