Em for Movies - The Night Before



This elf looks like a total drunkard.

With less than one month until Christmas, I suppose it’s time to start getting into the spirit. That may involve upping your daily dosage of sappy, saccharine, sentimental hogwash or braving nightmarish department stores to buy useless crap that won’t last the winter or preparing your liver for the traditional holiday binge-drinking (maybe with a cleanse, I don’t know).

One way to kick-start the Christmas feeling is with a good, old-fashioned holiday movie. We all have our favourites. Even the grinchiest of us has a soft spot for at least one of the hundreds (seriously, hundreds) of movies that centre around the “most wonderful time of the year”.

The Night Before pays homage to the classic Christmas films of yesteryear while telling its own coming-of-middle-age story of friendship and poor life choices. Written by a team whose individual credits include This Is the End, The Interview, 50/50 and Superbad, you should know almost exactly what to expect. The Night Before had raucous fun with patented humour that pulls no childish punches, spares no drug reference and straight-up refuses to blush. I laughed, groaned, winced, cackled and even cried. (I’d say the seasonal sappiness is kicking in, but that’s a total cop-out.)

Not sure if the non-stop silliness of The Night Before has what it takes to become a classic Christmas tale that will stand the test of annual re-viewing. But for right now, as December looms and the days diminish, this heartfelt yet mindless romp was exactly what I needed. Also, as my friend noted at the end of the movie, “The world needs more Lizzy Caplan.” I agree.

Egg nog with plenty o rum. 

Cheers,

Em

Booze-Infused Beauties - Fireball

Fireball Ginger Crinkle Cookies

My Grandma taught my sisters and I how to bake. We would all stand together in the kitchen as she instructed us on the specifics. With a grin on her face, she would say, “Now girls, it is important to always measure verrrrrry carefully.” As she said this, she would pour flour straight from the bag into the bowl. We would watch as the flour shook out and landed atop a pile of cocoa and baking soda, confused as all get-out.

I think this knack for precise measurement runs in the family. My dad’s macaroni and cheese recipe uses phrases like “A gurble of Worcestershire sauce” and “a generous glob of butter” and “several shakes of mustard”.  The funny thing is, I know exactly what a gurble amounts to, though I haven’t mastered that recipe quite yet… Damn it! Maybe I don’t know what a gurble is!

Let’s just say cooking is not my forte.

After many years of wondering how the heck my Grandma’s baking always turned out, I have followed her lead and created my own style of baking too. Usually it involves substituting random stuff for ingredients that I am missing but almost always it’s throwing things together in a bowl with a smile on my face! I usually listen to oldies, singing loudly and horribly while creating art through the media of flour, butter and sugar. I think my grandma would be proud.

Today I want to share with you a recipe of my own creation: a small piece of art that uses all of the above ingredients, with the addition of Fireball! ←Yes, the alcohol. 

Warning: There may have been some “careful measuring” done throughout this recipe…particularly with the Fireball. (Note the quantity of fireball remaining in the photo above…heh heh…)

Ingredients

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 tsps baking soda

1 ½ tsps ground ginger

1 tsp cinnamon

½ tsp salt

¼ tsp nutmeg

½ cup shortening

¼ cup butter

½ cup brown sugar

½ cup granulated sugar

¼ cup molasses (Read below about this step)

1 egg

½ cup icing sugar

FIREBALL! Umm maybe ½ cup?

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

So, most bakers say to mix all the dry ingredients in one bowl and all the wet ingredients in another bowl and then combine them (And you can totally do that!), but I am lazy and do not like dirtying more than one bowl.

So, I always start with the butter, which should be softened, and then the sugar and all the other wet stuff. For this recipe when I “measured” the molasses I poured the ¼  cup worth of it into a ¾ of a cup and then essentially topped it up with Fireball to what looked like part way. In other words, its ¼ cup molasses mixed with a ¼ cup fireball but I found that when you mix the two together it helps it come out of the measuring cup easier ☺. Then add all the dry stuff and spices, in any order you please.  The dough should be soft and smell (and taste, if you’re not sketched out by raw eggs-I haven’t died yet!) so yummy!!

Grab small handfuls of dough and roll into balls (about 1 inch diameter). Place on an ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 9 minutes or so.

