Salmon Quiche; Coffee Club

I had a lovely little lunch yesterday: just me, a salmon quiche, a caesar salad, iced water (I am finally paying heed to the advice of my mother, who called me on Valentine's Day to wish me the very romantic greeting 'Happy Valentine's Day and for the love of all that Valentine's Day stands for PLEASE cut back on drinking fizzy drinks because I read your blog and you are SO going to have diabetes one day'... which is coincidentally a variation of the greeting that she wishes me on every major holiday) and a book, Twilight. On an unrelated note, I have come to the conclusion that I am in love with Robert Pattinson of the sexy-bloodsucking-killer-Edward-Cullen-of-Twilight fame, and not the sexy-bloodsucking-killer-book-character Edward Cullen of Twilight, because the literary version is doing nothing for me.

So I finished lunch all content, musing about Robert Pattinson's jawline and wondering whether his book version has a beautiful jawline too, when a random idiot guy hooted at me while I was walking back to the office, presumably because I was alone. Which thus forced me to give him the middle finger: the only appropriate and non-criminal response I could think of at the time. And that is the story of how my lovely solitary lunch was ruined. Thank you, misogynist asswipe. I REALLY enjoy it when strange men disrespect and hiss and holler at females. You REALLY know how to impress a lady. It's not the first time and it won't be the last, but you spoiled my lunch and if I were a salmon quiche I would throw myself at your face in angry protest. Unfortunately you will have to settle for a middle finger. Just as I settled for being in a bad mood after lunch.

Popeye's Chicken; Taman Tun

Near the top of the list called Random Things That I LOVE LOVE LOVE But Nobody Understands How I Am Able To Muster That Much Passion For Said Things, jockeying for a spot alongside: Jeopardy (I love Jeopardy. LOVE WITH ENTIRE HEART. Am COMPLETELY enamored of the little blue BOXES OF KNOWLEDGE. I love Jeopardy so much I tend to speak in excited upper case letters when I discuss it, and also answer ALL trivia in QUESTIONS ala Jeopardy. For example the question "What is the capital of Finland?" Would receive the answer "WHAT IS COPENHAGEN!!!" from me); tempeh goreng and ikan bilis and feta cheese (just writing about them at the same time makes me want to cry tears of happiness); popped collars (I know, I know... they're passe and an accurate indicator of douchiness. But like a moth to a flame, I just can't help myself); dispensible pop music (current favourite song being My Life! Would Suck! Without! You!... you stay eloquent, Kelly Clarkson); heated debates (I like yelling out my opinion in a forceful manner and I do not apologize for it); Arsenal FC (my love runs a deep dark, Arsenal-home-jersey-coloured red and is, obviously, unaffected by the fact that they have disappointed me and every other Gooner miserably this season); libraries and the smell of old books (it's like an unhealthy but academic fetish), is: Southern style biscuits.



I LOVE BISCUITS. Despite the fact that the rest of the world uses the word "biscuit" to refer to a cookie and in America biscuits are, perplexingly, baked bread. Biscuits melt in your mouth. Biscuits are a beautifully light shade of golden. Biscuits are hard on the outside, but soft and buttery on the inside. Biscuits are like the embodiment of HUMANITY: however hardened the exterior, it is still just a cover for the warm, rich, fuzzy goodness of the interior (why yes I AM an idealist, why do you ask).



I haven't eaten biscuits since KFC at Cornell (I used to request to be taken there on date nights, no joke) so when Popeyes opened in Taman Tun and I heard they were serving biscuits I was understandably over the moon. And then I ate Popeye's biscuits. And they were weird and salty and not soft enough or warm enough or EDIBLE ENOUGH. And now I'm just pissed off. I am never going to Popeyes again and I stand by my word on this. You don't just play with a woman's emotions, serve it to her, let her eat it, and then let her down, Popeye. You just don't. I intensely dislike you, Popeyes of Taman Tun. INTENSELY dislike you.

Cupcakes; Cupcake Chic

It is a scientifically proven fact (alas, I do not have the link to the scientific study that proves this fact; but this is not because it does not exist and I just made that fact up to start my post on a witty but regrettably completely fictional truth, it's because I'm too lazy to search for it) that eating cupcakes will increase the dopamine levels in your brain by 75%, thus making you 65% happier. (The remaining 10% of the happiness levels were lost during dopamine transmission because I belatedly realized that eating cupcakes would only further inflate my already recently inflated ass. This is a true fact. The junk is accumulating in my trunk. My lovely lady lumps, posterior, are... umm... getting lumpier? On the plus side my ass sounds like a flotation device when I describe it and also feels cushiony and is quite pleasant to sleep and sit on.)



My beloved Rum & Raisin cupcakes (3)
Naughty & Nice cupcakes (vanilla cake, chocolate frosting) (2)
... and a Fortune cupcake (vanilla cake, orange & chocolate frosting) (1)



If you're wondering what a vanilla cake with a slice of orange on the bottom and chocolatey orangey frosting tastes like, the answer is: crap. The Naughty & Nice was good (solid grades, but no valedictorian award) but the Rum & Raisins were, as always, perfection, and were TOTALLY worth their significant contribution to ass size.