A sister magazine—with a bigger budget than the one I work for—had a prop sale today. I love a prop sale, even though they usually consist of mismatched dishes, odd-number sets of things, and "gently used" items. My cabinets are full of things I rarely use, only because I was blinded by a bargain or convinced I would use it for something.

Today I scored a pretty Le Creuset pot with no lid. Even though it was incomplete, I couldn't resist the brand name. Which brings my Le Creuset collection up to four pieces: two casserole dishes, this topless wonder, and a solitary French onion soup pot I usually make single servings of cheese grits in. So far people have recommended I fill this new acquisition with macaroni and cheese, soup, or a pot pie. Not all at one time.



Cost: $2.00

I also picked up this salad keeper, because I've been bringing salads for lunch pretty often lately (they're kind on the budget).



The silverware is flimsy at best, but amazon.com suggests you toss it and use the space to hold a snack bar. I see Cheez-its in there in the future. But I particularly appreciate this little feature: an ice pack for keeping the salad cool, and a separate compartment with a nifty trap door for dressing.



Cost: $0.50

I know I've mentioned before that the Woodside homestead currently holds 13 chairs, but ... I bought more. I couldn't resist their shapeliness! And they're West Elm, so I got them for a steal. I don't have the foggiest idea what to do with them. Any ideas? Southern Foody, help! I need your designspertise.

Or maybe I'll just hawk 'em. Leave your bids in the comments section. I will accept cash, check, or dinners out.



Cost: $10 apiece

TOTAL: $22.50

Not bad, eh? I'll just have to sell J to finance it—no big.

**In a more serious vein, I want to wish an enormous happy happy day to L Sis and MJ.



MJ, I'm so lucky L Sis brought you into our lives. I love you like a brother, even though you root for the Cowboys, incessantly make the tuba noise, and mock me mercilessly during board games. The fact that you give me three beautiful nieces is icing on an already sweet cake.

L Sis, you are my own personal rock-star-hero-awe-inspirer. Even though you are far more grown-up than I am and made yourself a terrific new family, you always make me feel like a part of it. You are living the good, hard, solid, hilarious life, and you make it look effortless. I love you both!

Turns out, if you cop an attitude with the be-acned 14-year-old at CVS when he imperiously notes that your credit card hasn't been swiped at the correct latitude when you're buying tampons and ibuprofen, you'll PROBABLY be typecast as hormonally unbalanced.

The best way to throw said Norbert off the track? Spontaneously add something nonchalant to your purchases. Preferably from the offerings nearest to the register. This does not label you as impulsive in the least.

Here's how I threw the teeny bopper off the track: a Democratic Pez dispenser.



COME ON. How cute is that??

I'll never eat candy out of an ass' ass, but it's adorable. Should B.O. pull out a win this November (typing made more difficult by the crossing of every single extremity), I will know victory is due to my late-night uterine requirements.

Barack: YOU'RE WELCOME.

I do know some of the mucky-mucks at a nearby Big Box Retailer, and they must stock these next to their registers, STAT.

Because there are plenty of emotionally inconsistent women out there who need current-events-related stuffed candy dispensers.

LIKE NOW, DICKHEAD.

Aherm. Tomorrow's Monday. Await combustion.

Dear readers, you are witnesses to history. Today marks my 101st post, and as such is to be entirely concerned with 101 Cookbooks. Because I totally planned it, as opposed to stumbling upon the coincidence and figuring it was better to call that momentous than to admit that I overlooked that yesterday's post was my 100th, which it would have made far more sense to commemorate.

I'm a PLANNER, I tell you.

Anyhoodle. Big thanks to all of you—the tens and tens of you who return to read my ramblings every day and purport to be upset when I don't post. I love you all, you big liars.

The Js are at the haunted house, an endeavor I choose not to be a part of only because I have a moral objection to people jumping out of dark corners at me. It has nothing in the least to do with my being a huge, debilitating wuss.

While those gold-medal parents drag their wee children through a chamber of horrors, I put my housewife hat on: I made a pie. (It wasn't so much that I put any sort of hat on—this wonky head of mine can't support a hat of any kind without making me look like a Cabbage Patch Kid—as it was that JLB begged, pleaded, and otherwise coerced me into making a pie. It was baking under duress. She even plied me with French fries. She is SO MEAN.)

Tears on my keyboard, friends.

