re:blog

Last time we confessed our love for TV shows and today, celebrating the return of one of our favorites for season two (we won’t say the name not to spoil the riddle but you know which one we mean, of course), a post combining our two loves: shows and icons.

Below a set of 15 shows each presented through three icons for your guessing pleasure. We realize that most of these are ridiculously easy if you’re a TV-maniac (and possibly very difficult if you’re not, who knows) but boy, were they fun to work on. (And yes, we’ve seen all these shows, at least a couple of episodes but often quite a lot of them.)

Under each poster there is an answer in white: you have to highlight it to read.

New! Now we’re selling the posters here.

Friends

Mad Men

Game of Thrones (yes, it’s back tomorrow)

Sex…

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The Prius is the new stakeout van.

In case you didn’t know, it was Picnic Day in Davis over the weekend. What’s Picnic Day, you ask? Well if you had accepted my friendship request on Facebook, then you would’ve already known from my status that “Picnic Day is like your 21st birthday, the 4th of July, and graduation day all rolled up into one.” (Yes, I just quoted myself. An obvious sign that I’ve become a success.)

We Davis students (er, alums? I don’t know what I am to Davis anymore. How about “Those of us who have gotten lost in the concrete jungle* that is the Death Star?”) don’t have much to celebrate in our horridly rural UC campus– I am serious, our mascot is an “Aggie”… and we’re not talking about the cool Texan kind– so once a year, we pretend that the entire school is an open campus event that’s been commandeered by an out-of-control frat party. I don’ t know why I said “pretend,” because that’s actually exactly what it is.

Anyways, I’m sure you’re dying to hear all about my awesome adventures, but my body hasn’t quite recovered enough for me to mentally relive the tale, so instead, I am going to make you privy to a very intellectual conversation I had with my brother and roommate  the day before Picnic Day.

We were eating my body weight in fried goodness…

(Photo taken AFTER a giant portion had already been partitioned off for Judy)

…and watching something awesome like Always Sunny when suddenly, hidden amongst the normal commercials, sprouted a random, SPANISH-SPEAKING Toyota Prius commercial.

Now, to be honest, because I’m so fluent in Spanish (I’ve been taking Ricky Martin’s GLEEfully SPANISH classes), I didn’t even notice the language switch, but when my brother and Thom pointed it out, it definitely got us thinking: why was this network broadcast commercial in Spanish? Without realizing what channel we were on (FX), I suggested “maybe it’s a local demographic thing?” (My suggestions are always so eloquent and jargon-y.)

This was quickly dismissed because, after all, this was a network channel, and there isn’t even that big of a Hispanic population here in Vallejo… is there? I quickly and very racistly said “there should be a Prius commercial in ‘GANGSTA’!” because let’s be honest here… I don’t know what the ethnic distribution is here in this fair city, but I sure as hell know that every single citizen is 100% gangsta.

And that includes you, Lindsay Newsom. Aka, the whitest girl I know.

So here are the reasons why my brother, my housemate, and I think Toyota should start targeting gangsters as a target Prius demographic:

  1. The element of surprise. They’re so quiet, no one will ever hear a drive-by coming.
  2. Efficiency. Can’t ignore the gas efficiency. Think of all the bullets you can buy with all that saved money!
  3. Camouflage. There’s a billion Prius-es on the road. Drug trafficking just got that much easier.
  4. Spaciousness. You can squeeze way more ho’s and bitches in the back.
  5. Better for the planet. How are you gonna terrorize the streets if you’re being suffocated by greenhouse gases?
  6. Time management. Less time spent filling up at the gas station means more time pistol-whipping your friends.

Ironically, these are the exact same reasons why the police department should also start buying up Prius-es to be utilized as stakeout vans.

Toyota, these ideas are iron-tight copyrighted, so if you do decide to market them to gangsters, pimps, and law enforcement, please know that I am available for marketing hire.

SIKE!

I officially start a new job tomorrow. Thus I am going to try to head to bed early (before 3am) tonight.

Hasta manana, beaches.

*I know you think “concrete jungle” is a reference to NYC due to Alicia Keys and Jay-Z. It’s a very common mistake. Concrete Jungle is, indeed, the Death Star building at UC Davis. NYC is actually a “concrete bunghole where dreams are made up.” So…. yeah.

OH! PS! BEFORE I FORGET.

I am very upset with Costco right now. They, like clever drug dealers, give us the good stuff (Cuties) and then intermittently lose their supply and try to substitute it with significantly lower quality clementine oranges that have similar looking bags and try to trick us into thinking that these impostors are just as sweet and easy to peel. Do not– I repeat, DO NOT— buy “Citrines.” EVEN IF A CUTE BLOND GIRL TELLS YOU TO BUY THEM BECAUSE “THE SKATEBOARDING ORANGE IS SO CUTE AND I WOULD TOTALLY HANGOUT WITH THAT ORANGE IF I WAS AN ORANGE.” IT’S A SCAM. True, it is pretty cute that they name the skateboarding orange “Dandy Dude,” and these bags don’t have creepy photos of creepy-looking children on them like the Sunkist imitation clementines, but they are still a disgrace to the “CUTIES” bin.

