Today I’m hosting my sad little Hoboken Thanksgiving for the handful of orphans I was able to round up. Rocco has yet again banished me from the kitchen. Sure I managed to ruin three cutting boards and break the lemon press, but we’re up three blisters and two new scars. By my math we’re ahead!
Good thing my Sweet Little Missus is such a bitch in the kitchen. If I was driving, Thanksgiving Dinner would consist of eight bottles of wine and a side of nuked corn niblets. With my wife working his mojo in the five square feet we call a kitchen, there’s the slightest chance in hell we’ll actually be serving food.
I have Thanksgiving envy. Earlier this week I was lucky enough to be the only uterus in attendance at Gay Thanksgiving ’09 and I’m still feeling a little insecure about my domestic goddess-ness. Seriously, you try hanging with a bunch o’ boys that have impeccable taste in all areas and see how you feel. It was like some bionic Thanksgiving Hybrid – the food of Ina Garden,the decor of Martha Stewart, the conversational prowess of Oprah Winfrey, and the flair of Liberace.
I wore a leopard print dress and brought cheese balls. I think it worked. The wine didn’t hurt, either.
Don’t get me wrong, I have my stable of adorable gay boys that accompany me to Sandra Bullock movies and critique my shoe choices. (No, I’m not counting Rocco…but I TOTALLY could.) Other than their penchant for penis, most of my boys blend in with your average Joe. If you ignored the extended pinky holding the cosmo and looked only at the black polo and tool bag, you’d never guess they were Friends of Dorothy. Oh I suppose there’s the whole the-girls-don’t-slap-them-when-they-cup-their-breasts-thing, too but we really do try to discourage that practice in public, so it shouldn’t count.
Sunday’s flock o’ gays was SOO much more FAHbulous than my usual crew. Why does it make me giggle with such giddiness when those adorable boys refer to each other with feminine pronouns, Interwebz? (She’s stuffing the turkey – wink, wink.) Will that ever get old? I was like a kid in the candy store…if that store only carried lollipops. It was enough to make ME want to wear a floor length ballgown.
I was, by far, the most boring person there. One gentleman was a museum curator who also oversees an arts magazine. I was screaming in euphoria as I sampled the roasted brussel sprouts and pancetta when I learned they were made by a professional chef at the party. Another guy (Gal? Should I try out the feminine pronouns, too?) recounted his tales of working on Broadway Bares between complimenting my wine. I hadn’t met so many fascinating people since my last party at the Hustler Club.
As I inhaled a plateful of sinful deserts, I chatted with an animator working on a ballet production of Alice in Wonderland somewhere on the West Coast. He was still worked up from watching a roller derby match earlier that afternoon. He was still wearing the t-shirt, which he vehemently pointed at with each re-telling of his derby tales. His enthusiasm was contagious. Dainty Inferno was his favorite, but Mac-N-Sleeze also got an honorable mention in his book. It sounded fan-frickin-tastic! If I hadn’t already defied death this decade, I might well consider joining a derby team, myself. My name could be Ells Bells…or El-ectric Shock Therapy. Maybe next decade.
Somehow the subject changed to plastic surgery. He’s just returned from LA and was recounting the latest fads in gay surgical enhancements. Apparently the most popular is calf implants, followed closely by six-pac abs. Having spent some time on the beach during his visit, he was most amused by the “queens that had since gained weight and now had washboard abs floating upon a mound of fat.” It’s a pretty disturbing sight from what I hear.
Not to be outdone, I wanted to share some sort of plastic surgery insight into the breeder culture. I was glad I’d actually paid attention to one of the five million links Rocco posts on Facebook each hour. “Well, I hear labiaplasty is the next big thing. Well, I mean, you aren’t exactly the target demo but…”
“Labiaplasty?” he repeated with fascination.
“Yeah, apparently camel toes are right out.”
“Is that a big problem? You girls have them out on display a lot?”
