Beyond Hermosa Skies

My old school summer wind Summer Lam rivaled the beauty of any soul piercing sunset draped over those pinkish, orange, scattered skies of Hermosa Beach. Still, my go-to-in-house date night dish, angel hair in a white clam sauce, because I could never afford to dine out for dates, adorned with slivers of neon Greek gold sweet peppers on top, offered plenty of twinkly, ultra-aroused interest to.  Those Greek gold sweet peppers known as Pepperoncini’s, are sold at all Italian Delis, and can be enjoyed at your local Greek restaurant with some olive oil bathed cubes of feta by your little Greek landlord, on top of a tringle, torn off piece of warm pita bread, assuming he’s in a more festive, less dour dumpy mood than usual.  

I got the idea of using angel hair from a weathered, grandma age, Italian executive assistant who worked for my company’s owner Terry Thor, an IT staffing legend, who founded the IT staffing firm, The Thor Group, headquartered in Manhattan Beach next to defense contractor behemoths such as Raytheon, who I placed an IT security analyst with, after insisting my friend JT give me the org chart to exploit for all its billable, employment extending worth. Actually, became buds with Shakes, the IT security analyst I placed at Raytheon, who I let crash on my couch before the interview he flew in from back east for, who possessed dreams of penning dialogue for Tinseltown to.  Come to think of it, there was an IT network security engineer, who I went bar hopping with in nearby El Segundo one night, resulting in me coming in contact with the always majestic, effortlessly beautiful, always pitch perfect, laugh-tastic Summer Lam.  If I didn’t get fired from Thor for failing to do more placements with Raytheon and for being caught on the job looking for new jobs such as selling helicopters for a living, I could’ve befriended another IT candidate who knew a TV Writer agent at CAA. No agent at CAA in Beverly Hills or one based in his rental stucco apartment in Woodland Hills for that matter would’ve singed me based on my ok Friends spec alone, despite me reimagining the Nike swoosh as Gene Simmons tongue, which impressed Summer enough for her to pitch, “Let’s move to Santa Barbara so I can day trade and you give up IT recruiting and write novels instead.” Boy, did I fuck that one up.  

Before meeting Summer, I became a master at making my angel hair clam delight for my various date nights at home, using my secret killer addition ingredient of Pepperoncini’s, available in pre-cut slivers at my local Italian Deli in Hermosa for 2 bucks a pop, who also sold bits of prosciutto ends for 2 bucks a top. “What a country”, I’d croon during those Hermosa loving nights, with unmatched, heaven on earth blasting glee.

I’d also relish taking my 5-minute pre-date trips along the always misty, majestic pacific off the pier to a local fish shack in nearby Redondo Beach for the clams, which I could actually afford for 10 bucks a pound compared to having to sell a highly punctured liver already from the even closer shishy bitch supermarket chain Bristol Farms located in Manhattan Beach instead. I can still picture the smoothed over lines on those clam shells, begging to be steamed open, so I could pour the sweaty, underbelly residue of the succulent sweet clams into the angel hair soon after, responsible for imbibing it’s one a kind, fishy delight flavor.

But now 3 kids later, I’m a Stay-At-Home Koshterian Comedian, so how can I replicate some summer loving love, having a blast with my wife and 3 kids on a damp, February night instead? Easy, I substituted my killer Pepperoncini’s add on ingredient with my tweaked, heavily workshopped twice roasted, mini me cubes of peeled Italian eggplant instead, which I sauté in bomb cold press Italian olive oil first, sprinkled with bits of fresh rosemary and peeled off pieces of garlic before shoving into the oven at 350 for 20 more minutes to add a deepened, roasted, smokier, more elastic, slivery slurpy, eggplant puss flavor, minus the funky fish overtones of course but you get the gist.

Next, you add more specs of leftover rosemary to your buttered, olive oil base to fry up bits of shallots and peeled over slivers of shaved garlic before bam, plop some pre-made Emeril’s vodka sauce on top for only 4 bucks a pop at your local Stop and Shop and you’re made in the shade.  Before eventually dropping the angel hair nestles of perfection into the pinkish, bubbly, fresh scented rosemary specked sauce along with the svelte shards of twice cooked eggplant to extrapolate the most banging, inhalable, pristine sweet flavor imaginable, capable of unearthing multiple lip moistening ums, again and again.