Here’s a picture. Make sure to avoid these.

AAAAAAW, SKEET SKEET MUTHAFCUKA!

I apologize about the vulgarity of this title. I swear there’s more to it than me loving the Ying Yang Twins.

BUT FIRST THINGS FIRST!

Though I think it is SUPER ADORABLE that someone google’s this blog everyday with these taglines:

  1. bestie beastie project food life wine
  2. the bestie beastie project love life wine
  3. bestie beastie food love wine
  4. the beastie beastie project food love life wine
  5. bestie beastie project love life food

you are making it incredibly evident to me that I (we) pretty much only write about being romantically cynical, alcoholic, fatties. And though there may be some truth to that (okay, a lot on my part… I can’t speak for the Beastie), please, for the love of God, just bookmark us. I’ve noticed that “clothes” was nowhere to be found on that list… I guess I am still, in no way, any sort of authority in that department. “Boys” was also left unlisted, but there’s no surprise there. WOMP WOMP.

But back to the original storyline.

Despite the fact that I am no boy-expert, I am pretty content with calling myself a Ryan-Reynolds-expert. Given the amount of times I’ve fallen asleep watching various RR movies (I fall asleep  not because the movies bore me– *ahem* LOTR– but because I’m so enthralled by his good looks and even moreso good acting! bahahaha.), I am confident that I can pretty much tell you all the scenes in which he is incredibly gorgeous. AKA all of them. But there’s always one scene from The Proposal that has a falcon-like grip on my heart, despite the fact that Sandra Bullock actually outshines Mr Van Wilder. You’ve guessed it! Who wants to see Sandra Bullock shake her bottom to some pretty inappropriate lyrics with Betty White?

In case I haven’t mentioned this a million times yet, I LOVE THE YING YANG TWINS. I don’t know why, but I always have. That special way that Lil Jon says “YEEEEEEEEAH” really gets the juices flowing for me. But enough about me! What I love most about “Get Low” is the fact that it always reminds me of the Beastie.

Let me set this up for you :)

The year is 2005.

The Beastie and I are pretty much being the life of the party at our Junior Prom, arms flailing and shoulders popping and hips thrusting all about the dance floor with our then-boyfriends: Karina with her freshman boy that seemed way too overwhelmed with the fact that he was dating a hottie 2 years his elder to ever actually talk to her bestie (ME!), and me with the boy I had spent 3 years chasing and wearing down until one day he finally caved  and agreed to hold my hand. Gary Marshall couldn’t direct a better love story.

Now keep in mind that this was when it was COOL to super soberly gyrate to hip hop while simultaneously singing all the lyrics, like you’re Lil Jon himself.

Suddenly, GET LOW comes on and I shoot the Bestie that look that pretty much says “AWWW SHIET! DIS MAH JAAAAAAM!” and she returns one back suggesting “GO CRAZY! But also, please don’t embarrass me, or anyone within the near vicinity, with your terrible, terrible dancing.”

Alright. Clear me some room, people.  It’s about to get CRUNK “up in here.”

I give my bf the signal that it’s time to let the bird fly on its own and UNLEASH THE DANCE BEAST WITHIN ME. He nods in approval, knowing that once I unleash, hoards of paparazzi will swarm us, and we’ll be instantly escalated to the status of “celebrity couple” and that he’ll have to start covering my “bathing suit area” whenever I exit a car and we’ll have to start running from our limos into the restaurants with various items like purses and newspapers covering our faces.

But just as I’m about to break it down, I hear this voice to the side of my head that I’ve never heard before. It’s definitely not Lil Jon, but it’s his words. I look over and low and behold, the Beastie’s 14-year-old boytoy is rapping. Keep in mind that, prior to this, I’ve never heard him speak before. I was floored. So baffled that I couldn’t even claim my dance stardom. Soon, I realize that he’s screaming “AAAAW, SKEET SKEET MUTHAFCUKAS!” and it’s everything I can do not to laugh. I mouth to the Beastie “is he old enough to know this song? Does his mother know that he sings these lyrics? HE KISSES YOU WITH THAT DIRTY MOUTH?!” She just shrugs, and keeps dancing, and I guess if it doesn’t concern her, it doesn’t concern me either.

The next song plays and I recall laughing at him a little less. And the night goes on in similar fashion. And that’s pretty much when I realize:

Prom is magic :)

If the Beastie and I weren’t best friends before, Prom definitely cemented it.

We were both on the class council, and thus it was an obligation to be a part of the Prom Planning Committee (though it wouldn’t have taken much effort to convince us to join if it wasn’t required) so for months and months, we would meet with a bunch of other love-thirsty girls at lunch, planning every last detail of pretty much the high-school equivalent of a wedding. We also coincidentally sat next to each other in several classes, and since we had a lot of mutual friends, we decided that we should also plan our group’s itinerary for Prom, ie “the house to get ready at” and “dinner venue” and “limo ride” etc etc. AP Physics pretty much became PROM PLANNING for the two of us (sorry Mr. Siemens), as evidenced by the countless (pointless) lists we made. Prom was in the air like SARS. It was insane. (Also, I guess this is around the same time Asian had a SARS outbreak, so perhaps this is a poor choice of simile?)