But I plucked up some courage and gathered some in-greeds: graham crackers, honey, silken tofu, cream cheese, chocolate chips, vanilla, butter, and an egg.

This was really an exercise in using up silken tofu, as a recent recipe I made at JLB's called for 4 ounces. She came home from the grocery store with 32. JLB is dog lover, fire maker, and ear lender, but she is not math major.



Graham crackers were smushed with a rolling pin, then put into the processor with melted butter and honey.



Heidi (of 101 Cookbooks) recommends the processor method for getting a uniform grind on the crackers, and it really does make a difference. People of the world, do not fear the Cuisinart—it is your friend.

Then those golden crumbs get pressed into a pie plate to form a lovely crust.



Then I melted the chocolate chips over a tiny (adorable!) makeshift double boiler.



Remaining ingredients—tofu, cream cheese, egg, vanilla, and melted chocolate. Hmm. App ... e ... tizing?



A quick swirl in the mixer, and into the prepared crust.



It goes in the oven at 350 for 30 minutes. In the immortal words of Big Bro's ex-girlfriend, who used to tell endless, inappropriate, unfunny, pointless, no-end-in-sight stories: TA-DA!



It's chillin' in the fridge now, the perfect prize for AJ, who just came in the door and announced she MADE IT THROUGH THE ENTIRE HAUNTED HOUSE FOR THE FIRST. TIME. EVER. She has coolness I have not managed to accumulate myself in the two decades longer than her that I have been alive. Halloween is sadistic.

Galvanized by my possible success (there were some suspicious cream cheesy lumps I'm not sure about), I decided to put more tofu in an appetizer: baked artichoke dip.

This is probably the ideal moment to mention that I am having a love affair with 101 Cookbooks. It's a new relationship, and I don't want to jinx it, but so far we're very happy together.

I whisked together fat-free plain yogurt, cayenne, parmesan, and salt.



Then I blended the artichoke hearts, tofu, and garlic, and combined it with the yogurt mixture.



Topped with more parmesan, and baked at 350 for 45 minutes.



Deliciousness. AND good for you. It will absolutely replace any existing artichoke dip you have in your repertoire.

If it hadn't had garlic in it, we could have served it to L and J on their date. But we later discovered them in bed together. Dirty pups.



In other news, it seems the Js followed a crowd of boys through the haunted house who were roughly two to three years older than the soon-to-be-11 EJ. Number of times she has started a story with "Oh, and those boys ... ": approximately 101.

Dear J:



Thank you for being ridiculous.



Love, K.

Who's ready to get their debate on?



I was born ready. See these sweet shades? Jauntily unbuttoned collar? Lack of tie? I am thinking about so many things at one time right now it's not even funny.



We have 13 cars (some of 'em's furrin!), but let's take the hearse, 'k? Nice turtleneck, by the way. Could you look any less human? I plan to use AIR QUOTES in copious amounts today. There will be a plumber named Joe. I don't need you screwin' up my everyman image with your frozenness. You there? Damn. Short-circuit.



The O-man not too pleased with this setup. How will the American people see my gams? Plus, when that whackjob starts waltzing Matilda, it does wonders for my percentage points.

Is Johnny's seat high enough? My friends, I need to look like I'm as tall as my opponent. I don't care if my feet don't touch the floor. Can I get a booster seat?



Bill Ayers? Never knew the guy. And I was like 8 when that dude was blowing stuff up. HA! You're OLD.



Mooooooo-oooooooooom! He's pickin' on me! He called me President Bush, which is so totally four years ago! It's not faaaaaaaaaaair!



Sweetheart, why are you writing with a Sharpie? They stain. And I'm sorry, but I'm not even sure I'm voting for you. Because I am awesome, and I'm not convinced you really know how to connect to awesome people. Now, that guy with the dazzling chompers, on the other hand ...



I know, right?



Listen, the only reason I put this mask on every day is so I can catch some shut-eye without anyone noticing. Now leave me be.



PUT ME IN THE GAME, COACH! I got this one!



In other news, I'm pretty, no? People always painted me as a pinched and shriveled old shrew. But I'm aging gracefully. Man, these guys are dull. Sling some mud at me, geezer. I dare you. I have been THROUGH it, with the Whitewater and the universal health care and the MONICA forheaven'ssake. You were in a prisoner-of-war camp? I am MARRIED TO BILL. Check and mate.



What. Evurr.



Who decorated this mess? Stephen Colbert? Screw it, let's go home. I gotta plug Cindy back in.