When you pull them out they may seem really soft but the trick is to leave them on the pan for quite a while and they will be perfectly chewy on the inside and crunchy on the outside!

While you are waiting for the cookies to cool you can make the glaze. This I did not measure at all. Like, at all. Basically, I put icing sugar in a bowl and mixed fireball into it until it looked glaze-like (kind of like the consistency of syrup). Once the cookies are cool you can pour the glaze over them using a spoon. And Done! Feed them to your friends and family and watch as they attempt to guess the secret ingredient!

Enjoy, and stay tuned for 'Spiced Rum and Eggnog Cupcakes'

-Lizzy

Head Over Flats - Introduction

When Emily told me about Will Write for Booze, I wanted to be a part of it but I didn’t know what I wanted to write about. Most of my papers are dense, academic treatises on language that have soporific effects on par with 10 milligrams or so of diazepam. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything that anyone would ever really want to read.

I went through my correspondence to see what I write about on a daily basis. Aside from sending work emails, inspirational quotes, and theBERRY’s eye candy pics, I don't have a lot to share. I don’t seem to write about anything in particular. Unless I’ve fallen in love. Which, judging from my emails, seems to happen all the time.

Sometimes love is the culmination of a million tiny attractions, each like little snowflakes that together make up an avalanche. Other times it is the top stair that you think should be there when you take an extra step in the dark. Sometimes it’s just the nice glaze we put on lust, trying to make it prettier.

Embarrassingly enough, I fall in love a lot. Love slaps me in the face unexpectedly on sleepy afternoons, it hides like my car keys when I’m in a hurry. Love also fades and falls apart, it gets quashed, it can be unrequited or wholly unreasonable.

For me, the best part of love is that first moment: the spark, the revelation that love is there and I can feel it. Everything that comes after is just life, but that moment is something more. It is connection.

Head Over Flats is the story of that initial life-altering adrenaline rush of when I fall in love. Over and over.

With lovers past and present.

With friends.

With random men in line at the bank.

With that ludicrously sexy guy out walking his goldador retriever in the park.

With pretty much anyone.

I suppose that makes me a romantic. Or a nutjob. Feel free to help me decide which.

The Leather Pants - Date 4

One girl's misadventures in online dating - Date 4: Dan again

Saturday was my first online dating follow-up date. Success! In that it proved that not all men one meets online are mortifyingly boring in real life and that one out of three merits a second date. Fail! In that it went super poorly and I will not be seeing him again.

Tuesday I received a text from Dan in the morning asking if I would like to have lunch or dinner Saturday, I said yes to lunch because I had plans to eat cheesecake all night (please note that this is the day after our first date). He let me choose between two hip restaurants in town, I had been to one already so I chose the other. It was tough to find parking and the menu was lacking, in my opinion.

Because I couldn't find parking I showed up late, but I found myself already somewhat apathetic towards this date, so I didn't rush. In Dan's defense, I had stayed up late drinking the night before (and Thursday night, too), so I was tired and hungover. In my defense, I still washed my hair, put on my leather pants, and looked cute. Regardless, the restaurant is a small place and the door doesn't face the street, it faces into a park downtown, which is confusing and embarrassing as you walk around the entire restaurant trying to get in. 

Dan was sitting at a table waiting for me when I got there. He wanted to get appetizers and wanted tuna tartare, which I quickly talked him out of. Instead we got lentil hummus which had a weird flavor and texture. Then he got this beef sandwich and I got mac & cheese. This time the conversation continued to flow easily and was more about me, which I love. Our food came out and mine was ok, kind of lukewarm and not super cheesy. His appeared to be difficult to eat and all the meat was coming out of the sandwich because he couldn't bite through it. It was embarrassing. The waiter kept coming over to talk to us and really the thing that killed it for me was that Dan kept saying sentences and ending them with "my man", which is a weird mannerism and I don't like it. He'd say things like "Just the bill, my man," or "I'm not sure, man." Maybe it's not weird, but I don't like it, it's unnecessary words.

Finally, we got the bill and he paid. I made up some excuse for having to leave, which I had sort of been nursing all day so that I could bail, if necessary. We walked to his car together because it was closer and he hugged me goodbye. In my mind I thought, "Goodbye, forever!" and that was that. It was not a good date.