You know you’ve succeeded in recreating some summer loving angel hair love, when your wife goes back for second slurping’s on her own, without any repeated push in that direction either. You also know your date night in your twenties at your old school Hermosa Beach pad is going too domesticated good, when your cute blond date from down south says in the most innocuous way possible, “This is really good. Can I take some home with me? I shrugged off her innocent inquiry, kept the leftovers for myself and sent her home soon after. She didn’t taste that good. She was no Summer Lam alright. Nor could she ever replicate memories of lounging on the beach with my dear Summer Lam, getting carried away to heaven and back, beyond those Hermosa skies.

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Does Decadence

If my 10-year wedding anniversary celebration was less than lackluster, knowing my Koshtertarian menu options were limited to a fried fish sandwich, then, I’m not going to lose any sleep over my premature celebration of my daughter’s upcoming 10th birthday over some whitefish salad smeared on top of toasty crisp, bagels from nearby Goldberg’s in Katonah, NY this weekend, with my favorite person in the universe, before her 2 younger brothers were born, no offense mom. We had a good run while it lasted, but neither of us can compare the depths of our former love to what our 3 beamish rays of sunshine offer us, who are fuss free 98 percent of time because controlling our kids can make our kids great again, and our kids largely thanks to my Do It All Dad molding, are as good as it gets.  

Almost a decade ago, I yelled at my dad for the 1st time ever, with major divine powered, you better respect my life blaster authority feeling, for making my newborn baby girl smell like Don Draper’s corpse if he chose to forsake Lucky Strike’s for Tareyton 100’s, assuming he stayed with the Jewish department store heiress, Rachel Whinestein from Madmen, and got hooked on them one summer in Israel. I’ll also never forget the reaction from my mother, almost a decade ago in our Queens apartment on the outskirts of Astoria, NY, when she calls me after I went totally ballistic on my father for ruining his granddaughter’s April fresh smell out of the womb. Mom says, “I can’t believe you yelled at your father like that. But if I have to choose, I choose your father every time.” Wow, and I thought Gore Vidal had mommy issues. I haven’t thought of this depressingly dreary moment in ages, yet the idea of siding with your legally bound partner in love from the wedding alter, versus your own flesh and blood, unless your own kid, writes obituary headlines for Rolling Stone such as, “Rush Limbaugh Did His Best To Ruin America”, is beyond me. Working for NPR as a curated news opinion blogger is a tad better knowing they’re not afraid to rip the glaring inefficiencies embedded in our US postal service knowing it’s just another glaring extension, of federally run, ruined, overreach. But I thought big government was the answer to all our problems like removal of Holocaust history at Bronx public schools or penalization of high achieving Asian students because black power and self-reliance are outdated concepts such as good, banging intellectual rap or goaltending in Basketball knowing the NBA is going to bend over backwards to let Lebron win more rings than Jordan because it exists now as a safe space for the king of the persecution’s complex’s ego. So what difference does it make? The infinitely funnier Rush Limbaugh lives because I was blessed with the funny Jew bone, holla, thank you very much.

But Rush Limbaugh was a bigoted feminist hater because he insisted the Woman’s March on Washington looked like a whole bunch of Rosie’s sporting a whole lot of chin’s, while thinking, “Talk about stretching your pussy hat supply thin.” Wait a minute, that’s my material on debut comedy record Resist This, except when my mom asked, “Did my beautiful granddaughter Matilda watch the Woman’s March on Washington? I said, “Yeah mom, but only after I insisted, she watch the march on CNN in a full length burka, to see she had nothing to bitch about in comparison. Plus, Matilda is finally learning how to read mom. So, the last thing I need in my life, is her trying to make out one of those protest signs, asking, “Daddy, what’s pa, pa, pussy power? Is that a new show on Amazon prime?”