“Dude, don’t look at me. I don’t even believe in waxing. If you’re not willing to seek the treasure, you’re not worth the prize. The world’s acceptance of my meat curtains is pretty low on my priority list.”
It might have been my imagination, but I think he wavered in taking his next bite of food. “Labiaplasty,” he murmured quietly.
“Apparently some girls are self conscious in leotards. Hell, you couldn’t pay me to wear one in public – but it’s not because I’m worried about how my labia are looking.”
It just went downhill from there, dear reader. Leave it to me to try and work labia into the topic of discussion at a gay party. Conversely, Rocco absolutely KILLED with his gay porn mustache. I’m trying not to let my catty jealous side show, so back to focusing on the positive a.k.a let me tell you about my balls.
My cheese balls were the second most popular set of balls at Chez Gay. The girls were oohing and ahhing ad nauseam at the tastiness of my balls. There was a whole lot of “you made these – YOU?” Yes folks, while boiling water is unnaturally difficult for me, I’m a fucking pro at whipping up mounds of tasty cheese-itude.
Just in case you’re overwhelmed by having to bring something to a festivity of fabulousness and lack kitchen skillz, I’m posting the recipe below. It’s straight out of Better Homes and Gardens, my bitches, but all the trendy peeps are hitting Epicurious and other hipster recipe sites so our secret will be safe. If you rat me out and go telling people how easy these are, I’ll think really, really mean thoughts about you and your little dog, too. Seriously. Mums, the word. I recommend you serve these with generic Triscuit or Wheat Thin knock-offs (the ones from Trader Joe’s don’t have palm oil, FYI – no need stopping your guests heart with anything other than their awe at your mere presence). I’ve tweaked it so your lazy ass can make two at a time.
Chez Gay Cheez Ballz, Bitches
(if you want to see the official recipe, Better Homes and Gardens calls it merely “Cheddar Cheese Balls”…yawn)
2 cup finely shredded cheddar cheese (sharp, like my wit)
1 8-ounce package cream cheese (chop it in two)
4 tablespoons butter (not bacon fat, though Rocco has tried)
2 tablespoons milk
2 tablespoon chopped green onion (you can totally use freeze dried chives if you forgot to buy this shit)
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce (I really like this stuff so I tend to measure heavy handed)
dash of cayenne pepper (or Tabasco I suppose)
snipped parsley or chopped walnuts/pecans (I’ve used dry parsley in a pinch)
1. Bring the cheeses and margarine to room temperature. If you were too dumb to think ahead and do this, just nuke the bitches for like 30 seconds. I know you used the “add one minute” so try and watch and nip it in the bud before they turn to liquid, k? Dump half of the goo into your food processor fitted with the blade that looks like a ninja weapon. If you don’t live in a tiny place and own a food processor that can do both batches all at once, bully for you. You especially better not rat me out on how easy this is because you’re already on my list, Diva.
2. Add milk, onion, Worcestershire sauce, and hot pepper – half if you’ve got a dainty processor like me, the whole shebang if you’re Rachel frickin’ Ray. Push that “food processor” button until it looks like uniformly combined goop.
3. Repeat if you’ve only used half the ingredients. They aren’t going to keep forever, you know.
4. Slop it into a bowl, cover with something plastic and let chill. Ideally it would percolate for 4 to 24 hours, but I’ve faked it after a mere hour and a half. Have some wine, go for a jog, write a blog post…distract yourself and don’t pick at it.
5. Shape mixture into two large balls, or whatever series of obscene shapes strike your fancy. Just note, it’s easier to cover the cheese with the parsley/nuts if it’s in a spherical form. I promise, whatever shape you decide on, I won’t judge…much.
No really, that’s it. If you’re headed to a party, I like to freeze my balls for twenty minutes or so before departure so they retain their shape and don’t look like labia upon arrival. If Gay Thanksgiving ’09 had been a lesbian party, there might have been no freezing. Then again, I don’t know any lesbians that eat cheese. Regardless of audience, the aforementioned crackers are still mandatory.
Happy Thanksgiving, bitches.