How'd that get there?

My sister is always telling me that I carry the most random things with me.  (You mean you don't carry salad tongs and pliers with you?) OK, I'll admit, I do carry things that most people don't typically tote around with them, but I never thought my belongings were unusual until now.

I pulled into the corner store for a fill up and while the gas was pumping, I took advantage of the opportunity to discard of some of the trash that was rolling around in the floor boards.  At first it wasn't anything out of the ordinary.  But as I started paying attention to what was being tossed from the car, I realized that my sister was far more correct about my possessions than I thought.

On this particular day, the following items could be found in my car:

1. 1 Styrofoam cup - I love Styrofoam.  It is my one act of defiance against this whole "green" revolution.  (Sorry Kristy)
2. Random dead fries - You know, the ones that fall between the seat and the console as you try to shove them in your face as you're zipping down the freeway.
3. A boat load of bev naps - Thanks to Carrabba's, I have a lifetime supply of those little napkins.
4. An empty packet of gum - Ooh, I could really go for a piece of that right about now.  I've got some kung fu breath...it's kickin'.
5. Numerous bottle caps and wine toppers - Because I was too lazy to throw them away at work, I just threw them into my apron pocket which then resulted in taking up residence in my console.  I wonder if Bottle Cap Alley is looking for any donations?  (There's a good bull reference to all you Aggies out there.)
6. Crayons...or rather what's left of them - Humph, yet another thing I was too busy to throw away at work.  Who knew the pocket on your apron could be your very own grab bag?  Did you know that when crayons melt, the wax separates from the coloring agent?  At least the cheap ones do anyway.
7. 1 can Dulce de Leche - Well, that can't be good.  A can of milk plus the blazing Texas sun makes for one can of nastiness.  How did this get into my car anyways?
8. 3 "We heart our customers" dry cleaning hangers - I used to carry these around back in high school because my friends and I were notorious for locking our keys in our cars.  Now that we're grown up and have AAA, I have no idea why I keep these.

Don't judge me.  Let's take a looksie at what's rolling around in the floor boards of YOUR car why don't we?  Yeah.  That's what I thought.

And Mom, I know it sounds like it, but my car is NOT a trash can on wheels.  I wouldn't exactly call it  "Mom Clean" or anything, but it's relatively neat on the inside.  You raised me well.  Now, my purse on the other hand...we'll save that for another day.

Please, Mister Postman

Dear Mailman,

While I appreciate you delivering the mail each day, keeping me abreast of the worldly goings-on with my magazines, bills, political propaganda, etc.  Can we just talk about your creepiness for a minute?

I've seen you in the cul de sac. Standing there, scanning the neighborhood as you "nonchalantly" fill up the mailboxes.  I purposely don't go down to the mailbox when you are there.  Frankly dude, you freak me out...and let me tell you why.

1. You've told inappropriate jokes to my sister.  REALLY inappropriate jokes.  Do you kiss your momma with that mouth?
2. If I happen to be outside in the front yard, you hollar at me while you drive by.  Calling me by name.  I don't know you dude.  Please don't give me a shout out as you speed past.
3. I saw you stop and take a drink out of the neighbor's sprinkler.  Eewwww!  A- It's not a garden hose.  B- It's an automatic sprinkler system, not an oscilating sprinkler little kids run through...not that that makes it any less weird.  Besides, shouldn't you carry water or something in that mail truck of yours?
4. You stand on the edge of the porch and toss our packages at the door.  Hard.  Like, with everything you've got.  Is it a game for you?  Perhaps you should check into being a paper boy since you seem to dig throwing parcels.  I would have people label packages "fragile" but I think that just might encourage you to come closer to the house and take a little snoopsie.
5. Plaid shirts and overalls...dude.  NOT a good look.  I realize you're old but c'mon already!  Put a pitchfork in your hand and some hay in your mouth why don't you? 

Sooo, next time, maybe just fill up the mailboxes and scadoodle on out of our neighborhood.  No snooping, no dawdling, no joke telling, no drink breaks.  Get in, get out, get on with your life. 