Well, that was pleasant stroll down memory lane, and I didn’t get to the point, when almost a decade ago, my father says, “I don’t know how we’re related.” And this was after I splurged on white fish salad, bialy’s and Sturgeon from Russ and Daughter’s in honor of their 1st grandchild not smelling like Don Draper’s dead corpse drenched in Aramis just yet.

My daughter, Singing Rose Kornbluth can read my books now such as The Great American Jew Novel where she plays my 9-year-old agent to make my do it all dad year come true but she’s too busy making flashlights from scratch for her science class to put a spotlight on my labors of love just yet. She also loved the White Fish salad, even more than us learning about fancy adjectives to describe it such as delicate, which was a funny adjective choice to use when doing a Mad Libs later that night, based on the subject of George Washington, who wasn’t an easily triggered, Millennial Mouseketeer or critical thought impaired, news idea fed, baby boomer last time I checked either.

If Do It All Dad decides to retire in Florida way down the line, at least now, I know my Do It All Daughter will love me enough to send me care packages from Russ Daughter’s whenever she’s not too busy lighting the universe, with her majestic, awe inspiring touch she has on everybody blessed enough to come in contact with such hilariously sweet poetry in motion. I can’t wait to take her to Tavern On The Green to celebrate me finally getting a lit agent, although according to Soundcloud, I’m huge in Lahore, Pakistan, which is the literary hub of Pakistan.  So, retiring to Pakistan, after I cash in from my a plus gem studded, stand up comedy special, Do It All Dad Does Pakistan, could be a hilarious climax to this fairytale father daughter, adventure tale.

Do It All Dad doesn’t do pork, so I’m off to a strong start in city of Lahore, Pakistan, already. Plus, they have nukes, generate 84 billion in GDP, and boast a thriving industry called Lollywood. Do It All Dad Does Lollywood has a better ring than Do It All Dad Does Pakistan actually. It has all the makings of the most hilarious standup concert comedy film ever. Fuck you Eddie. I can rock a King Solomon royal purple jacket to.

What’s my new 10-year plan? Become the king of comedy in Lahore baby.  Together, my daughter and I can plug Russ and Daughter’s and make their gift packages flush with white fish salad go viral. Shit, they can even sponsor the stand-up comedy tour and will call it Decade of Decadence, indulging the locals of Lahore with plenty of saggy tits Sarah Silverman jokes to hold them over till Ramadan ends.

Michael Kornbluth

Do It All Dad Does Decadence

If my 10-year wedding anniversary celebration was less than lackluster, knowing my Koshtertarian menu options were limited to a fried fish sandwich, then, I’m not going to lose any sleep over my premature celebration of my daughter’s upcoming 10th birthday over some whitefish salad smeared on top of toasty crisp, bagels from nearby Goldberg’s in Katonah, NY this weekend, with my favorite person in the universe, before her 2 younger brothers were born, no offense mom. We had a good run while it lasted, but neither of us can compare the depths of our former love to what our 3 beamish rays of sunshine offer us, who are fuss free 98 percent of time because controlling our kids can make our kids great again, and our kids largely thanks to my Do It All Dad molding, are as good as it gets.  

Almost a decade ago, I yelled at my dad for the 1st time ever, with major divine powered, you better respect my life blaster authority feeling, for making my newborn baby girl smell like Don Draper’s corpse if he chose to forsake Lucky Strike’s for Tareyton 100’s, assuming he stayed with the Jewish department store heiress, Rachel Whinestein from Madmen, and got hooked on them one summer in Israel. I’ll also never forget the reaction from my mother, almost a decade ago in our Queens apartment on the outskirts of Astoria, NY, when she calls me after I went totally ballistic on my father for ruining his granddaughter’s April fresh smell out of the womb. Mom says, “I can’t believe you yelled at your father like that. But if I have to choose, I choose your father every time.” Wow, and I thought Gore Vidal had mommy issues. I haven’t thought of this depressingly dreary moment in ages, yet the idea of siding with your legally bound partner in love from the wedding alter, versus your own flesh and blood, unless your own kid, writes obituary headlines for Rolling Stone such as, “Rush Limbaugh Did His Best To Ruin America”, is beyond me. Working for NPR as a curated news opinion blogger is a tad better knowing they’re not afraid to rip the glaring inefficiencies embedded in our US postal service knowing it’s just another glaring extension, of federally run, ruined, overreach. But I thought big government was the answer to all our problems like removal of Holocaust history at Bronx public schools or penalization of high achieving Asian students because black power and self-reliance are outdated concepts such as good, banging intellectual rap or goaltending in Basketball knowing the NBA is going to bend over backwards to let Lebron win more rings than Jordan because it exists now as a safe space for the king of the persecution’s complex’s ego. So what difference does it make? The infinitely funnier Rush Limbaugh lives because I was blessed with the funny Jew bone, holla, thank you very much.