He texted me yesterday seeing how my weekend was. If he asks me out again I will say no. This is too much effort to continue.

Love Sack Murda

ps - Have another date Thursday, maybe it'll go better

The Leather Pants - Date 3

One girl's misadventures in online dating - Date 3: Dan

      Emily came over one day to set up her online dating and I'm pretty sure Dan was in my Daily Matches or we somehow stumbled upon his profile. He looked sort of different in each picture and we couldn't decide if he was cute enough to message. I guess eventually I must have messaged him and it must have gone well. We had messaged for longer than the other guys before mentioning we should meet up, then I was not that interested so I didn't make an effort, then I was too hungover the day we were supposed to meet up (after a camping trip I took with some girlfriends). So it took a while to meet up and at that point I was already bored and not wanting to. In the end, I'm glad I went out.

    On a Monday night I went to go meet Dan. I didn't wear the leather pants because I was tired and didn't feel like squeezing myself into them. I wasn't late, but he was 15 minutes early and texted when he arrived with a description of what he was wearing so that I could find him. It was really cute because when I arrived, there were literally 3 people in there and he was hard to miss. We were at a Starbucks over by the airport at 8:30 pm on a Monday. This is a bad idea because caffeine keeps me awake; I had hot chocolate instead, he had coffee and he paid :) love that. After getting our drinks I wasted no time asking questions because I could remember a few things we'd discussed in emails and one was that he could tell me how pressing vinyl works. He told me all about how they record the sound waves/vibrations, then a stylus etches the vibrations into a lacquer plate, then they electroplate it, then press it into a vinyl puck, and voilà! A record! Anyway, that's the Coles' Notes version, if you want more details you should check it out. It was super interesting and he was super passionate about it, turns out he worked for 9 years to save money to start his own business and now he has one of very few vinyl pressing places in the world, has his own recording studio, and aspirations of starting a record label. Sounds pretty awesome!

    So Starbucks closes at 9 pm on Mondays and we had only been there 30 minutes and I wasn't done finding things out yet, so I suggested we go next door for a drink, which was also closed.  He then said we could go drive somewhere for a drink or we could go see the studio (I know this was a bad idea and I could have gotten murdered, but how could I say no to a private studio tour and also seeing how the vinyl pressing worked?) clearly I said yes.

    The drive to the studio was sketchy and as I drove I convinced myself he would murder me there. It was in the industrial area near the airport and I was turned around and hopelessly lost. We parked and there was a sign on the door, so at least it seemed legit. I joked that this was definitely where he would murder me. This is a common theme of my dates, recall Anderson joking about murder. He laughed and we went inside and I was not murdered; there were other people around so it seemed less scary. He showed me the vinyl presses and the studio and then we listened to records and chatted a bit and then I went home. We did not hug goodbye. His record choices left something to be desired, he chose Arcade Fire, which is not my favorite, and then Michael Jackson. Considering I had looked at all the records sitting there, I felt a little disappointed.

    I am actually pretty stoked about this date. Maybe because my hopes had been so low to begin with, maybe because I learned so much and I love learning, maybe because he didn't bore me to death and actually asked questions, maybe all three of these things. Dan texted me the next day and asked me to lunch or dinner Saturday. We have another date Saturday for lunch and I'll let you know how it goes! My first follow-up date! This might necessitate the return of the leather pants ...

Love Sack Murda

Em for Movies - Spectre

I have mixed (shaken, not stirred) feelings about Spectre.

There are certain basic expectations for a Bond movie: exotic locations, crazy stunts, a bloated theme song, incredibly sexy cars, one-dimensional women, over-the-top villains, gadgetry, cheesy one-liners, a torture scene, and at least one massive explosion. The thing that separates some of the great Bond films (Goldfinger, The Spy Who Loved Me, From Russia With Love and Casino Royale) from the duds is how well the filmmakers make use of or subvert these classic elements.

The film’s opening is beautiful, layered, and very exciting. It immediately fills the quota for exotic location and crazy stunts with a quick, competent, suave sense of style.