We ro-sham-boed for who gets to wear pink, and agreed that we were going to have to become grown up women and purchase those chicken cutlet things. Apparently this is how girls bond? It was probably the most exhilarating and exciting and stressful era of my high school career. Forget about taking the SATs, AP Exams, etc. Planning Prom was the ultimate test of real-life-preparedness.

I thought of all this when my Facebook wall recently became over-spammed with this WongFu video:

More than anything else, I remember being super excited to slow-dance with this boy (remember, I spent 3 years chasing him down!), so it’s weird to me that kids don’t slow dance anymore? What do they do? Surely not grind! My baby cousins are going to prom this year! Oh god. How times have changed.

I blame the fashion industry for this.

I walked onto the middle school campus I used to coach volleyball at last year and I could not believe how much skankier kids are dressed nowadays than when I was in middle school. Seriously. These kids made me look like I was wearing an Amish dress. And call me old fashioned, but I feel that dressing like you’re in a rap music video is a right of passage, and you have to EARN it like the rest of us did.

Anyways, it would be pretty ridiculous to expect a bunch of kids dressed like play bunnies to slow dance at their school dance, so that’s why I’m upset with the fashion industry. That and because I want fanny packs to come back SO. BAD. But unless you live in Seattle, Portland, or San Francisco, you’re pretty much a tourist if seen with said fanny pack.

I can’t wait to be an 80 year old Asian lady so I can look as Asian touristy as I want!

PS, as a testament of my devotion to this blog, I’ve tried to sign into my ancient MySpace account to quickly copy and paste some classic prom photos for you guys, but unfortunately I can’t remember my log-in info, whatsoever (I even tried to the BUFFET password!), and unfortunately unfortunately, I gave away my computer that held all of my high school photos on its hard drive (thinking I’d never need them again… silly me!) so here are some very poorly taken photos of physical photos I have laying around in my room. I really need to invest in a scanner.

Beastie, I have absolutely no pictures of you and Muma, so feel free to upload your own :)

Maybe, if you’re lucky, we’ll upload our senior ball photos. Much more attractive pictures, I have to say. What a difference a year makes.

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, how we’ve blossomed!

#canonsound

Over the weekend, my friends and I attended a Taco Festival in San Jose that was pretty much an amalgamation of all awesome Bay Area food trucks offering tacos. In case you’ve been living under a rock, the hispanics no longer have claim over the word “taco.” Pretty much any culture can slap some delicious slosh onto a tortilla these days! We had Cajun tacos (shrimp, crab, and lobster in a gumbo-esque sauce, and blackened catfish with a splash of hot sauce), Indian tacos (curried beef or chicken), Chinese tacos (honey walnut shrimp… on a taco), Thai tacos (roasted duck or sauteed lamb), Korean tacos (bbq short ribs)… pretty much every kind of taco except for Mexican tacos.

(Here are some pictures I stole from my friend’s Instagram… bcuz I was too busy eating to take any of my own photos. Thanks, Leiman!)


The point of all this is that there was a whole lot of sniggering going on all weekend due to the phrase “taco fest.”

Similarly, there was a whole lot of sniggering going on in our corner of the movie theater when Judy and I went to go to see Hunger Games.

Quit sighing all exasperated. This is the last Hunger Games post, I swear.

Ahem.

We were laughing because Jennifer Lawrence is kinda an awkward actress. Not in the annoying, I-wish-my-phone-had-a-ninja-star-app-so-I-can-stab-myself-rather-than-actually-finish-this-movie type of way like Kristin Stewart, but certain scenes weren’t exactly depicted that way Judy and I had pictured them in our minds.

Also, did anyone notice that a canon never went off when Rue died?

Anyways, the whole movie had the same effect that those damn Olympic recap/preview/montage commercials had on us: WE NEED TO WORK OUT.

Given that Judy and I haven’t actually been to the gym for 2 weeks, we were suddenly very aware of the fact that we never would survive the initial blood bath at the cornucopia (or worse, never get hired as strippers). We ran home and (semi) immediately got ready to head out for the gym. Typically we record our workouts on Fitocracy, but then I realized that these numbers don’t mean much when you don’t correlate it to real life, so here’s figures from last night’s trip to the gym in terms of Hunger Games:

  • Running (treadmill):
    • 0:08:54 || 1.1 mi (+114 pts)
So slow I would’ve had a better chance of survival saddling up on a Sneeyore (Snail-Eeyore hybrids)


  • Barbell Bench Press:
    • 45 lb x 12 reps (+56 pts)
    • 95 lb x 8 reps (+74 pts)
    • 100 lb x 6 reps (+72 pts)
    • 105 lb x 3 reps (+56 pts)
    • 85 lb x 8 reps (+69 pts)
I’ve looked it up and I would be able to able to haul (given my PR of 105 lbs):
— 1/3 an adult male deer (average 300lbs), 90% of an adult female deer (average 125lbs), or Bambi
— 4 giant turkeys… two tied on each end of a long stick strung over my shoulder like my Vietnamese ancestors… or hobos
— 70 squirrels
— 2.5 cases of wine
… I’m obviously going to go with the wine. 


