Tag Archives: brunch

Shameless Discrimination Against the Lactose Intolerant + Cycling Race Photos

11 Mar

Dear Yolo,

I keep thinking about your tales of Argentinian chocolate and it makes me soooo hungry!

My report for the weekend is pretty weak. I hosted an epic brunch party with a couple of friends from my acting class on Saturday. And I mean EPIC. They showed up at 10:30 am and left at 7 pm. Epic.

Roscoe always goes on a long bike ride with the Brooklyn Peloton on Saturday mornings and doesn’t return until the afternoon so I have started turning Saturday mornings into brunch with friends time. I was kind of cranky about the whole thing because one of my friends (The Dane) brought his wife (also a Dane. It’s a marriage of convenience– they’re not romantic) and she is lactose fucking intolerant. First, let me say that he simply informed me via text that he was bringing her and that I didn’t invite her. I am a reasonable woman with reasonable interests that include but are not limited to eating and making brunch foods that involve a bounty of milk, butter, and/or cheese.

The Dane advises me that her lactose intolerance is severe. This is something that I feel I could completely deal with for a lunch or dinner, but brunch? No crepe, no waffles, no omelets, no quiche, no breakfast strata? This bitch.

And when I say “bitch’, I mean that the way rappers say it: affectionately. I don’t know her super well but she seems to be a very cool, nice, intelligent and talented Danish person (she’s a singer), etc.  I know it’s not her choosing to be lactose intolerant. Perhaps it is the great tragedy of her life. And I pity her for never knowing the comfort of a piping hot slice of pizza with tv-commercial stringy melty cheese, or a refreshing caprese salad, or buttery buttery croissants, the simplicity of a grilled cheese sandwich, brie, caramels, or endless pints of overpriced fancy ice cream made by artisans, not to mention CHOCOLATE. This also begs the question: what the hell does she eat when she’s sad?

As someone with French heritage, I am extremely suspicious of someone who cannot eat butter or cheese or dairy in any form. What’s next? No bacon? Ah yes; I will be sure in the future not to invite her at the same time as any of my practicing Jewish friends or else we’ll all end up eating breakfast salads or some total bullshit.

Also, (my insensitivity knows no bounds) can’t you just take drugs for this? Also, is it really that bad? For example, I have learned in the past year or two that if I eat a cheeseburger, I will become violently ill within 3-6 hours. This doesn’t stop me from eating the occasional cheeseburger three or four times a year. In fact, I ate one yesterday. And I still feel awful. Was this stupidity? No, it was an act of bravery. It is my refusal to let a cruel joke of Mother Nature’s quash my high calorie dreams of meat and cheese and special sauce between two buns. It is a noble defiance shared by people who have tigers or other large cats as domestic pets, or who live on the sides of cliffs, or in Kansas/Florida.

Anyway, back to the actual brunch we started with grapefruit brulee and I made Lactose Intolerant Lady a separate breakfast of baked eggs with some olive oil sauteed spinach, portobello mushrooms, bacon and grilled ciabatta bread brushed with olive oil. The rest of us enjoyed a Mushroom and Three Cheese Strata, croissants and Tarte Tatin and about 6 liters of mimosas. That’s right! We drunk ourselves metric!

Now, I must retire to the couch to watch more Boardwalk Empire Season 2 on demand. Roscoe rode in his second race in Central Park this morning and I’ve been up since 4 am. Need pizza and sleep. Bleh.



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