Despite topping the UK music charts, Sam Smith’s theme song “Writing’s on the Wall” was patently boring. Smith’s high pitched vocals failed to create a sense of scale or menace, which following the fabulous Day of the Dead opening sequence left me with the dreadful premonition that the best part of the movie was over. After the intermission of bilious, self-important crooning the film continued, but seemed to have missed a step.

Credit where it's due, the Aston Martni DB10 was sex on wheels. Cameos of the classic Aston Martin DB5, a sleek prototype Jaguar C-X75, and the sophisticated vintage Rolls Royce Silver Wraith were marvellous. On a per car basis, Spectre exceeded my expectations.  

The women, in true Bond style, have barely more personality or purpose than the cars. Monica Bellucci is one of the most beautiful women in film. Ever. She speaks five languages (not including the Aramaic in The Passion of the Christ) and manages to convey grace and eloquence in all of them. As the oldest ever Bond girl at 50, I had foolishly expected her to be something more than a “you killed my husband, but I never liked him anyway” fuck. Le sigh. So I pinned my hopes on Léa Seydoux. Mr. White refers to her as bright, but she is laughably inept-at best someone to be continuously rescued, at worst a prize for good behaviour. Back in the day when Bond girls were given names like Honey Rider, or the unforgiveable Plenty O’Toole there was a sense of purposeful absurdity if not introspection to it. With characters like Lucia Sciarra and Madeleine Swann, you’d almost expect more. You’d be wrong.

The villain was not a world-class assassin, nor (as I had briefly hoped) that assassin’s vengeful widow. With a legacy in mind and Spectre’s inflated sense of everything, the familiarly ominous Mr. White of Quantum is no longer sufficient opposition. Instead we have SPECTRE, which has a seriously cool logo but not much flair for real villainy. The titular evil organization chose to meet in an atmospheric Roman venue (instead of a volcano lair) that by happenstance is easier to infiltrate than the majority of the city’s trashier nightclubs. They report on their nefarious plots like corporate pencil pushers, and cower in fear as their soft-spoken leader tries to seem ominous but is more like a petulant child.

Following the pared-down trend of gadgetry in the latest incarnation of Bond, Spectre runs fairly light on the spy toys. With Q’s workshop looking more like a dank storage locker than a government-funded tech department, we couldn’t really hope for much.

The most memorable one-liner in Spectre was delivered with aplomb by Ralph Fiennes’s M, to my utter delight. Though by the time it came around (more than 2 hours in) my sense of humour and interest in witty repartee was nearly numb.

The torture scene had neither visceral brutality of Casino Royal, nor the psychological and emotional resonance of Skyfall. It was over-elaborate, inexact and alarmingly ineffective.

And the massive explosion? Well, the Guinness Book of World Records confirmed that Spectre featured the largest on-screen explosion yet. Not just in a Bond film, in any film. Though I don’t recall thinking that it was anything special at the time, which speaks volumes.

When expectations are not exceeded, or treated with a self-aware sense of style, then all you have is a mediocre Bond movie that will fade into obscurity like Quantum of Solace, Diamonds are Forever or Tomorrow Never Dies.

If you were to ignore the fact that this is a James Bond film, and all of the wonderful associations that get tied into that, you have a frankly ridiculous movie that I would normally have lambasted. But it’s still Bond. It’s like watching a cherished nephew score a goal against his own net. You have to cheer, right? He scored. 

To change metaphors, I give this film a dirty martini: you’ll like it if you like martinis. If not, it is harsh, clichéd, expensive, time consuming, and tastes a little like feet.

 

Cheers,

Em

The Leather Pants - Date 2

One girl's misadventures in online dating: Date 2 - Tom

       Tom showed up one day in my Daily Matches. Some of you may already know, but this is the best part of the day. Basically, you get 11 men chosen for you to peruse. Pictures, descriptions of themselves, descriptions of what they're looking for... I shamelessly judge, like, and message. I (secretly) look forward to this part of the day. How the matches are chosen remains a mystery. A lot of them say "100% match!" which is based on things like our preferences of hair colour, eye colour, race, income, etc. All of which I have not put a preference for, therefore the matches would appear to be random. The good news is that, in general, most of my matches have been good-looking.

