Top-Chef-Season-11

Commander's Palace

But what did kale ever do to you. And did
it hurt. And was it discreet, was it paneled
with wood or with stone. Could you recount it

exactly as it unfolded. Like a shirred egg stirred
into your morning porridge: over it
entirely. You know you can always add salt but

can never subtract it—a minor fault that refuses
to be taken back. Extract the secrets from the
tasting tongue, retrace the swirls of au jus

on the plate. A platonic ideal of strawberry
awaits. How will you choose to translate
the lines on someone else’s muse’s

face? Her silkiness, her history of
toughened skin and paranoia. Her very
beaten heart. The hometown boy makes

syllables of tart, red syrup, mounds the language
up into a mouth already primed. The one
who could not push his way onto the grill

packs knives. The blue paint never peels. The over-
contemplated bites grow soggy
imitating some distant world’s astounding meal. 

Soiree In The Swamp

Suppose I asked you to overcome
how not ugly I am. Suppose I took a
mallet and pounded down upon

your too-brand-conscious heart. Suppose
I announced myself as buckled in
to my all-new 2014 Corolla—wearing

sunglasses, sketching keen ideas for
gumbos in my classy pocket notebook—
shaving my head in the most strong,

becoming way. & yes, the swamp queen
often shows up drunk; the barge on which
she sits glides through the brackish waters

like a knife through cauliflower puree. No
question it tastes like chicken. You’re
that girl, right? You’ve been mistaken

one too many times for someone carrying
the soul of jazz as though it were a throwaway,
a bad beignet, a pasta overdone

& overthought. & yet you’re not at all
intimidated by the brassy, stainless
decks—the audience polling scrolling

cross the bottom of your screen. You’ve
seen the turtle’s whitest side. You know: the
beaded roosters roost. The lightest necks

sink low. The dashi, left un-iced,
could have allowed the most impressive
colonies to manifest & grow. 

Finally just watched the Season Finale of Top Chef on my dvr…Why the fuck did Nick win? Why the fuck did he even make it to the finals? It should have been Shirley and Nina in the finale…and Nina should have won. 

I’m calling the race card here, they felt the need to keep at least one white person on and make him win because he was weak and unstable. That’s all. His cooking was lacking in comparison to the core group (Carlos, Brian, Shirley, Nina) and I just don’t understand why he was kept on so long. Even the guy who fought his way back (forgot his name) was better, and to have him go home after fighting weeks….it was tragic.

It’s just sad and bums me out that this is my favorite cast since Carla (The Chew) was on, and to have all of them fucked over so badly for this one red nosed prick.

We’re whipping up some fun and launching the Top Chef Season 11 Fan Favorite vote.  This is an online voting widget and SMS vote where fans of Bravo’s show “Top Chef” can vote for their favorite Cheftestants.  The Chef with the most votes will win a $10,000 prize.    Voting begins tonight at 10pm ET (7pm PT) and will remain open for 2 weeks until Feb 5th at 4pm ET (1pm PT).       There are 2 ways to vote: Standard Rate SMS: Text the Chef’s first name to 27286 Online: http://www.bravotv.com/top-chef/season-11/fan-favorite 
  There is a 40 vote combined limit – so if you vote via SMS and Web with the same phone number, your votes will automatically be combined and limited.  Nifty, no?
Campfires, Cream Cheese, and Countryside

I have taken a ride out to the edge of the city
I have allowed my skin to wane as thin as the skin of a Creole tomato
I have grown my hair out and begun jumping in pools

with all my clothes on     And tonight oh beautiful imageless
farmer there will be campfires and gossip there will be
chilled soup

like a mouthful of November there will be a sweetness
hanging around on the palate and not letting go
The produce on the vine grows locally

as into the nerve of a tooth     It bleeds delicately
robust (you cannot leave a lid on it and
let it go)     Lately I have become aware of the invisible

lives of people’s griefs     I have tried to leave them
room in the elevator     I have envisioned them
running across the street

like the cream runs
down the Philadelphia hillsides into the short
divisible sky     What can you do when the joy-

giver bows and folds
but pick up your broken blossoms and march on
into the waiting cliques of colts and calves

carrying an ever-growing pot
growing ever heavier and heavier with silent
spreading forever familiar ghosts?