The Latte Manifesto

I changed themes this weekend and in the process overlooked some important details. Such as: I’ve never edited CSS before. I managed to figure out some small changes, but a couple of big issues have eluded me.

For instance, you may have noticed the lack of a header. You know, the thing that would tell you that this is THE LATTE MANIFESTO and IT’S NOT ABOUT COFFEE.

My dear friend and host Jeemy is going to fix things up, and that means I have to change themes again, to one that is not so woefully out-of-date that not even his technical wizardry can mend it.

And so, to the three friends who may read this frequently enough to notice, thanks for bearing with me.

My dad loves banana cream pie, Tartine’s recipe is perfection, and so I made this during his last visit. The key layers, from bottom to top:

- flaky pastry crust
- dark chocolate
- caramel
- pastry cream
- bananas
- whipped cream
- chocolate flakes

(click to embiggen)

I don’t remember why I decided to make German chocolate cupcakes. The cake part was easy enough. Caramelizing condensed milk for the frosting takes at least an hour, so I tried a shortcut using the microwave. This seemed to work, but when I added the chopped pecans and shredded coconut, the mixture quickly turned into clumpy, crumbly gorp. Delicious, but would not stick to the cupcakes. Luckily, I had some homemade caramel stashed in the fridge (from the banana cream pie ala Tartine). I molded the gorp into perfectly-sized disks by pressing it into the same mini muffin tins I’d used to make the cupcakes, then adhered the disks to the cupcakes with a dollop of caramel. The result was so lovely I decided to pretend I meant it that way all along.
(photos courtesy Kimmie Sue, click to embiggen)

A devastating new aliment is plaguing the dance community.

Perineum particulitis, more commonly known as PP or “dandruff ass”, is the result of deeply embedded microflakes of thong underwear. The primary symptom is the shedding of thousands of infinitesimal pieces of panty material over the course of 24-72 hours. Researchers believe that these tiny bits of thong fabric are created by extended periods of intense friction, most likely due to vigorous booty shaking.

PP is often found in people who also suffer from pneumosparklyosis, aka glitterlung. It is suspected that high-glitter environments are especially conducive to prolonged thong-wearing and hip-popping.

To raise funds in support of those who have been stricken with PP, the newly formed Foundation for Abrasive Taints is selling red, lace-patterned THONGSTRONG rubber bracelets. All proceeds will fund research into the causes and prevention of PP, as well as the manufacture of high-durability thong panties and other PP-related products.

You can help FAT’s research efforts by taking a few moments to complete the following survey:

1. Have you ever experienced PP?

2. How many times? (For each incident, list brand, style, material and color.)

3. Would you consider wearing a custom-fitted device to prevent PP?

4. Would you prefer that the device be made of metal, plastic, or a biodegradable substance?

5. How much would you pay for this device? ($10 or less, $10-$25, $25-$50, over $50)

6. This device comes with a set of microwavable, freezer-safe storage containers with matching EZ-snap-tite lids. NOW how much would you pay?

Submit your survey answers along with your name, age, race, annual income, home, business and e-mail addresses, all phone numbers, top five hopes and dreams, high school yearbook photo, social security number, mother’s maiden name, town in which you were born, first pet’s name, favorite color, length of longest relationship, and who you’re voting for, to: thongstrong@pacbell.net

Thank you for your support!
THONGSTRONG!

This morning I went to the lab to have blood drawn for a series of tests that check for coagulation problems. It was 10 in the morning, and as required, I hadn’t eaten since about 7pm the night before. Mike, an obese man with a habit of laughing raucously at his own bad jokes, spent nearly 45 minutes on my paperwork, during which time I developed a migraine and an acute feeling of persecution. The lab tech was a friendly, notably homely Indian woman named Lucky. Her accent was almost impenetrable. As she assembled the 12 or so vials that she was about to fill with my blood, she said, “I like your face.” I panicked and could not manage to return the compliment, instead stammering out a weak thank you and then something idiotic about how I try to smile as much as possible, which is not at all true. I like to think that if I had been in my right mind, I would have replied graciously, perhaps appreciating her name, or her lab coat.

“I like your face.” What an odd thing to say.