(Photos by Joe Raedle/Getty Images, Charlie Dharapak/Associated Press, Charlie Dharapak/Associated Press, Todd Heisler/The New York Times, Spencer Platt/Getty Images, Seth Wenig/Associated Press, Win McNamee/Getty Images, Seth Wenig/Associated Press, Damon Winter/The New York Times, Spencer Platt/Getty Images, and Damon Winter/The New York Times, respectively.)

Outside my window right now, two cloud castoffs hang lazily in the sky, the only blights on an otherwise unadulterated sky. It's almost too bright to stare for long, though that could be the effect of the reflection of rows and rows of hateful fluorescent lights. There's a breeze—I can tell because the moving tree branches are mucking up my stupor. The weather report said it'd be "unseasonably warm" today, with a high stubbornly in the mid-80s. It's sort of perfect, really, the way fall marches in and faces summer like Jack Sprat would face a sumo wrestler—mismatched but idiotically optimistic.

And so I sit in my cubicle, happy to have more than 3 square feet to work in, happy to have WORK, happy to be close to my family and know that, should I trip over the mess that is taking hold of my house and hit my head on a dog bone, someone would notice I had gone awfully quiet before said dog had a chance to chew off one of my limbs to keep from starving.

I'm happy, here. But still, sometimes I loathe this state something fierce. I'm not myopic—I know that racism exists everywhere, and in many forms, but it's too nice a day to confront my rank idealism. I'm just tired. Tired of hearing otherwise intelligent people say stupid things. Tired of hearing otherwise stupid people say stupid things. Tired of hearing my coworker's stance on "Muslimism," or L Sis having to tell stories about her colleague's feelings about birth control methods used by "the blacks," or being stunned into silence by overhearing someone tell a tale about her friend who, when confronted by a man in the grocery store parking lot who asked how much her car cost, managed to blurt out, in her justified discomfort, the first thing that came to mind: "There's no way you could afford my car." Not "Go away," "Leave me alone," or (my personal favorite) the swift walk/run in the opposite direction. Just a statement on perceived socioeconomic status.

I'm not saying she should be judged too harshly—L Sis and I were recently approached in the Wal-Mart parking lot by an obvious scam artist (and not a good one. That was one convoluted lie) whose first words to us were, "I mean no harm." I'm pretty sure that falls under the category of If You Have to Say It ... —I just think it says something about where we are as a country and, specifically, a state.

Then, this morning, Gawker posted this:

The New York Times today runs five—five!—pieces on how many voters have somehow deduced that presidential candidate Barack Obama is a black man. Adam Nagourney reports that Hillary Clinton advisor Harold Ickes (he's also, it should be noted, a former Jesse Jackson aide) "routinely shaved off a point or two" from Obama's poll numbers to account for secret racistness. You can tell he was doing this during the primaries, right? Harold, people who won't vote for Obama because he's black aren't lying to pollsters. Because they sure as hell weren't lying to the Times reporters who went into the field to report on race.

And where do you suppose that "field" was? Check the dateline: Mobile, Alabama.

Tell me this doesn't make you want to throw up in your mouth.

“He doesn’t come from the African-American perspective — he’s not of that tradition,” said Kimi Oaks, a prominent community volunteer in the Mobile area, with apparent approval. Ms. Oaks, along with about 15 others, had gathered after Sunday services at Mobile’s leading Methodist church to discuss the presidential campaign. “He’s not a product of any ghetto,” Ms. Oaks added.

A little further north, from Citronelle, Alabama:

“I’ve always been against the blacks,” said Mr. Rowell, who is in his 70s, recalling how he was arrested for throwing firecrackers in the black section of town. But now that he has three biracial grandchildren — “it was really rough on me” — he said he had “found out they were human beings, too.”

OK, so he's in his 70s. "They're human beings" versus ... I'm not sure what exactly ... is I guess? a step in the right direction?

But the best? That would be this guy.



He has the look of wild-eyed crazy and dumb, thanks to the slack jaw and the bloodshot eye. Here's what he has to say as he represents the people of our fair state in a respected national publication:

“He’s neither-nor,” said Ricky Thompson, a pipe fitter who works at a factory north of Mobile, while standing in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart store just north of here. “He’s other. It’s in the Bible. Come as one. Don’t create other breeds.”

THUD.

