NONE SHALL PASS.
I kind of love and hate the word 'skullfucker'; it's the word 'motherfucker' dressed up Goth for Halloween, a typical shock-jock phrase--a word so unsanitary, Howard Stern would make slow, sweet love to it. I imagine Quentin Tarantino lisping it out in yet another terrible attempt at 'acting', spitting his way through the first S, and steamrolling his way on down to the over-pronounced -er. But it's also a powerful word: a brilliant marriage of the creepy, the inappropriate, and the very specific. It's in that category of words you will never say in front of your parents, no matter how cool they are--and would you really want to have a conversation with your folks where that word even needed to appear? Even so, I've never used it in conversation or in my writing--my balls aren't that big, and I've never really needed it. Until today. Because that is what Chef Emily did to me: she totally skull-fucked me with her food. SHE SKULL-FUCKED US ALL.
Chef Em works for one of my favorite local food monopolies, Chow Foods, as Head Bizzle at their popular Capitol Hill location, Coastal Kitchen. The Griz and I went there last week for brunch, and their new seasonal menu features delectable foodstuffs from Brittany, France--MEANING CHEESE, PEOPLE. I am often confounded by the friends that walk around the planet like semi-normal people, but who actually possess superhuman abilities which rock my entire life. Emily is one of those people, with her talented chef-ing skills; they are good friends to have, in lieu of having good abilities. Sunken apple/rum/cinnamon/sugar cupcakes were my tiny contribution, and I heard they were good; Martha Stewart's robotic tears were violently obtained for the recipe, so I should certainly hope so.
Back to my fucking skull. Whoreleen and Chef Em, who have been
Look, there's no way in Hell I can ever explain this dinner to you. I can tell you there was a rich and creamy butternut squash soup that was so heavy, I had to raise an army from the dead to assist my spoon in besting its' surface--and the spoon prevailed, but just barely. Into that buttery goodness went the home-toasted pine nuts tossed in unknown spices and herbs, as well as crispy, salted sage leaves that melted in my mouth. I can also paint a picture of the roasted Brussels sprouts, loaded with onions and spicy hot bacon and the purest crack cocaine; Chef Em always uses the organic crack, the happy, grass-fed kind that thrives on free-range freebasing farms in the country. There was also roasted chicken, and bread made out of Jesus Christ himself (chewy!), and scalloped potatoes made with Manchego, an amazing Spanish cheese; also inhaled was my all-time favorite European butter, which comes in a tiny wooden basket--the kind of butter you find at Whole Foods in the I OWN A YACHT section (it's right next to the '100% Organic, 39% of the Time' product line). See, these words look good on paper, and the dinner sounds nice, but there's no way they can ever live up to the actual food. If you haven't done any drugs in your entire life--and for what reason, I could never imagine, perhaps you are trapped in a nunnery with no windows or people or any way out--
I once heard the phrase 'horses eating horses', and never thought I'd find a mightier phrase to rival it, but 'Emily skull-fucked me with her food' has a certain appeal, a je ne sais quois that's quite unexplainable. As a word, it's at once intimate, fun, fucked-up, and weird--just like any typical holiday with the fam. I'm thankful to be a part of the Blue House Family, the nicest group of misfits I know.
If any of you Seattlites want to get brain-laid by the little lady, check out the Coastal Kitchen on Capitol Hill. Chef Em's the name and bacon's her game. She and Whoreleen are the the nitwits to my shiz.