       Enter Tom: good-looking enough, has stubble and blondish hair, first picture was taken at Sasquatch, others in the mountains, another on a motorcycle. So, following the tips from my man catching book, I strike up a conversation about motorcycles because after one ride with a friend this past weekend, I am clearly an expert. Funnily enough, when Tom responds to my message it turns out that his motorcycle instructor was none other than my motorcycle friend! What a small world! Needless to say, we chatted, eventually got each other's phone numbers, and decided to meet up. I was pretty excited; he seemed thoughtful, charming, funny, and interesting. We decided to meet at Original Joe's, I love OJ's! Have you had their crême brulée? If not, it's too late because they changed their menu.*

      Of course, I showed up early. I didn't know where I was going and also I didn't want to be walking around a restaurant looking for a guy when I wasn't completely sure what he looked like. I had all the same concerns as last time, but figured if I was already sitting, then I could hardly fumble around with handshake/hug awkwardness. I found a seat by the door, texted to tell him I found a table, and waited. I read the drinks menu and decided on the cucumber gin mojito. Thank God I showed up first, because I would not have picked him out from his pictures. Remember the blondish guy from the Sasquatch picture? Not him! Tom was a darker-haired guy with acne scars, crooked teeth, and stubble (redeeming factor). He was also way shorter than he appeared in his pictures; 5'9'' would be a generous estimation because I think I was taller. Alas, I couldn't leave. So we chatted for a while and got drinks. The mojito was ultra sweet and almost as disappointing as the date; I made it last because I couldn't drink it any faster. Conversation topics included: our mutual friend, other online dates, and being an electrician. Basically, I was able to contribute to one subject because the mutual friend topic was really about motorcycles and I've only been on one other online date (see: Date 1 - Anderson). Lulls in conversation ensued while I tried to come up with things to talk about and/or ways to be able to leave. Any question I came up with he would answer, but not ask me about. For example, I asked where he has travelled. He has travelled nowhere and didn't ask me about my travels, which could have filled at least a few minutes of conversation. Eventually it came up that he was going to a Tight & Bright themed party on Friday and he asked where to get stuff. I suggested Marshall's (never been there but I could see it from the table), looked at my watch, and figured he still had an hour to shop if he wanted. Then my heart fell, if it was only 8 pm that meant that I had only been there for an hour! How is this possible? Time was actually standing still. Between the shitty drink and the boring company, I was dying.

     Finally, the waitress realized we were not having more drinks and brought the bill, which he paid. Then I suggested we leave, he did not walk me to my car, we had an awkward hug, and I basically hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. I was home by 9 and was so exhausted from forced conversation that I went right to bed. I think it is clear that there will be no second date. It was so bad that I cancelled tonight's date, could not fathom making conversation today. Luckily I was invited to play volleyball instead of wallowing in my awful-date sadness.

     Last night, the leather pants were worn in vain. Sitting at a table does not show off the pants and they make fart noises when you move around in the booth, haha. So there's that.

 Love Sack Murda

*Update - The crême brûlée is still available at some locations, just not the one I happened to be at.

Em for Movies - Pan

Pan tells the story of a young boy named Peter’s search for his family. I think. It is set mainly in Neverland with an established landscape, familiar characters and a fairly patent premise; yet it left me with a profound sense of confusion. Pan is a fantasy, a spectacle, an adventure, but mainly a muddle. Rather than looking to the original story and using contemporary successes for inspiration to create something fresh, Pan seems to mash a bunch of elements together haphazardly, losing all the merits of the myriad source materials in the process.

The story begins with an eerie echo of The Chronicles of Narnia: the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. Peter Pan’s traditional world of Victorian England is updated to World War II, perhaps in order to include airplanes, bombings and a general air of temporally inconsistent senselessness which sets the scene for the rest of the film. Here we meet Peter Pan, a rebellious orphan with a pervasive fear of heights. Pirates wearing copious amounts of makeup á la Pirates of the Caribbean follow shortly on the heels of gluttonous nuns, and before you can say “What the shit?” we are in Neverland, where things actually make less sense.