Mmkay?  Thanks.

You don't say?

19 Things You Should Never Say to a Single Person. 

I ran across this article not too long ago.  I found the list to be quite amusing.  I've had every single one of these said to me at some point in my life.  Some more than others. 

I thought I would share with you thing the things that immediately came to my mind as I read each one. 


It happens when you're not looking.
- Sooo, I'm not supposed to be looking?  Well crap.  All those years, wasted.
There are plenty of fish in the sea.
-  Have you been in that sea lately?  I would use the term "fish" quite loosely.
So, why are you single?
-  Ah yes.  The infamous question.  Because I love being alone, having no one to share my days with, having conversations with myself.  Um, perhaps it's because the last guy that came along tore my heart out of my chest, tossed it in a blender then looked at me and said, "What?  Oh that was YOUR heart!  Whoops."
You're too picky.
- Please, by all means tell me how much I suck because I have standards and morals.  Just because I'm not going to settle for Dutch Oven Dan or Belching Barry doesn't make me picky, thank you very much.
You'll find the right person for you.
-Really?  How am I supposed to find him when I'm not supposed to be looking?
He's out there.
- Do not make me punch you.
It's just bad timing.
- Yes, because something so petty as timing is why we didn't work out. 
Just have fun with it.
- My biological clock is ticking.  The time for fun ran out a long time ago.
Have you tried online dating?
-Blink. Blink.  Yeah.  Thanks to our friends at creepymccreeperson.com, I met a guy that was 5'3" 300 pounds and stuttered.  But he sure thought I was purty...
He just wasn't the right guy for you.
- Thank you Captain Obvious.  Whatever gave you that idea? 
Well, when Steve and I first got together...
- Do not make this all about you, okay?  The next time I hear the words "Steve and I" they will be followed by the words "met our maker today."
When the time is right you will meet someone.
-  Really...tell that to my uterus.
Wow!  I wish I were single and in your shoes.
- If I had a dollar for everytime someone said those words to me...  It isn't all roses and daisies like you think it is.  Believe me.
Your turn next.
-  Yeah, you have to say that because I was the ONLY single girl at the wedding to throw the bouquet at. 
It will happen when you least expect it.
- Don't.  Don't even go there.
Some guy is going to come along and ruin your career/life plans.
-  Well, great.  My life has already been ruined once, and you're telling me it's going to happen again?  Now there's a cherry on top of my crap pie. Yes!
But you're so pretty! Why don't you have a boyfriend?
- Do not sass me.  Backhanded compliments worked in the 5th grade, not now.
It just wasn't meant to be.
- No kidding.  Do you have to be so smug?
Sure, Steve rescues kids from abusive homes, donated my sister a kidney, and picks up fresh flowers daily for me on his way home from work, but will he quit it with the sports on TV already?
- Who the hell is Steve because I would like to personally thank him for raising the bar so freakin' high for the Mr. Maybe's out there.  Thanks a lot, you jerk. I think I'm going to go play with razor blades or something.

Um, I'm pretty sure the plate shouldn't smile back

Stop me if you've heard this one...

I'm sitting at the pasta bar, reading a food mag while I'm waiting for my cheesecakes to bake.

Maria, one of the kitchen staff walks up to me and says, "Jenni. Pescado, en la cocina." For you gringos, that means Fish, in the kitchen.
YES! It's comida time! (This phrase, though incorrect, is one that I picked up in the kitchen I worked in back in Frisco.)

Never being one to turn down food and knowing that this is the only invite to family meal that I will get, I jumped off my bar stool and headed for the kitchen. (Let's face it, I didn't get this hot mess of a body by skipping meals.) There were fresh tortillas, homemade pico de gallo, avocados jalapenos and limes lining the prep tables in the back. I'm thinking to myself, "Sweet mother. Fish tacos with the fixins!"

As I helped myself to the tortillas and began to load up on all the tastiness, Maria brought out the covered plate of Pescado. I could tell by the smell that she had fried our gilled friends to GBD perfection. (For those who didn't go to culinary school or haven't heard me say it, GBD stands for Golden Brown and Delicious.) She rolled back the cover, and out from underneath the foil tent came my fried-finned brethren. To my horror, I noticed that fish were starring at me. Literally. "Oh. My."

