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Inappropriate.

On Saturday night I went to a surprise party.

Surprise parties are the best, as long as everyone is awesome and no one ruins it.

There’s just something about making someone feel so unexpectedly loved.

But first, (and if we’re going to be honest, then this is the best part), you have to make the guest of honor — the “surprisee,” if you will — feel like total crap.

“Oh, it’s your birthday this week?  Huh.  I think I already have plans on Saturday, but maybe we can get together Sunday?  Hmm… but I have to get up really early on Monday, so let’s get lunch instead of dinner.  I have to pick up my dry cleaning by 1:00, so can we go at like 11:00?  That cute little cafe downtown is a little far for me to drive, but they have a Chili’s near the mall.  Hey, I’ll buy you a birthday margarita!  It will be great!  As long as I can get to the dry cleaner’s by 1:00.”

And the fantastic part is you don’t really care that your friend looks like she wants to punch you in the face because you know, deep down, that she will feel terrible for thinking these unsavory thoughts about you when she sees you at her surprise party.

And that’s why surprise parties are the best — because they make your friends feel terrible for doubting your commitment to the friendship.  Which makes you feel great, because you can be like, “See?  I really do love you!  I love you so much that I will lie to your face and make you feel unloved, just so I can make you feel terrible later.  Which, in the end, will really make you — and especially me — feel awesome.”

See how that works?

We surprised my friend Danielle for her birthday, after each of us in turn told her — subtly — that we had more important things to do.  (By the way, of course I forgot my nice camera, so all you get is fuzzy, semi-inebriated photos of the evening’s festivities.)

It was just a small group of friends — that’s me in the gray dress in the middle, Danielle in the gray dress crouched down on the right, and the looker standing on the far right is her boyfriend Matt.

Matt planned the surprise (because he’s not just a looker — he’s a thinker, too).

(And sorry, ladies — he’s very much taken.)

It was probably the most fantastic food at any surprise party in the history of ever because Danielle’s friend Morgan (far left in the top photo) works as a catering manager for a really fantastic restaurant called Elliott’s on Linden in Pinehurst.

We may have taken advantage of this fact.

Lamb skewers with a spicy remoulade dipping sauce, seafood risotto, cheesy grits with sausage, mini grilled cheese triangles with tiny cups of tomato basil bisque, dim sum, and various dips, local cheeses, breads, and crackers.  (That’s the lamb with remoulade in the above photo.  Not, uh… whatever else it may look like.)

And let’s not forget the desserts.

So basically, I was stuffing my face, and then I noticed this.

Morgan’s tattoo.

Look close.

No, it’s not a Celtic knot symbolizing her spiritual faith for all eternity.  No, it’s not some inspirational word written in French or Latin or any language other than the one in which she’s fluent.  And no, it’s not the birth date of a child or the death date of a grandparent or the date she went to her first Creed concert and decided that she would, in fact, embrace the world with arms wide open by getting a wrist tattoo.

Nope.

It’s just a word, and it’s written in english, and it says…

 

Inappropriate.

 

That’s it.

Inappropriate.

Of course it was the result of an evening’s drunken escapade — the kind where permanent ink always seems like a great idea to commemorate something you’re sure was quite hilarious at the time.  And then you wake up in that fuzzy, semi-delirious state-of-mind — that place where you can’t quite remember which of your brain’s crazy recollections are real, and which are just dreams, and then you feel it.  You feel it before you see it.  That bee sting burn that indicates you may have done something really, incredibly, stupid.

It’s something characters do, not real people, like the face tattoo in The Hangover II or the butterfly tramp stamp in Californication.

Except in this case it is very real, very permanent, and very… inappropriate.

Or is it?

I mean, maybe it would actually be kind of nice if we could all get branded with a blunt word that describes our prominent personalities.  I know many people who would stamp me with “inappropriate” or “loud” or “incredisexylicious.”

Okay.  Maybe not that last one.

But if I had a tattoo that said “inappropriate,” people would no longer be shocked when I say something, well —  inappropriate.  They couldn’t get offended because I’d be all, “Hey.  Can’t you see the tattoo?  It’s not like I didn’t warn you.”

It would give people a heads-up.  You’d go to shake a hand, check out the wrist, and immediately have an idea of who you’re dealing with:  Funny?  Great!  Bigot?  No thanks.  Easy?  Let me buy you another drink.

I might need to buy a tattoo machine for the sole purpose of branding people while they sleep.

Labels are bad, you say?  People are more complex than a single word?  Yes, we are.  But think about it.  Deep down, in our heart of hearts, we all have something very definable.  Something very us.  Something not likely to change anytime soon.  It might be good, it might be bad, but whatever it is, it just is.

If you had a word, what would it be?

We All Jumped Down the Rabbit Hole and Managed to Keep Our Heads.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you already know that I have a soft spot in my heart for people who break convention.

For people who say, “I don’t care what the sheeple want — I want what I want, and if it means that the so-called Rule Makers of the Universe — the Simon Cowells and the Joan Rivers and all of the popular girls in all of the high schools in all of the land — point their snide noses in my direction, then I must be doing something right.”

See, in this world, there are good rules, and there are bad rules.

Good rules, like having to wear seat belts in moving vehicles to we don’t pose a danger to ourselves or others by becoming flailing, rubbery, projectile objects during the event of a collision, help protect us from our own laziness and stupidity.

Bad rules, however, like those that tell us we can’t drink at baby showers and we can’t wear a black shirt with brown boots, only exist because someone who was once the slightest bit influential (and is now likely dead, in rehab, or no longer relevant) once said it out loud.