But Rush Limbaugh was a bigoted feminist hater because he insisted the Woman’s March on Washington looked like a whole bunch of Rosie’s sporting a whole lot of chin’s, while thinking, “Talk about stretching your pussy hat supply thin.” Wait a minute, that’s my material on debut comedy record Resist This, except when my mom asked, “Did my beautiful granddaughter Matilda watch the Woman’s March on Washington? I said, “Yeah mom, but only after I insisted, she watch the march on CNN in a full length burka, to see she had nothing to bitch about in comparison. Plus, Matilda is finally learning how to read mom. So, the last thing I need in my life, is her trying to make out one of those protest signs, asking, “Daddy, what’s pa, pa, pussy power? Is that a new show on Amazon prime?”

Well, that was pleasant stroll down memory lane, and I didn’t get to the point, when almost a decade ago, my father says, “I don’t know how we’re related.” And this was after I splurged on white fish salad, bialy’s and Sturgeon from Russ and Daughter’s in honor of their 1st grandchild not smelling like Don Draper’s dead corpse drenched in Aramis just yet.

My daughter, Singing Rose Kornbluth can read my books now such as The Great American Jew Novel where she plays my 9-year-old agent to make my do it all dad year come true but she’s too busy making flashlights from scratch for her science class to put a spotlight on my labors of love just yet. She also loved the White Fish salad, even more than us learning about fancy adjectives to describe it such as delicate, which was a funny adjective choice to use when doing a Mad Libs later that night, based on the subject of George Washington, who wasn’t an easily triggered, Millennial Mouseketeer or critical thought impaired, news idea fed, baby boomer last time I checked either.

If Do It All Dad decides to retire in Florida way down the line, at least now, I know my Do It All Daughter will love me enough to send me care packages from Russ Daughter’s whenever she’s not too busy lighting the universe, with her majestic, awe inspiring touch she has on everybody blessed enough to come in contact with such hilariously sweet poetry in motion. I can’t wait to take her to Tavern On The Green to celebrate me finally getting a lit agent, although according to Soundcloud, I’m huge in Lahore, Pakistan, which is the literary hub of Pakistan.  So, retiring to Pakistan, after I cash in from my a plus gem studded, stand up comedy special, Do It All Dad Does Pakistan, could be a hilarious climax to this fairytale father daughter, adventure tale.

Do It All Dad doesn’t do pork, so I’m off to a strong start in city of Lahore, Pakistan, already. Plus, they have nukes, generate 84 billion in GDP, and boast a thriving industry called Lollywood. Do It All Dad Does Lollywood has a better ring than Do It All Dad Does Pakistan actually. It has all the makings of the most hilarious standup concert comedy film ever. Fuck you Eddie. I can rock a King Solomon royal purple jacket to.

What’s my new 10-year plan? Become the king of comedy in Lahore baby.  Together, my daughter and I can plug Russ and Daughter’s and make their gift packages flush with white fish salad go viral. Shit, they can even sponsor the stand-up comedy tour and will call it Decade of Decadence, indulging the locals of Lahore with plenty of saggy tits Sarah Silverman jokes to hold them over till Ramadan ends.

