Gag Me With a Battered Spoon

I'm not a sweets fan at the best of times. But recently I've found them even more repellant. Why? Because it seems Red Velvet cupcakes, pancakes, cookies, brownies(?) waffles and (gagging*) red velvet lattes are the latest revolting rage. Pinterest is filthy with pins of baking that looks like scabs. 

Cupcakes are barely tolerable as it is particularly with their trendy unhealthy icing to cake ratio. Frothy butter cream sits menacingly on top of sad excuses for cup cakes. The only thing that can make these little blobs of diabetes worse is when they are the color of type 'O'.

I don't understand the fascination. You know something is seriously wrong when IHOP gets on board with the fad. How do they get that vibrant red anyway? I've tried to make icing for cookies using red food coloring and it just ends up pink. What sinister goings-on produce that blood red that people apparently find so attractive in deserts? Let's all take a minute and remember the groom's cake from Steal Magnolias. It was in the shape of an armadillo, complete with grey scaly icing, and when it was cut into it was red velvet cake. Absolutely nauseating. 

Others seem as uneasy as I am when it comes to violently colored baking. It is far from appetizing. Having put forth my rant, I can say I have tried "velvet things" primarily in cupcake form. They taste like half-assed chocolate cake. Along with questionable color, vague taste is also a deterent. 

To illustrate my point about Pinterest and poor taste I searched Red Velvet. Out of a few hundred "pins" 3 pertained to fabric. Another disturbing discovery is Blue Velvet. Apparently an unholy shade of blue is also achievable and equally horrific.

In my opinion any food that is the color of absolutely nothing in nature should be avoided. Also things the color of your insides or curtains from the 1500's should also be avoided.

Heed my warning people. 

current events

I Don’t watch the news, I certainly don’t watch Nancy Grace, and the closest I get to reading the newspaper is the horoscopes slotted into every local-ish publication I stumble upon. What I do do, is turn on the BBC channel and listen to the intro for the world news report. It has a very comforting familiar tune, and as soon as the boop boop boop stops I change the channel. I’d like to get it on loop. My point is, I’m not up on world current events . . . . at all.

I am however understanding what all the fuss around True Blood is. I mean, I get it. I get it because I went through an eerily similar phase back in the 90’s. Back when Brad Pitt, Gary Oldman, and Tom Cruise materialized in theaters. Actually it was even before then. It was Ann Rice (the books), it was Poppy Z. Brite. Friends, If you like Vampire erotica, (and by the constant absence of True Blood at every Rogers and Blockbuster video in a 10 mile radius for the past 3 weeks, I think you do.) look up Poppy Z. Brite’s earlier stuff, I admit, it borders on violently raunchy, and I only got though two of her books. Having preached all that, I myself have not read the Sookie Stackhouse series. Color me embarrassed.

I’m not even going to touch on the pre-pubescent vampire series that’s made it to the big screen. But it makes me wonder? Do vampires go in and out of style like shoulder pads? (not a welcome resurgence by the way) I’ve noticed my rejuvenated interest in the blood thirsty has coincided neatly with my love of The Cult. Yes, I love them. Back in ‘94 I went through my Ian Astbury/vampire stage. In art school I decided it was entirely appropriate to primarily paint large canvases depicting a vampire who resembled rather closely the lead singer of The Cult. Some times he’d be “fangs out” sometimes, a little more demure (because that’s a typical vampire trait) maybe I should say mysterious. After that got tiresome, and I have no doubt that it did, I began including renditions of a delectable looking blonde with heaving cleavage to these magnificent works of art. Good grief. Seriously, it’s embarrassing.

I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I am rather successfully reliving my youth. The Cult played last week about an hour outside of the city. Christ knows why? They played in what can only be described as a barn. A big barn, yes. But a barn none the less. A barn filled to the brim with red-necks. Age-ed red-necks, men and women. Hair, bad-taste and too many beers. Why on earth was The Cult playing in the middle of nowhere? Why were they playing in a venue where in 3 weeks time the country folk in the surrounding area would be displaying their prize squashes and heifers? WHY!!!??? It doesn’t matter I suppose. It doesn’t matter because I went t see them anyway. I went to get a damn t-shirt and to catch Ian Astbury’s attention with my smoldering gaze. I went with my best friend, because we, the two of us are fans. The last time we saw The Cult was Tuesday February 14th Valentines Day 1995. It was the first snow, and I didn’t have a jacket. Not that I needed a jacket inside The PNE Forum, no, I had my enormous backpack strapped to my front.. That kept me pretty effing warm.

I’ve told my Cult story from last week so many times, that maybe I’ll save it for another time. Just remind me to tell you about the fire extinguisher incident, two dreadful and insulting pick-up lines and the fact that a lead singer in his late 40’s remains sexy, despite love handles and ill fitting sweatshirt.

I’m just happy that I feel young again. Like the life force of a vampire coursing through my veins, this renewed obsession for my favorite band and it’s delightful partnering with a child-hood passion has been rather invigorating. All I need now is a trip to Paris and a wander through the Père Lachaise Cemetery and the transformation to age 21 will be complete. Delightful.