  • Bent Over Barbell Row:
    • 50 lb x 8 reps (+31 pts)
    • 50 lb x 8 reps (+31 pts)
    • 50 lb x 8 reps (+31 pts)
    • 50 lb x 8 reps (+31 pts)
  • Stiff-Legged Barbell Deadlift:
    • 50 lb x 8 reps (+55 pts)
    • 50 lb x 8 reps (+55 pts)
    • 50 lb x 8 reps (+55 pts)
    • 50 lb x 8 reps (+55 pts)
Given that these two lifts were the same weights and have similar motions, I’m going to say I was practicing picking up and moving heavy-ass logs (okay, maybe branches) so I could build myself a kickass tree house. Swiss Family Robinson was one of my fav movies growing up, btw.


  • Standing Barbell Shoulder Press:
    • 40 lb x 8 reps (+70 pts)
    • 40 lb x 8 reps (+70 pts)
    • 40 lb x 6 reps (+66 pts)
    • 40 lb x 4 reps (+56 pts)

Obviously, this lift is for when I upset Peeta with my overly raunchy comments and I have to stand outside his man-cave holding a 40lb stereo over my head to apologize. I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to keep his feelings in his vagina.

(Whoops, wrong 90’s rom-com. Although I think Julia Roberts and John Cusack would make a cute couple.)

 

  • Lying Barbell Triceps Extension (“Skullcrusher”):
    • 20 lb x 12 reps (+11 pts)
    • 20 lb x 12 reps (+11 pts)
    • 20 lb x 12 reps (+11 pts)
    • 20 lb x 8 reps (+11 pts)

Skullcrushers probably won’t have much use for me in the arena, but they’re called skullcrushers after all, so that’s got to count for something.

 

So that sums up HungerGamesWorkout #1.

It occurred to Judy and I that there are some obvious strategies the tributes could have utilized that Suzanne Collins blatantly disregarded.

  1. Why didn’t anyone bring their Blastoise pokeball as their district token? You’d always have water available, plus he has a shell you can throw from your Mario Kart as you’re chasing the others around the arena.
  2. INVISIBILITY CLOAK! I bet every kid has one, given that it’s the year 3012 or whatever.
  3. Find some wild savage animals, sing to them like a Disney princess, and train them to attack your opponents. They could also cook for you, do your laundry, and help distract your evil step mother from hooking up with your true love.
  4. Give the technician who inserts tracking microchips into everyone a prosthetic arm so that once you get into the arena, you can just hide out somewhere until everyone dies.
  5. The most obvious survival skill: play dead. All you’d have to do is throw ketchup all over yourself, fake some dying noises, and imitate the canon sound (obviously, you spent your whole life training on how to beat-box various canon noises). If you want to get technical, you could even sneak in a mini- air horn / fog horn thing and a mini projector to both fake the UFO that collects your body and your picture in the sky at the end of the night. You might be worried about being able to sneak an air horn into the arena, but if I can do it for my little sister’s graduation, I’m sure getting it through the Peacekeepers will be a breeze. Also, don’t forget to send out a tweet announcing that you died… and HASHTAG CANON SOUND!
The best idea came from Thom,though, who thought that when Peeta said his special ability was decorating cakes, he meant he was going to bake a giant pile of cakes and paint himself into it… and when she’d go for said cakes, he’d pop out and scream IT AIN’T EVEN YOUR BIRTHDAY!
… but she want it in the worse way.


BAHAHAHA.

Which makes me beg the question:
Why is a girl’s vagina referred to as both a taco and a cake? And what other delicious food items are we?

Sexual euphemisms confuse me.

CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE.

I party like a rock star, look like a movie star…

… play like an all star, and cook like a food network star.

Pretty sure that’s what Pitbull meant. Conveniently, this is actually one of my favorite songs to blast as I cook / dance around in the kitchen.

Body rolls and all.

That’s actually the secret ingredient to all my cooking– the dancing. I guess it’s not much of a secret anymore, but seeing as how I’m trying to become a famous food blogger, I guess I’ll have to reveal a secret here or there. Similar to how Rachel Ray released her secret as to how to thread corn. Yes, thread… corn… Oh my heavens, you have no idea what I’m talking about?! BAHAHAHAHA.

This video clearly depicts my maturity level as a college junior. My roommates and I pretty much peed our pants watching it. We also made music videos like this:

BUT ENOUGH WITH THE YOUTUBE! It’s time to get down to business.