At this point, I only had 2 options:
1. Swallow the vomit that had so quickly lept up in my throat.
2. Take the fish with eagerness and pray to God that Maria and the rest of the kitchen crew didn't see me freak out.

Have you ever had to pick at the carcass of a fried fish when you don't feel all that great to begin with? Nevermind the fact that I didn't know how I was going to be able to open my mouth to take a bite without barfing. I had to pick out the pin bones that I knew would still, somehow find their way into my mouth and I would ever so discretely have to spit out. I thought it was a joke at first. "Let's see what we can get Pastelita to eat today." (Pastelita is what some of the prep guys call me at work, since I make cake every week. Pastel - Spanish for cake. Silly as it may seem, I like it.) But when I turned to see all the prep cooks digging in, it was no joke and I was committed.

Maria gets so excited to cook for me and waits with eager anticipation for my culinary blessing, how was I supposed to be anything but excited for her and anxious to eat the family meal that she had so obviously put much effort and love into? So, with a guilty conscience but great determination, I dug in. And to give credit where credit is due, it was good. Really good actually. So good in fact, that by the time I was finished, my plate resembled that of a scene from a cartoon. An entire fish skeleton, fully intact and no meat or skin to be seen. Except for the head. You can say what you want, but I don't do eyeballs. Ever.

Had the circumstances been any different, I probably would not have been such a willing participant. However, this comes from the girl who, at 22, sat in the middle of the jungle in Belize and did shots of vipor rum with the natives. I didn't think anything about it until they brought out the bottle of rum with a vipor snake in the bottom. Apparently, when it drowns, it secretes its venom. This could all have been a bunch of hogwash, but for 2 days my throat was numb. But I was in like Flynn with the locals!

Oops! Sorry...I was chasing rabbits and forgot my original train of thought.
ANYWAYS... So, yes. My belly was full and Maria's ego had been stroked...so all in all, it was a good day.

My game winning tip for your next meal...if you think it's going to freak out your guests, it probably will. Or, at least warn them if there is the potential for a staring match with the food. I'm just sayin...

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful

I was feeling particularly confident in myself and the answers I had prepared for the interview until I began to sit down in a chair in the waiting room and noticed the ginormous run in my pantyhose. You know, the kind that runs heel to hip. Oh yeah, classy, let me tell you. Gah! Thankfully I made a last minute change and opted for the nude pair instead of the black pair like I had originally planned. But being that milk has a tan compared to me, the stark whiteness of my skin was sure to shine thru even the nudest of nudes. OH, and for the cherry on top? I woke up this morning to discover that a pimple had taken up residence on my face. Not just a slight blemish on the side of my face but a giant pimple on the bridge of my nose. Smack dab between my eyes. And by giant, I mean the size of a small child. I think I'm going to name her Bertha.

Bertha is to my face what the North Star is to sailors. Bright enough for all the world to see. A beacon in the night. I thought about wearing my glasses to cover her up but thought the disguise would be far too obvious. Concealer didn't help. Come to think of it, when does concealer actually conceal anything? I could have bedazzled her with a rhinestone or ruby, but I didn't want her to outdo me and I wasn't exactly sure what kind of message that would send. I finally just said to hell with it. If they can't handle me at my worst, they don't deserve me at my best. I'm pretty sure that Marilyn Monroe meant that to be directed towards men, but whatever. Men, jobs...it's all the same. I ended up rocking the interview. I think. Regardless, neither run nor blemish could ruin my day. Now, if you'll excuse me, Bertha and I are headed to Jamba Juice for a celebratory smoothie.

He's back. Zut Alors!