Michael Kornbluth

The F You Pizza Bagel Supreme

I’ve never outgrown my love of hair metal or temptation to try any pizza bagel; regardless of it conjuring memories of icky frost burn or blue balls on the slow dance floor at Bar Mitzvah parties back in the day before dick picks became the death of small talk. I strongly recommend making your own Pizza Bagels, assuming you live in New York and have access to bomb sesame bagels, flush with endless crackle crunch and doughy lightness greatness within, versus the cardboard coated, Einstein Bagels, which suffer from extreme shrinkage problems, tasting like synthetic, mass produced, carbs for older than dirt Jews in Florida who are more fixated with getting their cream cheese fix by any means necessary, assuming they have fuck up kids, who can’t even handle airmailing them smoked salmon and bagels from Russ and Daughter’s for special occasions instead. 

Bagels are a source of pride for native New Yorkers like 24-hour Greek diners, 4 am last calls or the old school Yankee Stadium, before the new one was built, otherwise known as The House That Gentrification Built. I still don’t understand why other states outside of NY and New Jersey suck at making bagels so much. The other day, I’m in a riffing mood, so nothing new, and go on a mini rant about a new double IPA offering by Stone Brewing from San Diego with my local beer guy at Decicco’s nearby is Sommers, NY and say, ” That new double IPA tall boy from Stone, for 3 bucks a pop is an incredible deal for a double IPA, which tastes so damn mineral fresh rich. I’m convinced San Diego has access to some special reserve water stream, that give the f you to New York state’s highly hailed natural tap water reservoirs, which cascade all the way down from the Catskills Mountains and gorges from Ithaca, NY, my old school stomping ground when I attended Ithaca College, otherwise known as Cornell’s, retarded next door neighbor. But I was in the much-hyped Roy H. Park School Of Communications, so I could take a couple of bingers back in the day and manage not to stutter every other 2 seconds.”  

It’s especially hard to bite your tongue whenever your English mother-in-law from Manchester, relocated to Greenville, Delaware in Biden country, who had to share a bucket growing up for number 2’s, goes off, on the alleged superior, more compact bagels of England. Sure, the brits make better bagels than Italians, Jews and illegal Mexicans in NY, who will mostly likely die on the job, in fucking triple masked masks, uttering, “No more whole wheat everything bagels. Choke on a calzone Cuomo, you Punta bitch,” the end.

Now every town doesn’t have access to cured, delectable, fishy free neutralizing, deep orange hued sliced slivers of nova salmon made to be paired with a toasted sesame bagel on top of a fairly medium, homemade cream cheese smear, the way constellations of moles belong on uppity, English wenches residing in Chelsea and beyond. So, what can you do to spice up a bagel to outshine a homemade pizza bagel using your own homemade spiced up Rao’s tomato sauce, interspersed with loads of sliced off garlic and pulverized, always juicy fresh, cooked down San Marzano tomatoes, which make you proud to be on a friendly 1st name basis with most pizza maker Italian Americans? Easy, make your homemade salsa, with cherry tomatoes, 3 substantial Jalapenos, a mini me handful of fresh cilantro leaves, a crescent moon size of red onion, a bulb of garlic, thrown into the Cuisinart mixer for 4 swirl rips or more, and you’re already more than halfway there to the promised F You Pizza Bagel Supreme Land.

The last step is shredding some cheddar, New York made is fine to, which adds assertive, musky heft while pairing beautifully with the sweet yet warming, springy fresh salsa, prompting your kids to murmur while still chewing with mouths half full, “This is a delicious daddy, but give me more salsa next time and be funnier than Weird Al before my birthday or I’ll kill you with our sharpest knife for real this time.”  

The Mexican Jew Boy Bagel Supreme is so good, even ANTIFA would cater a Shiva for a killed ICE agent on Presidents Day, in Boca Raton, with you know who in town, passing through.

