Libby Bulloff

Making perfect stuffing is actually pretty easy (just follow this recipe), and it's also infinitely adaptable.

Like dried cranberries and celery? Go ahead and add them. Chestnuts? Sure. Apples, why not. But before you go crazy with add-ins, there's the question of bread. Should you just use plain white sandwich bread? What about eggy challah, or perhaps some Martin's potato bread?

We gathered up eight different types of bread and made eight batches of stuffing:

• White bread
• Challah
• English muffins
• Bagels
• Supermarket "French" style bread
• A real French baguette
• Martin's potato bread stuffing cubes
• Sourdough boule

Editor's note: Technically, Kenji wrote up this taste taste last year, but we figured you'd want to know the results again.

#1: White Sandwich Bread

We used a high-quality white sandwich bread for this batch (Arnold brand, to be precise), none of that too-squishy Wonderbread-type stuff.

Texture: Because of its small hole structure but fluffy texture, it was the best at absorbing liquid and butter, gaining a very pleasing, steamy bread pudding-like texture. Some tasters would have preferred a bit more crustiness in the interior, but the top surface gained plenty of crisp crunch.
Flavor: We were very happy with the flavor—the white bread acts as a sort of blank, neutral palate with a very mild sweetness that allows the richness of the broth, the sage-iness of the sausage, and the vegetables to really shine through.

#2: Challah

We bought our challah fresh from a local bakery. Eggy and mildly sweet.

Texture: Very similar to that of white bread with a nice, bread pudding texture. The crust on challah tends to be a little papery inside the casserole.
Flavor: Some tasters really loved the eggy richness of the flavor, though others felt it to be a bit too rich and overwhelming. Still, it allowed plenty of the other flavors to come out. Perfect for those who want their stuffing extra rich.

#3: Martin's Stuffing Cubes

This is the only non full-loaf bread we allowed in the tasting since Martin's has such a cult-like following. You can find the bag of dried cubes at some grocery stores. The cubes are actually the same bread as their regular sliced potato bread, so it wasn't really cheating.

Texture: Nearly perfect, just like the white bread. Spongy, fluffy, and absorptive.
Flavor: While there was plenty of sausage and broth flavor in the mix, many tasters found the potato bread's distinct sweetness to be distracting, despite the fact that most of us went into this tasting thinking that the potato bread would undoubtedly be our favorite.

#4: Bagel

As New Yorkers, we couldn't not taste bagels in our stuffing. These bagels came from Fairway, one of our favorite supermarkets in the city.

Texture: We were afraid they'd be overly dense and heavy for stuffing, but they actually absorbed broth quite nicely. Makes sense, considering how good your average bagel is at absorbing hot melted butter. Still, the stuffing was heavier than most. The bagel's crust also softened up nicely.
Flavor: Rather neutral in flavor, much like the white bread.

#5: "French" Bread

This is the stuff that's sold as "French Bread" in most supermarket. A relatively soft-textured loaf with a thin, crisp crust.

Texture: The bread looks more significant and sturdy than, say, white bread, yet when it gets moist, it collapses into mush, becoming soft and smooshy rather than getting the pudding-like texture of good stuffing. The crust turns papery in the mix. Paper mixed with mush = not so good.
Flavor: We had no complaints about the neutral flavor of this one.

#6: English Muffin

English muffins in stuffing? Why not? We love the combo of butter and English muffins, and they're a natural pair for sausage.

Texture: Firm, almost stale tasting, despite being soaked in butter and broth and being baked. English muffins are made for crisp nooks and crannies, not for softening.
Flavor: We ate the stuffing and it tasted like... English muffins. Unabashedly, undeniably, English muffins. We've got nothing against them in general, but in stuffing, they just didn't taste right.

#7: Baguette

We used a few mini French-style crusty baguettes baked at our local Whole Foods. Not the greatest baguettes in the city, but a good baseline for what's widely available across the country.

Texture: This was our first real fail in the texture department. Baguettes have a large, robust, open hole structure that's great on its own or in a sandwich, but horrible at absorbing broth. Rather than coming together into a cohesive dish, we ended up tasting a casserole dish full of individual buttery croutons. Not bad, but definitely not stuffing.
Flavor: The baguette just didn't absorb enough flavors to make this stuffing worth eating.

