Corinna

Sure, I've received plenty of advice in my life. I definitely don't listen to all of it and some things I must learn on my own, the "hard way." One lesson I'm not willing to personally come upon is how awful foodborne illness can be. So while no one has explicitly said this to me, I've indirectly received the advice of where and what not to eat. The infallible rule that addresses both is chicken at transportation ports.

kebap sandwich by WhatCouldPossiblyGoWrong?

I find it extra wonderful that this photo is called "What Could Possibly Go Wrong?" because, I'll tell you what, there's plenty that can go wrong with a chicken kebab.



Ignore the ethnic man handling the kebab; he has nothing to do with the equation. The fact of the matter is chicken is a weird, dirty little poultry that, when undercooked, causes violent illness. That makes eating chicken anywhere less than ideal. Do you ever hear of chicken carpaccio? Or chicken tartare? No. That's because chicken can only be "done" one way. If you want to trust any random bus terminal worker with your chicken, that's your gamble.



Part 2 of the equation: transportation hubs. People who eat in/around transportation hubs are *desperate*. They've been traveling for lord knows how long, cramped in a small plane/train/automobile seat, with nothing but peanuts. Don't you dare think for a minute that proprietors aren't in the know. They bank on that very desperation. Have you ever seen locals go out to eat at a bus terminal? Or a train station? No. Because why in god's name would they? The food sucks and will make you barf for the 36 hours you're riding from Valparaiso into Bolivia. This is a fact.



And I'll take this opportunity - you're welcome - to shed light on border towns as well. Do not eat anything in border towns, especially not chicken. Ever seen a border town? Canada doesn't count.

Or meat hunk, or ham steak, or ham burglar, or or or.



I have a whole host of nicknames that are different combinations of the prefixes [ham turkey meat beef lamb terd] and [nugget burger burglar hunk steak chunk]. It all started one day when I invited a bunch of friends over for a fine dinner of "beef hunk." It's really braised beef, or moskari kokkinisto, but the way I look at it, it's also a huge hunk of meat. So I called our dinner beef hunk and they started calling me meat chunk. And all the others ensued.



Growing up, my mother called me pookie and shorty. Later on in life, I developed an affinity for hip hop and street culture in general, so I started LOVING the nicknames I'd been given. I insisted that people other than my mother call me shorty and pookie as well. And they did. Unfortunately the nicknames stayed in Washington State and I did not so I seldom hear them anymore.



More recently, in addition to my incredible edible nicknames, I've been called a larbage. Lazy garbage. Larbs, Queen Larbs and Larva are all derivatives.



The longest lasting nickname, though, save maybe for "nini" (=little one in Greek) which my sister calls me, is Little Smokies. One day in high school, I walked into journalism class wearing flippy floppies and a friend of mine said "holy shit, your toes look like little smokies." He was both sensitive *and* correct. My toes do in fact look like mini snack sausages. Please don't eat them.

Bonus points when:



* I've just washed my sheets

* The heater is not broken

* Walter did not go to the beach that day and therefore did not get sand all over my bed

by

My favorite room in my house is my bedroom. Why? Well, I am pretty constantly surrounded by people. Friends, family, hugs, hand holding. Sure, I'm tenderoni, but I still need my alone time.



I like my bedroom the best because I have dark curtains, so it's always dark. I can sleep in my comfortable bed until noon or 2pm or whenever the natural light that doesn't wake me up turns to dark again. I listen to my tunes and knit or read or... do Sudoku puzzles (don't make fun!). And most importantly, I share my cot with Walter every night. He is the most tenderoni of all. He always snuggles and holds hands, even if I've been gone all day liviing my social 22 year-old life. The end.

I am the type of person who needs to constantly be stimulated and challenged and throw fast balls. I like to be kept on my toes. And this is probably why I'm addicted to change and can't sit still for five minutes.

I am afraid of tons of other things, trust me. The dark, getting murdered, the Insane Clown Posse, mustard... the list goes on. But I am terrified that I will reach a point in my life that I'm bored. And for me that's synonymous with content. If I find myself perfectly content (unless I'm chilling on a Mexican beach with a margarita in hand) then I'm doing something wrong. I constantly want new and different and more and better.

Strangest gift I've ever received? What's yellow, loud, annoying and shits everywhere?

Agnetha by Matthias (matticgn)

For Christmas one year, my sister's godfather produced a wrapped bird cage with two canaries in it. Fresh off our trip to Egypt, my sister, Cristina, and I named the birds Cleopatra and Tutankhamun.



Gifting pets is odd, that's number one. Number two, gifting pets to two young girls without consulting their parents is a bold-ass move. Forcing people to own pet birds? Also not cool. And the fact that we had a Siamese cat who wanted nothing move than to claw their beady little eyes out rendered the situation one giant, miserable, bird-shit mess.



As much as we would've wanted to regift our heinous feathered friends, alas we had no such chance. My mother decided to get rid of the birds in her very own way. She took their cage out to the balcony one day so she could clean it - a task that I'm sure she was thrilled about in the first place. She opened their cage, walked away and, just as she had plotted, they were gone when she came back. Cristina and I thought for a very long time that they had died of mysterious causes, much like Cleopatra and Tutankhamun themselves. A few years ago, my mom fessed up that their disappearance was not so accidental.