So yesterday marked the one year anniversary of my bf and I getting back together. We’ve been trying to figure out how to celebrate, but given our busy schedules, it’s been hard to accommodate any sort of getaway. So instead, I offered to cook dinner, because let’s be honest here: cooking is all I really have to offer. After being with someone for a year, you pretty much run out of party tricks. Cumulatively, we’ve been together for almost two years, so not only have I run out of party tricks, I’ve also run out of made up party tricks.

In case you find yourself in a similar predicament, here are a few of my relationship talents. Maybe we can set up some sort of “talent swap” or “how-to-still-impress-your-bf workshop” in the near future.

  • cooking, obviously. I am obsessed with Tastespotting, and am always researching new things to make, or variations of his (or his mom’s) favorite dishes.
  • among similar lines, I am stellar baker. All boys have a sweet tooth, whether they admit it or not. And even if they’re super stubborn about not loving your baking, there’s always one person you can rely on to eat the delicious cakes: YOU. WHAMO! Win-win situation.
  • scrapbooking. Scrapbooking is a family hobby… to the point where my aunts go to scrapbooking conventions… and one aunt owns a scrapbooking store. So obviously I try to mooch off as many ideas as possible, but still suck. I’m pretty sure a blind lady with no fingers could produce a better scrapbook than me. Doesn’t matter though, because most boys can’t tell the difference anyway. So scrapbooking, regardless of your skill level, is an awesome relationship talent because it’s pretty much a glorified way of constantly reminding your bf how hot his gf is. Yeah, try dumping my ass after you’ve spent 3 hours looking at amazing pictures of me.
  • googling. I love to travel, and I have a penchant for finding cool things to go see and do. Maybe “cool” is an objective word, but I don’t care. I’ve had some amazing adventures, and the type of guys I date must also have an appetite for adventure.
  • gambit. I have a super adorable dog.

That pretty much sums up my genius.

No wonder I was single for so long.

Anyways, back to the dinner. I decided to make a chicken tikka masala pizza, because back when we lived in the same town, we’d grab Indian food at least once a week, and a long time ago, we’d get this smoked salmon pizza from this cool Davis pizzeria every time we had something to celebrate (like the release of Batman: Under the Red Hood). So obviously, I was going to smash these two memories together into one dish, because that’s the type of calculating romantic mathematician I am.

… turns out I was supposed to marinate the chicken over night if I wanted to make the chicken tikka masala from scratch, and my eyes definitely forgot to relay the message to my brain when I read the recipe around midnight the night before, after coming home from a 10 hour shift. Whoops, my bizzle.

Naturally, I jumped ship and went from a sentimental dish to pretty much the most unromantic dish I could think of: chicken paprikash.

“What is chicken poopookray,” you ask? It’s this super old Hungarian comfort dish consisting of chicken smothered in a hearty paprika goulash type of situation and some very understated plain dumplings.

When I turned 21, my brother took my family out to a brunch at this Czech restaurant and for the very first time, I found a beer that I absolutely loved. I don’t really believe in love at first sight, but I definitely believe in love at first sip. I’m talking FIREWORKS, people. I don’t even remember if I was standing or sitting or squatting, but I know for a fact that my soul started skipping and twirling and cat-daddy-ing. As a result, I became a (very) frequent patron of this restaurant/bar, though most of the time I just came to grab a sip of this miraculous brew. (This is the only place I know of within a 250mile radius that pours this beer on tap) Eventually, I decided I should probably eat something, so that the owners would stop referring to me as “that one alcoholic Asian girl who looks like she’s 15 and only tips $1 per beer.” I should probably mention now that whenever I’m faced with a menu in which I don’t recognize 50% of the words or more, I pretty much just close the menu and ask the waitor/waitress to surprise me. I put a lot of faith in people, and I find that I’m only disappointed about 10% of the time. Luckily, my waitress had some sort of cute Eastern European accent, and (though the American school system’s lack of emphasis on world geography has failed me several times) from what my memory serves me, the Czech Republic was/is somewhere near Hungary, and if I recall correctly, that’s somewhere near Eastern Europe, so when I asked her to “bring me whatever you’d recommend to your mom,” I knew I was going to be getting some good shit.

Turns out I was right. She brought me a steaming plate of chicken paprikash, and I haven’t stopped eating it since.

Especially since it pairs PERFECTLY with my favorite beer.

But anyways, at one point, it was a weekly tradition for my bf and to go get frozen yogurt, a pint of my favorite beer, and to see a movie every Tuesday night, so though he never actually had the chicken paprikash with me, we always had the beer together. And in my mind, the beer and chicken paprikash go hand-in-hand. So after a year of dating, I guess it’s finally time to let him in on my delicious Hungarian secret.

See? In a way, I am awesomely sentimental and romantic… in a goulash kind of way.

Blah blah blah. Here’s the recipe!