#8: Sourdough Boule

To be honest, we didn't have the highest hopes for this one. Sourdough has both a robust, distinctive texture as well as a flavor. How would it meld into our dish?

Texture: Like the baguette, our sourdough loaf wasn't a great absorber. On top of that, a super thick crunchy crust was distracting in the final dish, acquiring a texture something like moist cardboard.
Flavor: Whoa, sour! We know there are some sourdough junkies out there (a few of our tasters considered themselves amongst that crowd), but making stuffing out of it neither improves the bread, nor the stuffing. We'll gladly let this loaf sit on its own at the Thanksgiving table, but please, keep it out of our stuffing!

Now, we're sure you've all got your own opinions on the matter. So tell us, what do you like to use in your stuffing?

The first time I got my photo taken directly onto tin was at Idapalooza by an old friend I hadn’t seen in years, Dinah DiNova. Years later, when I decided to take up the task myself, she gave me advice I think of probably every time I mess up a plate. Her advice? “Don’t try. It’s incredibly hard and it will take over your life.”

Too late, I’m obsessed. But I’m also absolutely and stunningly in love with Dinah’s work. She’s raising money to finish her project tin, sin & kinship, a multi-year documentation of queers and hobos and anarchists and all the other loveliest people in the US. $100 for a one of a kind 8×10 tintype by her is an absolute steal, too.

whenever i see ladies talking to men on the street and anyone’s body language seems suspect, like maybe she’s leaning back and he’s leaning forward, or she’s not smiling but fake-smiling, or y’know, any of the other dozen flags, i always, always stop, stop talking to whoever i was talking to, get closer if i can, and watch/listen unobtrusively.  yeah maybe you’re having a fight with your boyfriend.  yeah maybe you and your brother just dont really get along.  maybe two friends had a stressful day.  and if everything seems kosher then i can just go about my business.  but if that is a dude that followed you out of a bar, or he’s an abusive spouse, or he’s waiting for the roofie to kick in, i’m ready to do something about it.

it’s not just sexual harassment either.  one time i spotted an argument and when i got closer realized that a woman was asking a young white man to please (she even said please) not use the word “faggot” in a hateful way.  and he was yelling at her because “this is america” and so on, getting a little threatening about it.  really all it took was walking up, standing next to her, saying “yeah, i agree with her” and once it was clear that he wasn’t dealing with a single woman he could just shout down, but that multiple people thought his homophobic horseshit was annoying, he shut the fuck up, backed off her, and stopped his macho posturing.  like magic.

anyway yeah being a good ally and just being ready to back someone up who’s getting victimized: it’s easy, pretty low-risk (because suddenly there are two of you, instead of a single, outweighed victim), and might make a shithead think twice about trying it again. idk just something to keep in mind.

edit: like just not letting shit slide is a good strategy.  say you’re a white straight dude and one of your bros says something gross about an underaged girl or makes a rape joke or something, like all it takes it saying “dude dont say that shit, that’s fucking gross AND it’s really boring”.  believe me he will take it a lot more seriously from you than he will from me

[madmaryholiday asked me to repost this in a rebloggable form, so here it is.]

Since it happens—-literally and without hyperbole or sarcasm or any of the other facetious verbal tics I use to deal with serious issues in a way that doesn’t make me want to claw off my own face—every time I leave my house without a companion and most of the times I leave my house without a male companion (I need everyone reading this to think about that for a minute…every time. I am subjected to unwanted, threatening, possessive, insinuating, etc male attention every time I am outside.  Every.  Time.) it’s actually incredibly difficult to recall every individual instance, even the bad ones.  It’s sort of like asking a combat veteran about every time someone shot at them.

But I’ve been thinking about this question for a few days and I think maybe I have a few interesting ones.

There was the time I was 16 years old and riding the Greyhound bus to Seattle to see my long term committed boyfriend at the time, who was 22 and was routinely abusing me in his own capacity (but that’s a different kind of story, and then again the same), and a middle aged man sat down in the empty seat next to me, trapping me against the bus window, and spent the next hour staring fixedly at me, telling me about how he had gotten out of prison that day, how he liked my waist-length, copper ringlet hair, and the nice outfit and makeup I had put on for my 22 year old boyfriend, who had insisted earlier that day via IM that I make myself look “fuckable” (his word) when I came to visit him that weekend.  