And puh-leez.  Black and brown go with anything.  So why wouldn’t they go with each other?

And we all know how I feel about drinking at baby showers.

So.

Imagine my excitement when I received an invitation — nay, an order, from the Queen of Hearts herself, to follow the White Rabbit to a “simply mad” tea party wedding, where all of the guests would be wearing vintage inspired clothing and hats.

It was going to be like make-believe for grown ups.

I mean, c’mon.  You wouldn’t have to twist my arm to get me to jump down that rabbit hole.

Or any rabbit hole, now that I think about it.

Except maybe a real one.

Anyway.

Hop on in:

The details were out of this world.

I was there, too.  Showing off my mad croquet skills.

This is me.  Winning.

I’m pretty sure they didn’t have cell phones in Wonderland, people.

Yep. That one’s mine.

This part was way cool.  The DJ played music from Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, and the bride’s parents came out as the King and Queen of Hearts.

Makeup change!  She even got her groom to wear the hat for 30 seconds.  Thirty seconds of AWESOME.

Like photographing Grace Kelly on set.

This “bouquet” must have weighed 35 pounds. It was incredible.

There were only 35-or-so guests at this Alice in Wonderland theme wedding, and each one played along, which really made it magical.

Most people scoffed when the bride told them her plans.

All I can say is, I’m glad they didn’t bring her down.

I think it’s Taylor Swift who sings, “People throw rocks at things that shine.”  And shine, that evening did.

So.  Maybe Taylor knows what she’s talking about, after all.

You Only Want Me For My Tartlets

I was kind of extra word babbly yesterday,  huh?  Sorry about that.  I can’t promise it won’t happen again, because I’m pretty sure it will.  But today I’ll keep it simple, because I have approximately 671 things I want to get done before Saturday, most of which pertain to Alaina’s upcoming baby shower party, and others for my own personal sanity.

I promised to share with you the absolute best party appetizer of all time — the thing that guarantees instant popularity at any function for the person who brings them.  They’re not fancy, and most “foodies” would cringe at their unapologetic use of dried herbs and pre-made biscuit dough, but for some reason, people just can’t get enough of ’em.  It is for these tasty little bites that I overcome my fear of refrigerated, popping biscuit tubes time and time again.

The recipe is called Bacon Tomato Tartlets, but you just might want to call them Tartlets in case you’re around anyone who has a fear of tomatoes or bacon.  Plus, “tartlets” is just fun to say.  Justin hates tomatoes, yet he would gobble up a whole batch of these if I let him.  And if you don’t like bacon, then I think you might have problems.

My fantastic neighbor gave me this recipe, and she got it from her fantastic friend, and I’m not sure where it originated before that.  I posted the recipe here on Tasty Kitchen, so go give me my first review if you make them!

But only if you think they’re good.

To make them, you will need:

  • 1 (12 oz.) can refrigerated, flaky biscuit dough (This HAS to be the flaky stuff.  You’ll see why in a sec.)
  • 6 strips of bacon, cooked and crumbled
  • 1 medium tomato, seeded and diced
  • 3 oz. Mozzarella cheese, shredded (I probably use more like 5 oz. when I’m guesstimating.)
  • 1/2 c. Hellmann’s Real Mayonnaise (I’m pretty sure this has to be Hellmann’s.  Don’t argue with me about this, and don’t you dare use that crap they call Miracle Whip.  The only miracle is that it doesn’t make me vomit.  You have been warned.)
  • 1 tsp. dried basil
  • 1 tsp. dried thyme
  • 1/2 tsp. dried oregano
  • 3/4 tsp. garlic salt

You can see I used 2 Roma tomatoes this time in lieu of 1 medium tomato.  Just go with what you have — the ingredients don’t need to be exact.

1)  Cook your bacon on the stove until crispy.  Even if you normally like chewy bacon, you have to remember that this isn’t about you right now — it’s about the tartlets.  And the tartlets need it crispy.  Just lay the bacon in a cool skillet (I love to use my cast iron grill pan), turn the heat to medium-high, and let it cook in its own grease for a bit.  When the bottom turns brown, flip and do the same to the other side.

mmm… bacon.

Once it’s cooked, crumble it up on a paper towel to soak up the grease.

2)  Mix all of the ingredients (except the biscuit dough) together in a bowl.

*TIP:  At this point you can cover and refrigerate the mixture for a day or two before preparing the tartlets if you don’t want to make everything the day you need them.

3)  Remove the biscuit dough from the refrigerator (this step is easier to do if the dough is cold), try not to jump out of your panties when you pop the tube open, and separate each biscuit into 3 layers.  This is why they need to be the flaky kind.

See how they separate naturally?

Spray a mini muffin tin with non-stick spray and use each 1/3 biscuit to line each muffin cup.  There will be enough for exactly 24 mini tarts.  Aka tartlets.  Why is that word so fun??

4)   Fill each biscuit cup with your filling mixture and bake at 350-degrees F for 10-12 minutes until the biscuits are lightly browned.

Some might poof up more than others, but it’s very likely no one will notice since they’ll be gone in approximately 4.8 seconds.

And everyone will be like, Where did that extremely popular person go who made those delicious tartlets?  I think those were like… the best tartlets I ever tasted in my life.  Go tartlets!  Tartlets.  Tartlets.  Tartlets.  Why is that word so awesome?

And you can just sit back and bask in the glory.

Just try not to eat them all before you leave the house.