It is remarkable that Ricky can hold down a job when the only rule he has to follow after he steps out of bed is DON'T BE AN ASSHOLE, and he can't even keep that straight.

I know that this brand of ignorant douchery isn't specific to Alabama. But I do think there is a lesson to be learned here, and that lesson is threefold.

1. When you hear someone say something racist, speak up. Or, if you think you can't, employ the blank stare. It can be just as educational to let that idiocy reverberate. The longer it hangs in the stiff silence, the more uncomfortable the other person will become. Turnabout is fair play.

2. Keep your eyes peeled for stereotypes, whether they be the dangerous black man, the novelty gay, or the dumb Southerner.

3. Stay the hell out of Wal-Mart parking lots.

(Photo by James Edward Bates for The New York Times.)

Warning signs that I'm not having a super spectacular day:

RED FLAG. L Sis tells me a stomach-turning Sheila story, which leads to the singing of "Oh! Oh, Sheila" until my brain aches. (Honestly? Racism is the lowest common denominator. I'm pretty sure you should just have your humanity card revoked and be forced to crawl back under Rush Limbaugh's desk chair. I am NOT IMPRESSED by your narrowness, so please stop breathing it into my personal space. )

RED FLAG My tragically low patience dwindles to nothing, forcing me to draft letters to other people's coworkers (see above).

RED FLAG A mashed-potato lunch does not unknit my brow.

RED FLAG I start to identify with Mariah Carey lyrics.

RED FLAG My sinuses stare at the possibility of a cold, and the left and right sides make different decisions (right side: I'll get right on it! left side: Leave me alone; I'm on vacation).

RED FLAG Resolve to walk dogs with friend starts to buckle under the pressure to slide into a booth at Los Arcos, nurse a margarita, and sigh a lot.

There's some in-family dispute as to who first discovered Los Arcos, but we can all agree it is now where everybody knows our names. And also what we look like post-exercise, post-workweek, sans makeup, and pre-nap. They know that we are likely to be loud, stay for hours, host a revolving table of comers and goers, and—in the case of L Sis some people who shall remain nameless—discipline other people's children.

The Js recently introduced a moratorium on the place (something having to do with "college tuition" or "imploding economy" or "tuna niçoise" or something—it was hard to hear with my head in the cheese dip), so I suppose we'll be giving Dante and Manuel a break. And some time to re-stock the tequila.

Manuel is Los Arcos' secret ingredient. He makes some of the best, most authentic Mexican food in town. Example of the Manuel Effect:

pre-Manuel MJ: "I haaaaaaaate Mexican food. I haaaaaaaaate spicy food. I am a disgrace to my race."
post-Manuel MJ: "Sorry, L Sis. I'm leaving you to marry the sopa de pollo.

They're very proud of their commitment to authenticity and quality. The spiral-bound menu proudly proclaims that there is no fat used in the preparation of their beans, and they say that they work hard to produce grease-free chip baskets. Those chips come with a chunky tomato salsa studded with onions and cilantro. JBSH is partial to "Jim's Dip" (Who's Jim? Who knows? It sort of comes out of the waiters' mouths sounding like "Jeems Deep," so it's worth ordering for that reason alone). It's ground beef and mushrooms, swimming in a pool of oozy cheese, served with flour tortillas. L Sis demands the salsa verde, a tomatillo salsa with a haunting sort of heat that your brain can't quite put its finger on. I think it's narcotic. But the best is the salsa de cacahuate, a peanut salsa with a creamy goodness that lulls your taste buds so that the smoky chipotle can assault the back of your throat.



(The salsa verde and the salsa de cacahuate aren't on the menu, but ordering them will identify you as In The Know.)

The margaritas are the typical tequila + sour mix concoction, but asking for "top shelf" means an extra shot of orange liqueur that has rendered extended family members variously unable to control the volume of their voice, unable to control their blubbering into their enchiladas, unable to resist singing along with the mariachi band, and unable to stay awake in the parking lot. They are delicious, but they are POTENT.



MJ orders the chicken soup without fail. And it's not your average wimpy broth.



That's rich, briny stock enveloping chicken, cilantro, and tortilla strips. It comes with pico de gallo and avocado, though they'll add or subtract any ingredients you like—MJ likes it with pico but without avocado, with rice but without sour cream. B likes to add extra cheese to hers. And the waitstaff never complain about all this picky rigamarole.