And when I turned to look out the window, smiling as gently as I could, smiling to keep this man sitting next to me from feeling like maybe I wasn’t being nice enough, like maybe he would have to do something more than just talk at me to make sure I was paying attention, I turned to face the window and the setting sun got in my eyes and I knew even before he said it that I would not be able to keep him from seeing they were green, that I was “a green-eyed redhead”, fitting neatly into a premade slot for women and girls who can check off certain clusters of traits and become a “type” rather than a person—I was a green-eyed redhead.  

Of course he noticed, consuming the sun in the bowls of my irises the same way he was consuming the scent of my conditioner, the pretty colors of my nailpolish, the lipstick I was wearing for my abusive boyfriend.  ”Green eyes,” he murmured, wondering, as if at a waterfall or a doe who hadn’t seen him yet, walking in front of his gun.  Like this man had been sent to bookend me into the window seat until I got to my other male guardian—like he was walking me down the aisle of I-5, my honorable escort to ensure I passed from one custodian to another.  

With my red hair and green eyes and ghost skin and doll face I was “fiery” and “exotic” but in a completely white, accessible, rich, European way.  Like a unicorn, though my hair color was fake, never looked anything but fake, but these men don’t care.  The symbolism of the Type is there and that’s enough.  It’s as good a reason as any to massacre your hair color into livid teals and bruised purples and anemic grey-greens—colors they don’t have words for and for which there are no slots.  It’s a good reason to pierce your face, to wear loud lipstick and no concealer, to shave your eyebrows, to tattoo your neck and arms.  Poisonous frogs wear the same colors for the same reasons.

There was the time, just a few months ago, where a clubgoer (this is a night club, where I work as a gogo dancer—it is important to note for the purposes of assholes who will demand to know, to make judgments, that a gogo dancer is disctinct from an exotic dancer or stripper.) tipped me three single dollar bills and told me I was a wonderful dancer, and stared at me—leered actually, there’s a difference—for a full three hours.  He approached my dance platform three times that night.  The first time to tip me.  The second time to scratch one finger down my fishnetted knee uninvited (I was crouching, checking my phone, drinking water, powdering my sweat down) and ask me out to dinner.  

“Because,” he said, “I can tell [not ‘you seem’, but, ‘i can tell’—this is meaningful] that you’re a really nice person.”

“No,” I said.  ”And I’m not.”  I laughed a bitch laugh.  The sneering, joyless laugh from gorgeous Disney villainesses, where you toss your hair and settle your handgun’s gaping muzzle at Bond, legs wide and locked, one hand on your hip.  Men hate it.  It will shut down most of them, drive them away, because men like that are babies, easily moved by cartoon gestures and female disapproval.  The creep test, the stalker test, the drunk-enough-to-be-dangerous test, it’s when you exert outright aggression and disdain, and they keep coming.  That’s when you find your baton, your taser, your mace—and if you are living anywhere but a nanny state, your ladylike little black snub .22 caliber—and you make sure it has clearance to come sliding out of your pocket or purse.  Because they aren’t listening to you, and they aren’t afraid of your ridicule, which means they’re prepared to see you in pragmatic terms: just a smaller, softer, physical body.  Someone easily subdued with a rohypnol or an arm bar.  It means they’ve probably had practice, that they may have done this before, that they are prepared to overcome “obstacles”, that your “no” is nothing more than a “bitch shield”—not anything having to do with your intelligence or agency, you see.  Simply another object to assert authority over.

I walked away, knowing I’d be dealing with his shit for the rest of the night.  Later that same night, an acquaintance who was also a masseuse was rubbing my shoulders while I sat on a bar chair.  The guy comes up and, just pat as can be, lifts his hand to my throat and slithers his fingers over my neck.  I freeze, having to make a decision about what to do in the middle of a crowded nightclub with a physical assault that no one saw.  I did nothing, except glare at him.  The woman kept rubbing my shoulders, oblivious that she just kept me from attacking a man.  I wasn’t about to drag her into a melee.

I left.  On the way out I told the bouncers what had happened and that if the shitbag followed me, to tell him I had my baton and was expecting him.  All they said was, “Oh, Ramsey?  Yeah, we hate that guy.”  That was all.