If my best friend had a helicopter, my best friend would also be loaded. So here's how it would go down.

He would arrange for someone in the park to be waiting for us with all of our gear (I don't know how helicopters handle heavy loads). We would require the following:



* one canoe

* one 4 season tent

* one cot

* two extra warm sleeping bags

* snow shoes

* sleds

* snacks. including but not limited to trail mix, s'more fixins and other dried fruit hippie fare

* photo equipment, because he takes good pictures and I am a ham

* firewood and a lighter

* the Fleet Foxes

* iPod charger, speakers, power source, Fleet Foxes album (if actual Fleet Foxes had prior commitments



We would get dropped off at the top of a mountain peak and ride down heli-ski style. A sherpa would be waiting for us with a donkey and all of our stuff. We would hike out to a mountain lake, ditch the sherpa and donkey, put our things in the canoe and canoe out to some cool snow-covered island in the middle of the lake. We would set up shop there by pitching tent, lighting fire and roasting corn cobs. Fleet Foxes would start singing, snow would start falling, Walter would be napping, all would be good.

What this is, how you say "Super Bowl?"



All I know is on some Sunday in the beginning of the year, I go to someone's house and eat a lot of dips. And that "bowl" of chips better be bottomless.



So I neither care about the match nor the singers during half-time. I'll be spending most of Sunday stuffing my face and these are the performers I'd like to see at the table:

Guacamole
Here's why guacamole is a star performer. I usually make it and put like 85 serrano peppers in it. It sets my mouth on fire and for some reason I like that. Also, for some reason I try to wash away the burning with really bad beer.

Gruyere & Coppa
Okay... cheddar and bologna. But you know what I'm getting that. Beef and cheese is the shit!

Little Smokies
And I'm not talking about my toes. The snausages, folks, the snausages.

I would pay my student loan on time, hah!



That's the not fun answer.



The fun answer is that I'd buy a freaking plane ticket to go to Belize or Honduras or Cuba or somewhere hot, sunny and Caribbean. I would use my mom's time share week so I would've have to pay for somewhere to stay. I would spend the whole time on the beach, laying in the sun doing crossword puzzles and reading all about Heidi and Spencer's latest shenanigans in Us Weekly. I would spend the rest of my money on Amstels.

If I were a superhero, I would be called Queen Larbs of Strumpet Valley. My metabolism would be faster than a cheetah so I could drink as much beer and eat as much jalapeño pizza and salt and vinegar potato chips as I wanted. My skin would always be free of zits and glowing. I would have the ability to think of an outfit and then make it appear out of thin air, kind of like that godmother in Cinderella. I would always smell great and I'd have some sort of top secret elixir that would make my hair not greasy if I didn't have time to shower. Also, I'd have the ability to learn languages in five minutes flat.



I'm not sure what this would achieve for the rest of humankind but I'd be a smokin' hot multilingual babe.

Do you know me?! Do you know anything about me?! Have you seen my Walter? Of course I would choose a cute, fluffy animal to domesticate. Snuggling is the top most important thing ever to me.

Red Panda Popped by Stuart Richards (left-hand)

Listen, I realize that real bear hugs are often fatal but how about a bear cub hug? Doesn't having a cuddle session with a little bear cub sound like the most joyous occurrence possible? Yes. Just say yes. It feels so good.

There have been a zillion times in my life that I've thought, how did I get in this mess? Can someone please get me out? Is there somewhere I can hide and this will go away? Could I please be nine years old again and playing with baby goats in Greece? Oh. Damn. I guess this bidness is fo' real. That's some heavy shit.



For example, my mom always called me an "old soul" and treated me like way too much of a grown-up at a tenderoni young age. That made me feel like an adult sometimes. Or when I got my license, I felt like that was pretty adult of me. I got a job, moved out on my own, traveled sans parents and achieved all sorts of mini-milestones. But the moment I really felt that it all came together was when I threw my first house party.



I mean, I cleaned my entire apartment *before* people came over. I knew we was about to do keg stands, accidentally break glasses, spill everything everywhere and have dance parties in the kitchen. I knew at least 30 butts would be touching my toilet and I still Cloroxed the hell out of it at the beginning of the night. Scented candles, appetizer spread, Ketel One and a clean house. I've never felt more adult in my life.

I'm from a little country you may have heard of - it's called Greece. As a proud descendant of Dorians, I feel a little guilty that I'm not repping and trying to send you there but, I'll be honest, I like to keep my Hellenic secrets my own. So, head to paradise and check out a giant Jesus instead!

I had the wonderful luck of going to Rio for a few weeks in 2005. I fell in love with everything about it - the language (falo um poco), the juice (um suco com manga, abacaxi, mamão e coco), the people (warm, friendly, beautiful), the feijoada, the beaches, everything everything everything. It helped that the Brazilians kept asking me if I was a Carioca (Rio native) because I appreciate all things South American and would invite any opportunity to identify myself as one.