Enter Blackbeard (think Hook, without the hook), who bears little resemblance to the historical person or fictional incarnations of Edward Teach. (Would it really have been that hard to come up with a new pirate name? Captain Gristle. Done. And there are no expectations of character or story to live up to.) Using rock anthems of counter-culture decontextualized and diminished into the chants of child labourers, Blackbeard runs a fairy dust mine and kidnaps orphans to provide slave labour. It is worth noting that the real Blackbeard actually freed the slaves from La Concorde, and was never known to have harmed any of his captives or hostages. Just saying. Captain Gristle on the other hand…

One of the downtrodden orphan slaves that Peter meets is James Hook (also without the hook): no longer an Eton-educated, devious, swashbuckling former boatswain to Blackbeard, but a gruff, tough (effing gorgeous), young American bent on escape from the mines and from Neverland. He reminded me of Indiana Jones more than anything. His love interest is a lamentably whitewashed Tigerlily, princess of a multiracial tribe of people who seem to be made of coloured dust.

Of course, everyone in Neverland has been waiting for the chosen child to fulfill a fairy prophesy. Do you suppose it could be Peter Pan? This now-hackneyed plot device was put to better use in Willow, The Neverending Story, and Harry Potter.  

What you end up with is a plucky WWII-era orphan boy prophesied to bring about the downfall of evil; a brusque, reluctant 1950s style hero; a tyrannical 18^th century pirate; and a warrior princess all following their patented storylines toward an inevitable conclusion. I get that Neverland is a magical place where time does not seem to matter, but the anachronisms were simply too much to figure.

What I love most about J.M. Barrie’s Peter and Wendy is the sense of dark foreboding that underlies the innocent games of childhood. I do admire the ambition of Pan’s filmmakers in attempting an origin story of Barrie’s eponymous hero. Pan had spirit, but something about it just didn’t fly; instead it floated with no sense of direction. Maybe if the filmmakers had referred to the original work, it would have given Pan some much needed gravity.

I give this a bar mat shot: the dregs of everything that should be good thrown together in a glass and called a drink. At least it’s boozy.

 

 

Cheers,

Em

Booze-Infused Beauties - An Introduction

Lizzy Lizzy in a Tizzy

I don’t know if any of you watched or read the Bernstein Bears growing up. I did. Essentially it is a story about a family of bears, who live in a tree and do human things like wear clothes and have arguments with one another.

I remember one particular movie where Sister Bear is circling her new neighbor friend, Lizzy, chanting, “Lizzy Lizzy in a Tizzy” and Lizzy would reply, “Sister’s mad and I’m glad” and so it went, for a shockingly long time. I don’t recall why these two bears were fighting but the scene came to me as I was thinking of a pseudonym for my online blogging personality. I am Lizzy and I am, indeed, in a tizzy!

Now, if you’ll learn anything about me at all, it is that I LOVE food, and I LOVE baked food, particularly the kind that is not all that healthy for you. Baking has always been a passion of mine, and in my opinion, something I am good at.

Recently, I was diagnosed with gluten intolerance and lactose intolerance. FML. I really thought my life was over. Like, why should I carry on when I can’t eat cookies, cakes, muffins, scones, cheesecake, cheese, ice cream, icing, brownies, tarts, pies, fritters, danishes, doughnuts, and well, anything else good in the world? (Did I miss anything?)

I cried when I found out, and continue to mope about my current predicament. If you are familiar with the stages of grief, I am presently still bouncing around between denial, anger, bargaining and depression. I think it may take me some time to reach acceptance, if that is, in fact, possible. However, I am planning to strap on my big girl pants (I only have one pair of those, and they are buried somewhere in the pit of my closet….Unlike my patience pants, of which I have several pairs readily available, though I seem to be forgetting those at home these days too.), and create some beautiful and unique recipes for others to enjoy, because another thing about me is that I like making people happy! And what makes people happier than baked goodies?? Good Question Lizzy. The answer is alcohol! That is usually the answer to most life problems, but in this instance, such an answer is acutely fitting. I plan to create some masterful recipes involving booze-infused baked goods and in turn, perhaps I will earn a (gluten-free, yummy-free) beer for my blog posting. Sounds like a win-win to me!

I promise I will test my booze inspired recipes on my little sister, who is just as snobby as me when it comes to baked goods, and if the goods suck, well, I can say, “Sister’s mad and I’m glad.”

Until next time, with a delish (hopefully!) recipe for Fireball Ginger Crinkle Cookies,

-Lizzy