Alexha’s Date-Night-in-Sweat-Pants Chicken Paprikash:

Ingredients

for paprikas (chicken)

  • 2-3 lbs bone-in skin-on chicken thighs
  • salt and pepper
  • 2 large onions chopped
  • 1/4 C paprika
  • dash of hot pepper
  • dash of chili powder
  • 1 C chicken stock
  • 3/4 C sour cream
  • 1 Tbs flour

for nokedli (dumplings)

  • 1 C flour
  • 2 large eggs
  • 2-4 Tbs plain yogurt

You know the drill… set out all your groceries!

  1. Heat a heavy bottomed pot until very hot. Add a splash of oil then add the chicken, skin side down. Fry undisturbed until it is well browned then flip and brown the other side.
  2. Transfer the chicken to a plate and add the onions. Fry until soft scrapping up the browned bits of fond from the chicken (the awesome delicious chicken flavor stuck to the bottom of the pan)
  3. Add the paprika, hot pepper, and chili powder and continue frying for 2 minutes or until the paprika is very fragrant.
  4. Add the chicken stock and return the chicken to the pot, pushing them to the bottom of the pot. Turn down heat to medium low and simmer covered until the chicken is very tender and falls off the bone when prodded with a fork.
  5. To make the nokedli, put the flour in a bowl and add the eggs, one at a time mixing to combine. Add the yogurt 1 tablespoon at a time until the dough is very wet and soft (about the texture of soft mochi), but not runny. Let the dough rest while the chicken cooks. (Not pictured. Sorry, I was busy enjoying my 4th glass of wine and forgot to capture the moment!)
  6. When the chicken is almost done, boil a large pot full of salted water. Flick small bits of dough off the side of the spoon. They are done when they float to the top. Use a slotted spoon to transfer them to a bowl containing some butter or olive oil tossing after each addition and covering with foil to keep warm.
  7. Mix 1/2 C plain yogurt with the flour. Add a few spoonfuls of the braising liquid in the pot to the yogurt mixture and combine. Continue adding liquid from the pot to the yogurt and mixing until the yogurt mixture is warm. This tempers the yogurt preventing it from curdling. It also ads more liquid to the flour preventing it from forming lumps.
  8. Pour it all back into the pot and stir to combine. When the sauce thickens it is ready to serve. Get your sweat pants on and eat up!

Step 1:

Step 2:

Step 3:


Step 4:

Step 5:

Step 6:


Step 7:

Step 8:

+

=

I swear I have more pans than just my dutch oven. I don’t know why (oh yes I do), but I love it so much. I pretty much only use a frying pan my mom gave me awhile back and this dutch oven when I cook. OH! Unless I’m making soup. Then I have a soup pot. Everything else in our cupboards is merely decorative. I’m a simple woman, what can I say?

Also, I should warn you that there’s a great amount of oil splatter happening during the initial chicken-frying step, so make sure you wear the proper protective equipment.

Can’t wait to cook for you, blogfriends, come OUR one year anniversary!

Until then, live long and prosper <3

31,556,926 minutes

Okay, so I’ll admit it. Despite what my comment in the Beastie’s post says, I’ll agree that LDR’s suck. Kind’ve.

For some odd reason, throughout college, I had a penchant for somehow being involved in several LDR’s (if you can call them that), and for me, it’s no big deal if I don’t see my significant other more than twice a month. As long as I know that he’s thinking of me and how I’m the coolest, hottest piece of ass walking this planet, that’s fine with me. Plus it takes the routine out of seeing each other, and makes each reunion that much more exciting.

However, I absolutely HATE being in an LDR with my family. When I used to live in Chicago, my family and I would road trip to Minneapolis every weekend– it was like having a family reunion every weekend. For most people, having 30+ people under the same roof sounds dreadful, but I wish I could have it every day. Our family has grown a lot since then (where each family reunion consists of about 45-50 people in the same house per gathering), and people have slowly started branching out from Minnesota, so these functions only happen once or twice a year these days… Thank God for Facebook!

I can pretty much talk about my family all day long.

On my mom’s side, I have

  • 6 aunts, 2 uncles (plus their significant others)… so times two.
  • 14 cousins (plus myself and siblings make 17 cousins… plus 2 cousin-in-laws)
  • 2 nieces (err… second cousins? whatever it is when my cousin has kids)
  • 14 great aunts and great uncles
  • 16 second cousins (those are my mom’s cousins, right?) that I can count right now
  • HEEEEEELLA whatever the hell title you give to the child of your second cousin
  • 8 dogs

(My dad’s side is even bigger) Typical Asian family.