Michael Kornbluth

The Magical Mini-Me Meatball Tour

I’m at a vintage bookstore that sells used records and CD’s to buy another last-minute gift add on for my son’s endless birthday party weekend, despite his big brother constantly pointing out, “It’s not your birthday anymore. I don’t care how much Daddy is loving you more than me.  I bought John Lennon’s greatest hits on CD for 4 bucks, just so I could sample some John Lennon material on the owner like I just paid my one drink minimum for a Pap’s Blue Ribbon to do 4 minutes at the Eastville Comedy Club before becoming a full-time Stay-At-Comedian, 3 kids later and say, “On my Do It All Dad Year Podcast I state, I’ve written 4 books and recorded 400 plus podcast since my lucky number 3 was born. John Lennon wishes he was this productive during his stay-at-home dad years, after Paul McCartney shamed John Lennon into becoming a Stay-At-Home Dad from writing Hey Jude, to console his 1st abandoned son, he wanted nothing to do with before having his 2nd child Sean with Yoko, to give involved fatherhood another shot. Still, 2 minutes into a baby stroll throughout Central Park West, 1 day into playing the role of a loving, emotionally present, Stay-At-Home Dad, John Lennon screams up at the sky, “Choke on a fucking cucumber scone Paul.  All the Primal Scream Therapy isn’t helping.”

John Lennon experimented with being a vegetarian yet always found a way to sneak meat into his diet after realizing what havoc Yoko’s Bean Curd Smoothies did on his sex drive, exchanging his lost, druggy, groupie drilling years in LA in favor of snuggling Yoko on too much CIA secret stash strong ACID, delivered by Dr. Timothy Leary personally, to make it another merry free Christmas, and creepy conjuring new year. At the same time, John Lennon could’ve lived anywhere in the world, but chose Central Park West in the Dakota building instead, knowing any starving artist or not could afford a bowl of good spaghetti and meatballs at Carmines on Broadway after scrapping together enough bread.

I used to have lunch dates with a pretty girl from PA named Holly at Carmines and we’d split the meatball parm hero there, which was Big Pussy with bad back problems huge. The meatball hero was also served with a side of crispy yet light Cesar Salad with fresh baked croutons, tasting as polished distinguished as the sumptuous, moist throughout, ultra inhalatory, meatballs, begging to disappear in your belly within a NY minute.  Subway Meatballs these weren’t, because they were bigger, rounder, juicier balls of balling, big time pimping perfection. Now, sometimes softball size meatballs are a turnoff, if they remind of your putz prone dad staining his nice dress shirts again after work at hard 6:30 at the latest, during Kosher meatball and spaghetti night, only for your mom to blurt out again, “Steven, you stained your shirt again. Remind me again, why I converted to marry into this.” Only for my father to reply with, “Carol, if you never met me, you would’ve married some nerd, whose mother would’ve been intimated by your perfect MATH SAT score to.”

My ex-girlfriend who went to Columbia, introduced me to the meatball pie at Lombardi’s in SOHO when we visited my parents and friends back east during winter holiday break once after living together in West Hollywood for the past year. I was blown away, knowing no Turkey Meatball, drenched in delectable, never too syrupy rich, plum sauce from our nearby Gelson’s grocery store on Santa Monica Blvd. could ever match the vastly superior, air light might of these mini me meatballs ever.

When I lived in West Hollywood, I had my mom buy me the Soprano’s Cookbook and learned how real deal Italian meatballs, used a killer combination of ground pork, sirloin and veal while also using plum Roma Tomatoes to be later boiled and peeled after dropping them into a cold-water bath soon after to part the skins from their tender loving juiciness, itching to be unfurled with scatterings of peeled garlic and diced up fine shreds of Italian Parsley inside. I actually felt like a semi-functioning adult back then, going to the Farmer’s Market at the Grove to buy the different meats for Tony Soprano’s homemade meatballs versus splurging at the far pricier supermarket chain Bristol Farms, walking distance, not that anybody walks anywhere LA, from the 4 Seasons in Beverly Hills, because despite my rent controlled apartment on Harper Street in West Hollywood back then, my inner Jew couldn’t justify the more extravagant price point purchase just yet, despite shopping there more likely putting me in contact with George Plimpton loading up on more organic vanilla bean ice cream to serve Ronald Regan and Nancy after taking in a home screening documentary on Kurt Cobain triggering, Howdy Dowdy.  These meatballs, using the holy trinity of pork, veal and sirloin ground meat were so good, I shot off death stares at my ex-girlfriend, for offering my bountiful leftovers to her best friend from Bel Air, who was a member of the Nordstrom family, before they stopped selling Ivanka’s statuesque working girl shoes, because most yenta breaths in Manhattan failed to fill out her longer, shapely size lines, I guess.