I was almost on the onramp before I changed my mind and turned around.  I drove back to the club, and I raised hell.  I strode back into the club, and found him.  I called him out in front of the bouncers.  I told him if I ever saw him touching any woman in the club without written consent in triplicate, I would make shit real for him.  I gestured with my baton.  I got in his face.  Then I turned my back on him (showing him I felt no fear and no respect for his horseshit) and walked out to the sidewalk and found the managers.  My whole body shook, I yelled, I pointed.  I told the bouncers, I told the owners, I told every person in any position of authority I could, positive that at a countercultural club of all places, there would be a zero tolerance sexual harassment policy in place, at least to protect employees.  Ramsey stood across the street and leered at me the entire time.  I pointed to him standing there.  They sent a bouncer to walk me to my car.

The next week, he was back.  Though he kept his distance from me, I watched him every chance I got, coiling up to stop him from shitting on someone else’s night.

Then the next week.

Weeks of emails between me and the club management.  I had to threaten to quit in order to get them to do anything.  Ramsey was banned from the club for exactly one month.  He’s back.

When it happened, which was back when I still had Facebook, I posted about it there, hoping to warn other women who go to the same club.  The comments I got were incredible.  Everyone knew who he was, everyone had similar stories of him assaulting women in clubs with zero consequences.  He was embroiled in a murder investigation.  He was a drug dealer.  Many women wrote me privately to tell me he had been strongly suspected of dosing drinks, and that he was almost certainly already a date rapist.  One of my friends from Seattle, who had moved to SF recently, told me she didn’t go to clubs at all anymore because he was always there.  From the bouncers at my club, I heard that Ramsey is friends with members of the SFPD and so no one ever fucked with him because the Liquor Board gestapo in SF can shut you down for literally nothing.  

This is what we mean when we say Patriarchy.  The vast support structure of both official and unofficial networks that enable rapists and abusers is in full force even at a goth club.  Reporting my harassment was a waste of my time, because blockades had been erected before I even arrived that ensure that club owners have no earthly reason to make it difficult for male attendees to assault women.

His full name, by the way, is Ramsey Abouhemeh.  In case any future potential employers or girlfriends are wondering.

Or in case I disappear.

So, anyone know where I can get a copy of the November issue of Vogue Netherlands? I need it, obviously. 

the-whimsical-raven:

pretaportre:

“The November edition of Vogue Netherlands enlists Marc de Groot for a story inspired by Transylvania, vampires and Victorian style starring cover girl Anna de Rijk. Fashion editor Marije Goekoop sets the stage for drama with the oversize silhouettes of Roberto Cavalli, Elie Saab, Valentino and Alberta Ferretti amongst others. With beauty by Irena Ruben, Anna impresses whether playing damsel in distress or vampire queen.”

(via FGR)

*screaming*

vintagemarlene:

a young bela lugosi (via tsutpen.blogspot.com)

jesus wept

the-starlight-hotel:

dotwork sleeves and back piece by Nazareno Tubaro

I love this. And is it just the lighting or is this done in blue? I’m so used to seeing this type of stuff done in just blackwork. The blue is stunning.

Another thing that I’ve put off in my life is learning to forage for wild mushrooms without killing myself and my family. Maybe chanterelles I could safely identify, but do they have a menacing cousin? That’s the tricky part. I hope to eventually check this one off my list, but for now I depend on the Farmer’s Market to fill the need for fresh wild shrooms and dried ones for the pantry. I use the dried version as an ingredient in soups and risotto. Their broth is nectar that, as a culinary sidekick, is unbeatable. I’m serious. Nectar of the forest.

In the meantime, fresh mushrooms are available at Farmer’s Markets. Last week I found chanterelles and made a creamy sauce for pasta. Easy and a teensy bit decadent, the mushrooms prevail and it’s perfect autumnal-winter comfort food.

I followed Langdon Cook’s (Fat of the Land) recipe, sort of.  Omitted the bacon and peas – mind you, I love both ingredients, but didn’t have them available – used a different pasta and a little less cream perhaps. No matter. As with many recipes, use it as a guide and then make it your own. I started with the butter and shallots and proceeded from there. This came together quickly and was delicious. Very mushroomy. Thanks Langdon. I think it’s fair to assume that a person could use a variety of fresh mushrooms for this dish.

If you’re interested in local, seasonal, forageable, and then stories and recipes to go with, Fat of the Land is your go to blog. Langdon is an accomplished forager, cook and writer.