So, the other day I was thumbing through the pages of My Table, a foodie magazine for Houstonians. It gives you a list of restaurant openings and closings, farmers markets, best place to find (insert item here), etc. for the Bayou City. Curious of the new chefs in town and what the next place "to be seen" at would be, I eagerly read the articles, absorbing any new tid bit that might be beneficial in my search for employment or just for general recreational hot spots. I was sadly disappointed that nothing new had really come about since last month's issue. I was about to close the mag and toss it atop the discarded pile of gastronomic literature, when something caught my eye... And there it was, in bold print, the name of the chef I had worked for back during my internship. Immediately, I felt my stomach seize and I could hear that wicked, French accent of his shouting my name...Zhenni! Ugh, my stomach is seizing even as I write this. Bleck. Oh, how I loathe that man. It seems as if he is opening up a new restaurant after two years of "research". Apparently, that must be french for unemployed. That restaurant is one place I WON'T be applying at or referring friends and family to. So, in the spirit of Chef Philippe, I am posting a blurb from one of my email updates that I sent out during my internship. It's two years old but so totally brand new after seeing his name in print. Enjoy.

Well, week one of eight is in the books.

I knew that it wouldn't be an easy week and I knew that it wouldn't be a hand-holding cooking lesson that I experienced at school, but I didn't think it would be as difficult as it was.

The first 2 days were spent shadowing some of the guys in the kitchen. Being that I have never been in a commercial kitchen until this week, I was not prepared for the speed and multi-tasking skills necessary to get the plates out. I knew I would be behind on the learning curve, but I didn't think that I would be so far behind the learning curve that I wouldn't be able to see it. My task this week, as well as the next two weeks, is the saute station. This includes expediting (reading the tickets off to the other stations) making the sauces necessary for my dishes, prepping the ingredients, pan-frying crab cakes and salmon, sauteing calamari, making spinach salads, preparing mussels, making stocks and soups, and whatever else Chef Philippe deems necessary. Monday thru Thursday were "teaching days" and Friday was my first "solo" performance.

I've been yelled at before but never in 3 languages. Chef Philippe (the executive chef) will start out his rant in English then switch to French then the sous chef will carry on the chef's rant in Spanish. You've heard of the people that tear you down to build you back up, right. Well, I would consider myself to be very much in the "tearing down" phase and I'm not sure if or when the "building" phase will begin. Apparently, I am on a need to know basis and at this point, I don't need to know.

I don't think it is fair to say that I hate it. There are parts of the job that I enjoy (pulling out of the parking garage and driving home being my most favorite). Seriously, I am learning a ton of stuff and have a much better appreciation for the men and women in the culinary industry, but I don't think fine dining is where I want to be. To me, food is meant to be enjoyed, regardless if you are the person buying, preparing or eating it. At this point, I'm too worried about whether or not I have the right equipment, if I remember what ingredients go into which dish and if Chef is going to tear into me for using the extra virgin olive oil instead of the blended variety. Every time the printer starts humming and spits out the ticket for the next order, my stomach immediately seizes, and this feeling of panic and fear radiates through my body.

The guy that has been training me the last several days told me on Thursday that there was a bet going on with all the kitchen staff about how long they thought I would last. Apparently the smell of fear precedes me wherever I go. If for nothing other than proving everyone wrong, I'm determined to make it through November 9 come hell or high water.

That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger...the stench of death however is starting to become unbearable.