So yes, most reunions there are about 80% of the above list all gallivanting around the local Dairy Queen and Target together. My cousin in law jokes that we’re like locusts. We’ve named ourselves a LUnami… given that the name we all share is Lu. And we’re like a tsunami. I don’t think this really needed much explanation, but I felt like I had to give it anyway, just in case. Sorry for undermining your intelligence. We just get a lot of weird looks when we say it in public.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. I say it takes a village to explain a child. Does that sound weird? What I mean is, if you spent 10 minutes within the swirling vortex of entropy that is my family, you’d understand why I am the way I am to the core. First of all, we eat a shitload. All jokes aside, I’m pretty sure our overly gluttonous mantra is due to the fact that at one point, my mom’s family really was poor and starving, so now they compensate by over-eating. But this is also due to the fact that we’re all that perfect combination of “culinary showboat” and “kiss ass.” For example, my mom’s favorite soup in the world is French Onion soup. At my last job, my coworker was a very talented French chef. And thus, I asked her to teach me to make French Onion soup so that I could sneak it into our family’s Christmas dinner… even though we already had 5 other courses planned for the menu. The vast amount of traveling and even more vast amount of eating that my family has done also makes us super snobby eaters. I’ll admit, when it comes to Vietnamese or Thai food, I can never eat out, because it’ll never live up to the expectations my taste buds have come to develop after years of being spoiled by my Mama. For instance, pretty much every Vietnamese sandwich shop also makes banh bao, or steamed buns. But I’ll never, EVER buy it. Because they all suck like a 2’11” garden gnome trying to play basketball against the Michael Jordan that is my mama. Excuse the poor photo quality of my stupid  new Windows phone (#firstworldproblems); this still looks effin delicious.

Also, you probably NEVER want us in your restaurant. First of all, good luck accommodating our 30+ sized party. Second, good luck accommodating 30+ people telling you your “pad Thai” is not “Thai” enough. We pretty much sound like this when we go out to eat:

No joke. Growing up, I was never, ever allowed to order the same dish as someone else because “then we wouldn’t be able to try as many dishes,” and my dad has LITERALLY SAID “this is not how they make it in Thailand,” (he lives in Thailand, so I guess he is somewhat an authority on this), while my mom is always muttering “don’t order that– I can make it for you at home.” WE INVENTED BEING A FOODIE. Worse, my parents like to play this game where we shovel small bites onto my dad’s plate (he’s a supertaster) and he’ll figure out the ingredients while my mom figures out the technical aspects, and within 5 days, they’ll have re-created it for dinner. Yeah, we never go to a restaurant more than twice. Except for Sizzler. My dad goes ballistic for salad bars. He attacks them like my brother and I attack open bars. Yaddimean?

Another thing you should know about my family: we’re weird. And we pretty much do whatever the hell we want. Not in an obnoxious way– I’m sure people laugh at us all the time– but we tend to do things a little differently. For instance, most people typically take photos in respectable poses at understandable/remarkable landmarks, such as this:

But instead, we take pictures in urinals. In prom dresses.

I’m convinced this is going to be a huge trend one day. Like planking, except… urinaling.

I can’t wait to go urinaling with my mom later at the park!

Yeah, look out for that movement.

Anyways, the point of all this is that my family got together last weekend to celebrate my grandparent’s 60th anniversary (as I mentioned in the last post).

In case you wondering, 60 years is:

  1. 720 months
  2. 21.900 days
  3. 525,600 hours
  4. 31,525,600 minutes

Yeah, 31.5 MILLION minutes. That’s a long ass time. Enough time to watch 1,313,567 episodes of Friends, or enough time to watch all 10 seasons in repeat 5,566 times. (I’ve probably seen/practiced “The Routine” 5,566 times, to be honest.)

But yeah. Pretty amazing when you think about it. To be committed to someone for that long. I can barely commit to my packed lunch come 11am!

But I’ll tell you what– I’ll write in this blog for 60 years if you promise to keep coming back to read it :)

In defense of Minnesota…

First off, I just want to let you all know that I am shamelessly flattered that you still check this blog even though the Beastie and I haven’t posted anything for a week. SAY WHAAAAT?! You love us?! Aww, adoring fans are so adorable.

To tell you the truth, I completely forgot about the blog because I was too distraught over missing out on the ONE weekend the Beastie comes back to rural (well, rural relative to LA) Northern California. It’s bad enough that I barely get to see her, but this is twice in a row that I’ve skipped town conveniently when she comes home. You understand, right? I was heartbroken.

… although, I wasn’t heartbroken enough to not have a kick ass time in Minnesota!

Yeah, you heard that right. My family is from Minnesota, and I’m damn proud of it. I hate the Vikings, but I’m damn proud of Minnesota.

Brief history:

  • My parents were both placed in Minnesota when the emigrated here from Viet Nam. Immigrated? I think both words work in this instance. MIGRATED. They MIGRATED here.
  • They met and my dad took my mom and her siblings out to see Superman… in BLACK AND WHITE.
  • They eventually got married and moved to Oklahoma.
  • One day while they were watching television, a tornado came and swooped up the house, with them inside of it, and landed them in Mesquite, Texas, where they promptly helped invent the BBQ sauce.
  • Every day, they threw breadcrumbs outside, until eventually, 2 separate storks brought them my brother and me.
  • Disappointed with the girl child they received from the Texan flock of storks, they MIGRATED to San Jose and eventually got sent a Californian breed of human child.
  • Someone turned on the Bat signal from Chicago and my dad relocated us there.
  • The wind there was too strong and eventually blew us back to the bay area.
  • After my sister graduated high school, my parents pretty much “fcuk this shit!” and moved back to Minnesota to be with my mom’s parents and siblings.