I don't really have a usual, although they recently put a "fajita side plate" on the a la carte menu (beans, rice, pico de gallo, sour cream, and guacamole), which I love to order with a side of flour tortillas. The side plate has all of my favorite things, plus I get to make tiny tacos for myself with just the right proportions of ingredients. Bonus: so cheap. Their vegetarian menu is extensive (burritos, tacos, enchiladas, taco salad, etc.) and carefully plotted with meat-free eating in mind. And there are options elsewhere on the menu that, if you order carefully to avoid meat sauces, are even more adventurous.

But this time I had the veggie taco. Curiously, it's not a taco at all—it's a quesadilla.



That, my friends, is perfection in browning. No soggy tortillas here. The griddle makes them taste buttery and flaky. Inside, there was cheese, green peppers, onions, and avocado. I like to pull some of the cheese out so that I can shove the unassuming iceberg-lettuce-and-pico salad inside for a cooling, piquant crunch.

alskjdfahg;aghlknvb;kns.ngd.,a.

Sorry. Little drool on the keyboard, there.

L Sis' gustatory life changed when she discovered these:



Those are "Mexican-style tacos" (also not on the menu, but ... In The Know!). Pollo asado, fresh, puckery onions, and a snowfall of cilantro. L Sis likes them as authentic Mexican street food—in corn tortillas—but you have your choice between flour and corn, and you can substitute grilled beef for the chicken. Topped with thick dollop of the salsa de cacahuate, they have been described to me as transcendent. Even the most staunchly determined sofa-surfer has been coaxed out of the house at the mere mention of these.

Los Arcos is open seven days a week, for lunch and dinner, and they have competitive prices and some of the nicest people you'll meet. Every other Thursday you can be serenaded by an enthusiastic mariachi band (stop beforehand for tip cash but please please please do not make them play "Rocky Top"). And the decor is bright and cheery, but not eyeball-searing.



Only downsides? The lights will go out on you in the ladies' room—it's strangely set to a motion-sensor timer no lady could ever beat, meaning you'll have your panties around your knees and your arms flailing to turn it back on. It's a PRETTY PICTURE, let me tell you. It's also not as close to the Woodside as I'd like. But I'm willing to commute for a smile.

Los Arcos Mexican Grill 2
2531 Rocky Ridge Road
Birmingham, AL 35243
205.979.3200

L Sis likes to engage in a particular sort of torture that involves trying on all the clothes in her closet in a Goldilocks fashion to determine what is too big, what is too small, and what makes her look like a rock star. She describes it as "fun." To me, it sounds akin to having Sarah Palin read you a bedtime story.

But this beautifully weighty gray day inspired me to indulge in my own brand of self-flagellation: shopping for things I can't afford (for those not in the know, that would be everything). Here are just a few of the many, many things that are out of my reach.

Even though it's 72 degrees outside, it looks like a delicious 48 from my work window. I like to imagine that people are out there holding hands and breathing into scarves, even though they're probably slogging through the humidity in capri pants. There's a lot wrong there, and the humidity is only the half of it. If it were my preferred environment, though, I'd want one of these.



Isn't that cosy? It makes me want to spell words as though I were British. It also makes me want hot chocolate with a fat floating marshmallow.

Because the Woodside doesn't accommodate a chimney (just as well—odds of my burning down my house are HIGH even without one), I'd take one of these.



That glass shield isn't just modern and sleek; it'd also protect my hair, sleeves, and other personal items likely to go up in flames.

Other things the Woodside lacks? Portable seating for friends who linger in the kitchen, and over-the-table lighting. Solution? This papier-mâché stool/table. We featured it in the magazine months ago, but I've been in love ever since.



And this rubber chandelier has "K" written all over it: sarcastic and unusual.



My Aquafina bottle is staring at me forlornly, coated as it is in the many toxins that will probably kill me if I continue to reuse it at my current pace. So I could use one or both of these.



My current design aesthetic tends toward the dark and dire, but the only thing that trumps Gothic is blasphemous, so I might just be sold on the "Holy Water: tap into it" design.

Speaking of design, though, this is just too clever for words.



Mixing bowls and measuring cups all beautifully and efficiently stored. I think my anal-retentive side peed its pants a little. (It comes in all white, too, but puh-leeze.)

While my anal-retentive side is distracted, I'll let one of my other personalities do a happy dance for this chicken baker.



It's RIDICULOUS! Hence, I love it. Then again, it's a chicken. What's not to love?