Thank goodness it wasn't a bag of trash

For a while now, I've been carrying something called a "hope bag" in my car with me. It consists of water, non-perishable foods, chapstick, socks and the like and is intended to be handed out to the poor and homeless, should I come across them. My sister started carrying them in her car as part of a project started in her RCIA class at church. I thought it was a thoughtful idea, but I really didn't see it being a worthwhile idea. She told me how moved she was the first time she passed them out, so I told her I would put one in my car. That bad boy has been bouncing around in my car for so long, I had all but forgotten about it. I was approaching a stop light close to downtown Houston on Monday afternoon and I saw an older gentleman standing with his poster under the street light. His words were simple. "Homeless. Need food. Anything will help." He looked tired, broken and probably hadn't seen clean clothes or running water in weeks. For the first time, I was willing the light to turn red and it did. I reached into the backseat and grabbed my hope bag. He started to walk towards me and I rolled down the window and held out the plastic grocery bag for the taking. He looked me square in the face, and with tears in his eyes said, "Thank you. God Bless you ma'am." Of course, I had no great words of hope and could only utter the words "God Bless You" back. Here stood a man, who had more reason than any of us not to believe in God's grace and HE was blessing ME. How incredibly humbling. As I rolled the window up and began to pull thru the now green light, I looked back in my rearview mirror at the man as he opened up the bag to see what was inside. It was then that I had the sudden realization, Holy crap! Please tell me I didn't hand him a bag of trash! But as I saw him open up the bottle of water, my fear subsided. Many things came to mind as I drove home that afternoon. 1. For the least of us is greatest in His eyes. 2. Whatever you did to the least of my breathren, you did it to me. (Matthew 25:31-46) 3. My next hope bag should be brightly colored and clearly labeled "Hope Bag" so as not to be mistaken for a bag of trash.

Where's the Beef?

So, as many of you know, as part of my 40 day Lenten sacrifice this year, I, Jenni Gregory, gave up meat and fried foods. Willingly. At first, it wasn't that big of a deal. Salmon one day, shrimp the next. Mix in some veggies, salads, cheese pizzas...whatever. I'm cool. But ohmygod! the longer this season of sacrifice goes on, the worse my cravings for meat get. In culinary school, I had a friend and fellow classmate that would always say, "Yes, but can you make it savory?" Pastries, cakes, breads, drinks, whatever it was that was intended to be sweet, Carlos wanted to make it savory. Now, I find myself wondering something similar. "Yes, but can you make it with meat? And can it be fried?" I've never had a strong relationship with meat. I could take it or leave it most days. You have to understand that 1) I grew up on a farm. We raised cattle. They were family to me. I named them, I fed them, I loved them. 2) The few encounters I had with steak were abismal at best. (Sorry Mom) For starters, any kind of steak preceded by the words "skirt" or "flank" are not steaks. They each have their time and place, but are not true steaks. And I'm pretty sure that, no matter what part of the cow you cut the meat from, it was never meant to wail in a cake pan, in an oven with a temperature setting of "hell". The burnt, chewy bits that clanked on the plate at the dinner table were a huge turn off...no matter how much A-1 you slathered on them. I don't think I truly knew what a nice piece of filet tasted like until I was in college. What about chicken, you ask? Yeah, let's talk about that for a minute. We raised those on the farm too. We hated them. For one thing, they smell. Bad! I remember going to feed them every afternoon when I came home from school. Those bastards were mean! You would think that we never fed them or something. As they impatiently waited for me to throw their food out to them (okay, yeah, i threw it at them) they would incessantly peck away at my toes. Yeah, so it was my choice to wear flip flops in the chicken coup, but still. My toes were not pellets of food to those clucking devils. And have you ever tried to curl your toes up under your feet as you ran for your life? I never was happier than when I slammed the gate shut to the chicken coup, looked back at the chickens, and shouted out, "Better luck tomorrow suckas!" So, the very long answer to the short question...I have no problems eating chicken. Deep frying them is my silent song of victory. My cravings have begun to find me in my sleep. Last night, I dreamt of beef lollipops, beef stuffed beef tenderloin, topped with a sweet red wine meat sauce served with a side of deep fried meat, followed by a dessert of meat cake and meat pudding...all being chased down to my belly with some meat tea. I WANT SOME MEAT!!! One more week. ...Sigh...

My blog-o-sphere debut

Because I have too many of those "Did anybody else just see/hear/do that?" moments... Have you ever wondered what it would be like to see into someone else's head? Like a tiny little cross-section of their brain? No? Huh. Guess it's just me. Well, anyways... I thought I would give you a little snipit into the innermost workings of my daily thought processes. Read if you want...or don't. But I promise you, if you choose the latter, you will lead a sad, sad life and leave people wondering if you were hugged enough as a child... I'm just sayin'. I can't say how religious I'll be with my updates, but, check back often. Life is too fun not to share it with others. Seriously.