Creamy Chanterelle Pasta Recipe

Serves 4

Ingredients: 4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) butter/ 4 ounces thick, quality bacon (4 slices), diced/ 1 to 2 shallots, finely chopped/ 1 pound shaped pasta, such as bow-ties/ 1 pound fresh chanterelles, roughly chopped/ Salt and ground pepper to taste/ 1 pint heavy cream (or less)/ 4 ounces garden peas, fresh or frozen/ 1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese, with more for table.

Directions: Pre-heat oven to 250 degrees. In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of the butter over medium heat and add the diced bacon. Do not drain the fat. As bacon begins to crisp, add shallots and cook until tender. Meanwhile, bring a large pot of water to boil over high heat, and add pasta.

Add chanterelles to the skillet and cook several minutes, stirring occasionally, until they have released their water. Season with salt and pepper. While the chanterelles are cooking down, put the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter and half the cream in a large glass or ceramic mixing bowl. Place the bowl in the warm oven.

Slowly add the remaining cream to the skillet and simmer, continuing to stir occasionally while pasta cooks. When pasta is nearly done, add peas to the chanterelle sauce. Remove pasta from heat, drain, and add to warm mixing bowl. Mix the sauce with the additional butter and cream. Add the grated Parmesan and serve immediately.

Another of Langdon’s chanterelle recipes, published recently: Steak and Chanterelle Stroganoff. Haven’t tried it. I bet it’s good.

 

 

Chuck has no shame

Discounted Gareth Pugh at RA

via http://www.tumblr.com/dashboard

Halloween Fine Art British artists Mariana Fantich and Dominic Young, of Fantich & Young created the Apex Predator, a pair of black balmorals soled with toothy treads made from hundreds of fake human teeth. The Apex Predator shoe is made from a pair of black Savile Row by Barker oxfords that have been soled with

The tiny clip-on Memoto camera takes two photos a minute. The Memoto app displays the GPSd photos on a timeline, so you can go back and see where you were at any point in the past.

The camera has no buttons. (That's right, no buttons.) As long as you wear the camera, it is constantly taking pictures. It takes two geotagged photos a minute with recorded orientation so that the app can show them upright no matter how you are wearing the camera. And it’s weather protected, so you don’t have to worry about it in inclement weather.

The camera and the app work together to give you pictures of every single moment of your life, complete with information on when you took it and where you were. This means that you can revisit any moment of your past.

I think it should have a pulse sensor on it so that when your heart rate increases, it starts shooting video.

Memoto

Take Your Fears: tee

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You, dear creature, have a far steadier hand for eyeliner than I do. Well done!

gothnrollx:

kikimakeup:

Halloween look inspired by Batman.

What the fuck.

hahah!

$52.50 USD

DISPLAY DESCRIPTION:
WALNUT WOOD BASE, GLASS DOME.
BRASS WIRE & WALNUT BASE STAND
COPPER STYLE TITLE CARD WITH AGED CARD STOCK PRINT

SPECIMEN:
GENUINE TOSENA SPLENDIDA
CICADA BUG 3.5 - 4" WINGSPAN

CATEGORY:
ENTOMOLOGY

PRODUCT BOXED WEIGHT:
1LB 8OZ

SHIPS:
DOMESTIC ONLY - USPS

SPECIMEN TYPE:
DRIED INSECT

MEASUREMENTS:
6.5"H x 6"DIA

ASSEMBLY REQUIRED:
YES

ADDITIONAL ACCESSORIES:
NONE

ADDITIONAL SPECIMEN INFORMATION:
(information provided by Wikipedia)

Kingdom:Animalia
Phylum:Arthropoda
Class:Insecta
Order:Hemiptera
Family:Cicadidae
Subfamily:Tibiceninae
Tribe:Tosenini
Genus:Tosena

*please note that size of specimen may vary as this is a natural item*
**THIS IS A TAXIDERMY/ DRIED NATURAL SPECIMEN**

~FINAL SALE~

In the interactive art installation “Rain Room,” visitors can walk through a thousand square foot space that is being soaked by falling water—without getting wet themselves (video). To achieve the effect, cameras track the locations of people within the installation, shutting off nearby water valves to stop the downpour over the visitors. The installation is on display at the Barbican Centre in London through March 3, 2013. “Rain Room” was created by London art studio rAndom International.

via The Guardian & The High Definite

photos via rAndom International, video by Gramafilm