I'm also in a turn-of-the-decade 1950s/'60s space (thanks, Mad Men!), so I fell for this vintage ice crusher, which would look so chic on my bar.



Then I remembered that the Woodside has no ice maker and that I rarely make cocktails because I'm too cheap. Oh hell, it's virtual shopping. I want it anway.

I fear I'd feel a little self-conscious toting this around, but I think adorableness and eco-consciousness win the day.



Now this little piggy is ready to go HOME.

This weekend has been an exercise in the old-fashioned regroup. An attempt to get my regularly crooked head back into at least an approximation of straight. And that is no small task considering my deep, life-long contempt for exercise. But there is a remarkable amount of thinking one can do while cleaning out the cabinet under the kitchen sink. (A bottle of bleach imploded in there. Necessity is the mother of invention. I don't want you to think I've suddenly acquired any motivation or anything.) I also, thanks to the miracle of podcasts, now know how to trim the silverskin off flank steak. Should that spontaneously become necessary for a bachelorette vegetarian. Other things I've learned in the past 48 hours:

1. Peach-flavor Fresca still has grapefruit juice in it, making it the enemy of my medication.

2. If I like or want something, I probably can't have it (see number 1).

3. Self-pity, while comforting, gets old fast (see number 2).

4. If you are the parent of any mammal, you're probably going to have to get up close and personal with its excrement at some point.

5. A perfectly civilized conversation at 11 Bonita can unravel posthaste. Word to the wise: Avoid the phrase "I am an undecided voter."



6. Bleach will eat ANYTHING.

7. As long as I live, Taboo will always be some of the most fun ever. Hearing Friend's Husband say, "G-string" and Other Friend's Husband answer (immediately and correctly) "BRAZIL!" did much to make up for the stress of the past week.

8. Dogs can sleep an almost worrisome amount of time. This may be their cutest state. When awake, they like to chase leaves in the water. Also, backpacks are for winners.



9. No one can endlessly ruminate. When taking a break, it is best to have a basket of chips, some spicy salsa, and an awesome sister at the ready.

10. There is a good chance most doctors' offices are run by monkeys. K: "Yes, I need to make an appointment with Dr. S." Monkey: "All right, and have you seen him before?" K: "Have you? Because HE'S A LADY." OK so I only said that last part in my head.

But even with all that learnin' goin' on, I still had a promise to keep to L Sis. And that promise was somewhat warily titled Broiled Goat Cheese with Pumpkin Seed Sauce.

Ingreds: vegetable broth, tomatillos, parsley and cilantro, jalapeño, garlic, and goat cheese (locally made, but $16! Good thing I love these people). Also dry roasted pumpkin seeds. The recipe called for hulled pepitas, which you roast, but this was all the Western had. I think it came out great regardless, and their already roasted-and-salted status meant I got to cut out two steps—roasting the seeds and salting the sauce.



And aren't those tomatillos loverly? A few minutes in cold water and their sticky skins slipped right off.



Everything but the cheese went into the blender



and whirled together. The time it took to get to this silky texture?



Less than 10 seconds. Best. Blender. Ever. Also the best ever? These two things:

Individual pre-measured 1-cup broth containers (cute AND convenient)



and Ravida olive oil.



Not only is it delicious (seriously, I could drink it straight from the bottle), but it's also the most beautiful oil I've ever seen hit the pan. I don't know how pricey it is—quite, I suspect—but I sneak it furtively into dishes at 11 Bonita every chance I get.



When the oil is hot, the blended sauce goes on.



It simmers for about an hour, frequently (or infrequently, depending on the telling of gesticulatory stories) stirring and adding more broth every so often as it thickens. I ended up putting about another cup (pre-measured!) in when all was said and done.

Then the goat cheese has to soften in the oven, so I picked a dish from the china room (I know).



LOVE. I have a thing about birds that I can't quite explain. They make me smile. Oddly, real live birds do not have the same effect. The hot pumpkin sauce spills onto the hot cheese and is served with tortilla chips.



Shhhh, there's goodness under that bird's butt—don't tell.



Ack! Exposed!

This went over like gangbusters. I was slapping at hands to get some for myself. The only one who didn't go wild for it was JBSH, but I think that's because he was too busy trying to top me. Would he succeed, with his grilled shrimp and peppery arugula and oh-my-god-give-me-more spicy sauce and buttery buttery buttery grits?



Jackass.