Growing up, I thought every one went to Minnesota to vacation for the summer, because literally, I was there EVERY summer. I eventually learned that the Midwest is NOT a tourist hot spot (probably when the obnoxious Lindsay girl would throw food at me and yell “BOOOOOO!” every time I even mention Minnesota), but I always get super giddy just thinking about flying back.

Now, I’ve lived in California for over 15 years of my life, so by no means am I saying any other state is possibly remotely close to being better than us. But here are a few reasons why you should give the midwest a chance:

  1. Everyone over there tends to be slightly on the larger scale, so you, by comparison, suddenly feel much skinnier/sexier/fit.
  2. They’re also significantly less tan, so they’ll think you’re some sort of tropical goddess and fall all over themselves to feed you string cheese (the sexiest Midwestern equivalent to grapes).
  3. Speaking of cheese… they have CHEESE CURDS. It’s like these tiny balls of cheese mashed up, super delicious cheese that squeak when they’re fresh. It’s like a freakin CHEESE FLAVORED CAR WASH for your MOUTH.
  4. Speaking of cheese curds…. FRIED CHEESE CURDS. In fact, FRIED EVERYTHING. The Midwest population is a result of a long line of practical but unimaginative people, and as a result, they pretty much fry everything, because it’s the easiest way to make everything delicious. In fact, they deep fry your toilet paper for you before you take a dump. Talk about hospitality!
  5. There are no fences between houses or yards, making it THAT MUCH EASIER to creep on your slutty/hot/weirdly-obsessed-with-owls neighbors.
  6. Gas is always a good $0.40 cents cheaper/gallon for some odd reason.
  7. Frozen custard. YUM.
  8. So many delicious tiny craft breweries. It’s like driving through an ugly Napa Valley for beer.
  9. Target is headquartered in Minneapolis. Meaning, not only are there Super Targets and Greatland Targets, but also pilot stores of Target where random products are “tested” to see how well they would sell if they were to be distributed to more than just 3 stores.
  10. My family is there. And if I could, I’d be with them every second of every day.

I had a friend on my volleyball team that was engaged to this guy in Wisconsin, and every weekend, either she would fly out to him or he would come to her. I remember thinking that I was super jealous, because for some reason, that was when I would only see my bf, WHO LIVED 15 MINUTES AWAY FROM ME, only once or twice a month. Also, I was jealous of all the mileage points she was picking up. Bust mostly, I was jealous because I would love to see my family that often. I can only afford to fly home during the summer, and maybe if I’m lucky, either Thanksgiving or Christmas, but this last weekend, I flew home because we celebrated my grandparents’ 60th anniversary. 60th! As in, SIXTY FREAKIN YEARS. I still can’t get over how incredibly long that is, but more on that later…

(The managers are both on vacation this week, so I’ve become the interim manager. Thus, I am exhausted and also out of wine, so I’m going to head to bed so I can attempt to complete Insanity Abs before going to work tomorrow. I’ll continue this story afterwards. HASTA MANANA!)

it’ll all be alright.

Well, it’s here. The countdown to long distance-hood officially began for me last week. In less than a month, I will be LDRing it for at least the next 365 days. I’ve been thinking about/planning for/trying to push this day out of my mind since basically before the boy and I even started dating (well, officially dating. long Karina-dramatic story for another time) and it has finally crept up on me. I had a mini-LDR taste last summer when the boy was on the other coast for 8 weeks (2 WHOLE MONTHS!) aaaaand I might’ve been a wreck. Like bawling my eyes out the weeks up to, the hour before, AND on the drive home from the airport. Oh, and every single Skype session thereafter for the first few weeks.

Typical girl-crazy stuff, right?

It would be, except for one little tiny fact about me: I never cry. As in the only movie I have ever cried during was My Dog Skip (a few glistening tears and it was only because I had just read Where the Red Fern Grows, I swear). As in the Bestie told me I was an “emotional robot” in high school and I have been unable to convince her otherwise since. So realizing I had become one of those girls was actually quite extraordinary.

Well thaaaank goodness I got over that less-than-a-quarter-life crisis and have reverted back to my usual robot self, even if only temporarily. Only a month out and I still have yet to spontaneously combust into a full-blown cry fest (!).  Maybe it’s because it still hasn’t full on hit me yet (he’s leaving… you won’t be with him for a whole year… as in you will never ever ever both live in LA again!) or maybe I have actually prepared myself for this better than I thought. I’m sure it’s also helped my sanity that he will only be a 6 hour drive/1 hour flight away when the dreaded day comes. Either way, I selfishly get the boy all to myself for this last month and I plan to make the most of it. And when May does peek itself around the corner, I’ve already started setting some goals / have some fun things coming up that will hopefully make my faux-singledom life transition a little bit easier. And lucky for you all (and the Bestie), one of the items on the list includes more blogging :)

So in short:

  1. Unhappy countdowns stink
  2. Thank goodness for airplanes
  3. It’ll all be alright. :)