Beer. Ice. Cream

What better way to celebrate the football season than with a big bowl of frozen lager suspended in a dense, glacial cloud of cream and sugar? And what better way to kick off this post than with a lie alluding that I actually give a deep darn shit about football?

These three words are enough to pique the interest of even the most prudish of drinkers.  In fact, I expect that hordes of AA members will opt to throw away their 30 day chips in exchange for a heaping spoonful of of this stuff, because it is really that good.  It’s a dessert sweet enough to appeal to the daintiest of daisies, but packed with enough deep, yeasty beer flavor that even the most macho of menfolk would do all but think twice to shamelessly curl up on the couch with a bowl and sob uncontrollably while watching Toy Story 3.  Or maybe that was just me.  Either way, the masses will be pleased once they set their palates on go and shovel this ice cream into their beer-depraved gobs, this I can promise.

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I am a firm believer that any time is a good time for cake.  This is especially true first thing in the morning before tastebuds have been doused and ruined by unhealthy cereals and juices, and when close talking is always strictly prohibited.  I’ve been known to shamelessly slice myself a piece or two before the toll of 8AM.  However I have no sense of restraint, so my early morning cake eating is akin to riding through a bad coke binge, or so I’d assume.  I will take one lick of frosting, then by 9AM my lips are coated in a thick, sticky film of chocolate,  half the cake is missing and my pants are somehow missing.  Make no mistake, I fully endorse well-balanced meals, but I also believe that if you don’t allow yourself a slice of cake to welcome the dawn while donning Mr Bubble pajama pants, then really, what’s the point of anything anymore?

The totem of all cakes is, of course, cheesecake.  There’s no contest.  Like many sweets aficionados, I am drawn to cheesecake with the same propensity and amorous delight that wild mares are drawn to raging stallion boners.  Only my estrous cycles run much longer, and the only cure is more cheesecake.

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I love Halloween with the same fervor that loud, obtrusive Bubbes love to kvetch. Which is to say, quite a bit.   Normally I don’t come up with a costume idea until the day of because, like the genius of Bowie and Freddie, my ingenuity tends to shine while under pressure.  Take these three last-minute costumes I donned on All Hallow’s Eve past:

• The original woman of power, Oprah.
• MC Hammer. Complete with gold lamé-lined jacket and homemade hammer pants.
• Sarah Jessica parker

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The other morning, as if visited by a Burpee’s Golden demon, I was jarred awake with images of beets orbiting violently within my head.  Boiled, charred, sliced, diced, pickled beets became tenants of my brain, and I became a man on a mission. As possession could be the only explanation, I I rubbed my eyes, walked into the kitchen, and pulled out a bag of beets and began to peel them in rapid succession, one after another, salivating over their potential.  What’s strange about this scenario is not that I began cooking even before my preliminary daily pee, but I don’t like beets.  Like, at all.  And I never, ever, never have.

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