There are oodles and oodles of glorious things to see in this city - all the colorful favelas, Ipanema, Copacabana, the Maracana futbol stadium, squares, museums, colonial architecture and, of course, Pão de Açúcar. But the most stunning place to visit is Cristo Redentor aka Christ the Redeemer. I don't say this because I'm religious. I say this because taking in the views from Corcovado mountain is a religious experience.



Check it out: here. Watching the sunset, gazing out at the Atlantic and feeling the cool evening breeze took my breath away so hard I felt like I got slugged in the stomach. It's the perfect place to spiral into an existential inner monologue and be reminded of what's important and how lucky you are and how beautiful the world is and what the duck have you been doing all your life while Brazil has been there waiting for you to go have the best experience of your life. Deixei meu coração em Brasil!

I became obsessed with Ludacris after his fried chicken and beer album came out. Since then I’ve kept my dream of becoming a hip hop star under wraps, learning and practicing my rhymes in secret. It started with the Ludacris and Trina collabo B-Alright (diamond princess, mind yo’ business… f*$k a dime, I’m a silva dolla, holla) and carried on with Lil’ Kim, Lil’ Mo and a great variety of rhymin’ midgets. If my dream ever gets realized, these are the cats I’d like to roll with:

Duff Man
How am I expected to rap if I've got no juice? I need some juice to fuel my rapping. And Duff seems like the perfect American watery macrobrew for the job.

Hamburglar
Rapping takes a lot of energy, ok? I need a burger when I'm done. I also think this little meatball could teach me a thing or two about thievery. Seems like that could come in handy at some point.

Shakira
...All signs point to I will take any excuse to hang out with, listen to, or mention Shakira. Thaz all, yo!

Thank you so much to all the panda lovers! I had so much fun guest bartending, taking free shots of Fernet and making your drinks extra strong. I only apologize for the selection of sensitive music that I DJ'ed with... Guns n' Roses next time.

Everyone showed so much support and completely ruled. It was so good to see the LJ crew. The pandas really appreciate your generosity and are going to have the best Christmas ever!

Italian meat-balls #1 by Mikhail Fludkov (FLOODkOFF)

My favorite term for the people I love is meatballs. I call my friends meatballs, I call my family meatballs and I call my dog/son Walter a meatball too. I adjust to veg ball or vegetarian meatball for my vegetarian friend(s) - hi, Kris!

So I'm quite thankful to have an abundance of meatballs in my life. I was lucky enough to have an early Thanksgiving dinner on Saturday with my cousins, their dad and Rikki Didi. I made a giant delectable turkey, squashes, green beans and potatoes. We went through a zillion cases of wine and, as we took each one down, the dinner appeared to be more and more of a success. Nothing quite like the drunk munchies.

For real Thanksgiving I'm having my bestie, my cousin and her friend over for dinner. I'm making a delicious mousaka, stuffed grape leaves and Greek salad. We'll probably also eat a lot of cheese and drink wine. There's a medium to high chance that I'll get teary and repeatedly tell everyone how much I love them and how thankful I am. Depending on how much wine I drink, there's at least a medium chance I'll pass out in a pile of my own vomit.

I'll get up for my second wind, obviously.

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My goodness. Really nailing down my first job is quite a toughie. My Ba owned restaurants while I was growing up so I always ended up working in those. At the tender age of six or seven I started serving people mostly because I was really cute and the customers thought I was really cute so they left me giant tips. My main responsibility at that age was eating pieces of bread that I coated in whipped cream mounds. Mmmm... delicious. Later on the restaurant job transformed into something more closely resembling child labor but who's counting.

Officially my first job, though, was landscaping for my bff Heather's dad, Bill. We would spread bark and weed during summers in middle school and high school. Let me tell you something about bark. That is one thick overwhelming smell when it's hot outside. Big bark pile. Sometimes we would dig trenches too and build rock walls. But more than anything we'd make Bill go buy us cheeseburgers so we could sit in the bark pile looking like cute little hotties of summer and we'd flirt with his spry immigrant workers.

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Old Bushmills Distillery by Damien du Toit (coda)

Realistically it's partying that is my vice. But I think Bushmills is the main culprit in that department. Why? Because I love it. Whiskey is delicious and it's deliciously fun. My friend Rikki and I bought a mini bottle of Bushmills on the way to the Outside Lands concert over the summer, put it in a brown paper bag and drank the whole thing (like complete piles of questionable loser) by the time we got to Golden Gate Park. We found our behavior to be so hilariously classless that we've rolled with it every since. Yesterday, for example, I received a text message from my cousin:"You are a person who drinks Steel Reserve out of a shit bag on a Sunday afternoon. That is who you are."And it's true. I was walking down Valencia in the middle of the day drinking the nastiest malt liquor on the planet. Because I didn't have a paper bag to brown bag it, I had to put it in a compostable dog poo Bio Bag. Ha! I still find my habits to be hugely entertaining so I don't imagine I'll give it up anytime soon.

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slikrikk threw me the best welcome home pardy ever! Thanks for being awesome, didi.