poorman's quiche!

On account of my newly found talent for Depression Cooking, a friend of mine from my ye ole college years sent me a recipe for something he calls a "Tortizzilla." Now, I have no idea what this is supposed to be or look like once made, but it sounds like it might be delicious. Plus, this man once ordered a Dairy Queen Blizzard® using the words, "Pumpkin Pie with Nerds®!" so you know it must be good. Wait, that sounds foul...

Thankfully, this "Tortizzilla," as it were, has nothing to do with dairy products, therefore, it's probably a recipe to be trusted. And while normally, I would not publish something like this verbatim (or at all), I must mention that since my friend is super fabulously gay, he has a knack for adding flair to the English language, which almost makes up for the TOTAL LACK OF BEANS in his recipe. Not to mention, having been on the lam for the past week, I'm a bit short of material. Luckily, I'm the kind of innovative genius who can take a "Tortizzilla" and turn it into a "Poorman's Quiche," which makes for a cheap meal and a lovely blog post. Or maybe that's a lovely meal and a cheap blog post. Or a gnarly meal and a gnarly blog post. Whatever.

Anyway, allow me to present to you the "Tortizzilla!"

INGREDIENTS:

• 8 "eggs" [Ed. note: He uses a bourgeois version of eggs called "EggBeaters." Psshah!]
• 2 bell peppers, diced like a MOFO
• Half a bunch of deveined swiss chard (rainbow chard if you swang that way) [Ed. note: I have no idea what any of those high-fallutin' words mean.]
• 1 10" chorizo (NOT a euphemism, this time) [Ed. note: OH SNAP, GIRL!]
• 1 red onion; cut that bitch up into half-moons
• 3 yukon gold taters, sliced into 1/4" coins
• Some fresh rosemary needles [Ed. note: Uh, really?]
• 4 cloves garlic, smashed and decimated
• Olive oil
• 1.5 tsp pimentón (smoked paprika, WHAT!? that shit is SIIIIIICK) [Ed. note: Again, really?]
• Salt-n'-pepa
• 1 big ass castiron skillet [Ed. note: Now that's a Depression-era item I can get down with!]
• Some kind of cover (I used another pan) [Ed. note: Again, that's a hobo innovation I can get down with!]
• Oven @ 325
• Lots of wine for the drankin'.
  

DIRECTIONS:

• Fry up the onions until golden and add garlic near the end. Transfer to "Hold All My Sh*t" bowl.
• Oil pan; fry up pepper until soft; toss in chard and fry until beginning to char; toss all that shit into H.A.M.S. bowl.
• Oil pan, toss in taters; cover with other pan.
• DO NOT OIL PAN, fry up chorizo; drink lots of wine 'cause it's delicious; transfer chorizo to bowl.
• Whisk together "eggs," pimentón, s&p, pour into H.A.M.S. bowl, combine, then toss in skillet. Cook until edges start to brown.
• Toss that bitch in the oven for about 10-12 minutes. When it's SET, BROIL THAT MOTHERF*CKER until it's golden brown.
• Eat until you puke.
  

Wow. I must admit that sounds delicious, but you know what? It also sounds expensive! And so here are my suggestions to turn this super homosexual "Tortizzilla" into a super destitute "Poorman's Quiche."

INGREDIENTS:

• REAL eggs laid by skinny, poor chickens
• Beans
• Potatoes
• Beans
• Onion
• Pepper
• Beans
• Whatever spices you were able to busk for that day.
• Moonshine for drankin'.
  

DIRECTIONS:

• Chop up all that sh*t, throw it into a pan and cook over open dumpster fire.
• Eat until you puke.
• Drink moonshine until you puke again.
  

And voila!

So the choice is yours. Do you want to squander away your devaluing dollars on meals like the Tortizzilla? Or would you rather save up your hard-earned welfare to eventually buy a shiny new pennyfarthing by choking down the Poorman's Quiche instead? The answer seems pretty clear to me.

In the meantime, while you ruminate about the superiority of my Poorman's Quiche over The Man's Tortizzilla, allow me to alert you to a few online items that I missed during my time away from the Interbutt last week.

First off, my fascination with the elderly continued to grow when this video reached my Inbox. Is it wrong that I relate to the senior set more than I relate to most 20- and 30-somethings? NO! They ride dirrrrty just like me!



And while we're in a very hip-hop mood, let's take a good look at Ely Kim, who put together a little something called "Boombox," which features him shaking his buttocks to 100 different songs on 100 different days. I'm especially sweet on numbers 13, 17, 21, 43, 61, 74, 80, 96, and perhaps most impressively, the fact that what appears to be a giant mural of Yury Gargarin is in the backgrounds of 63 and 64 and, of course, his jacket in 36. Really, this is the kind of viral video that makes you (or at least me) wonder, "Goddamn! Now why didn't I think of that!?"



Lastly, Putin mania! This Web waste asks, "What will Putin become after he leaves politics?" After all, the page says, "He's a master of all trades!" Watch him wash clothes! Watch him sew! Watch him do needlepoint! Watch him give "cool haircuts, (for example, like Britney Spears')! Watch him deejay on the radio! Watch him bake buns! Watch him work a laser; give a massage; catch a squirrel; or simply relax. Seriously, is there anything Putin isn't qualified to do? (I mean, besides promote democracy and such.)

Finally, let's bring it all back home by looking inwards and this time I don't mean at my literal digestive track, but at DC's metaphorical digestive track. After getting confused by LOST last night and ignoring the program that comes on after it, I heard a snippet of "news" on ABC 7 while still thinking about LOST. Apparently, Metro is considering adding retail stores to some of the stations. Now, I don't ride the 'tro that often as I like to work out my sweet haunches on a bicycle, but this wouldn't be so bad. When the train breaks down like it loves to do and I have to wait an hour, I could grab a can of Cherry Coke Zero and a copy of Cat Fancy to tide me over. (Just kidding! I'm deathly afraid of cats!) But wait. According to the story, despite that Metro would sell "light groceries" in the stations, it would still be against their policy to allow you to eat or drink in the stations or on the trains. Well, that makes purrrrrrfect sense (HOLY SH*T! I just terrified myself!), because there's nothing people want to do more than buy a refreshing beverage and then not drink it. THIS CITY IS RUN BY RETARDS.

The End.

Oh, a quick post script about the above-posted photo. It's a print by illustrator/designer/writer Frank Chimero. His work is the tops, in my opinion. It puts the "tych" in my "dip." Wait, what? Nevermind.