I’ll still never forgive my dad, for dumping pounds of meatball heroes made for my Bar Mitzvah party by his close friend and famed chef of Bronx made fame, Carmine, who had nothing do with Carmines off Broadway outside of his artisan genius being lumped together with what native New Yorker’s considered a glamorized, middle America size catering, tourist trap, which is unfortunate because both restaurants make you proud to be a beneficiary of eastern standard, heartwarming, Italian American cooking again and again.  

Now, my daughter is taking weirded out bites from my homemade mini me reconstructionist meatballs to kickstart my son’s 4-year birthday weekend celebration in extra rollicking high gear, which used Rao’s Tomato Sauce to save me time, after sautéing these mini balled beauties in expensive, extra virgin olive oil, fresh chopped parsley and ample sprinklings of shaved garlic and red-hot chili pepper flakes, to take this Eastern standard spaghetti and meatball dish so much higher.  I can’t get mad at my daughter’s weirded out bites, despite me making them mini meatballs, so she wouldn’t be so freaked from staring down a fistful of cow at a time, knowing she’s only been eating Kosher meat, since my Koshertarian Comedian project to get my kids excited about giving the Koshtertarian Diet began.

I cooked the mini-me meatballs in the sauce under a low heat with the cover for a solid hour, which paid huge dividends, making it more than worth the weight, especially after I spot her younger brother, Arthur, hunched over in a perpetual, soul tantalizing, attack mode, uttering every other neat yet mountainous inhale, “This is really yummy daddy.”

Growing up, the Kosher Butcher store was always a turnoff because the Butchers there always seemed like they literally slept in raw pink meat. Now, that pubescent concern is a thing of the past, as I proceeded to finish off my mini me meatball birthday creation for breakfast and lunch the following the day to embrace reimaged eastern standard greatness and celebrate a newborn dad kind of love, offering the possibility of more success filled tomorrows, to make 2021 by most glorious year yet, back again, in a New York groove.  

Michael Kornbluth

Uncomfortably Queasy

Weekend memories of my mom’s Kraft Mac and Cheese don’t fill me with comforting ease. For some reason, the mere image of a half-eaten bowl in the sink gives me imminent deathly chills inside, like the time I started pissing on myself after snorting Crystal Meth prior, thinking it was just exceptionally pure, uncut Cocaine, because after only 1 line, 5 hours later, I kept pronouncing out loud to myself, “This shit is great”, like a coked-out Tony Tiger used to bad coke which tastes like chalky AJAX.  In my mom’s defense, she worked full time as a Loan Officer for JP Morgan in Manhattan, so I can’t blame her for mailing it in on Saturdays by throwing together some Kraft Mac and Cheese, knowing my dad’s half ass, serially undersalted, sickly looking, off yellow, scrambled eggs made before Basketball practice on Saturdays weren’t filling me with unconditional lovely cheer either. Again, I can’t totally shit on my parents half-hearted weekend creations in the kitchen throughout the eighties and early nineties, because Brunch wasn’t a thing yet, nor was any craft put into making mac and cheese from scratch yet, using a plethora of fancy foreign, pricy cheeses such as specs of imported Parm, always sultry smooth Italian Fontina or rind free French brie.  Lobster Mac and Cheese wasn’t conceived yet by some fabulous, brunch visionary hot spot restaurant owner in West Hollywood who longed for something dreamier to sink his teeth into at noon on a Saturday hungover, basking in the gorgeous LA patio sun after being burnt out on being reared on fried egg topped cheeseburgers from Fat Burger in Van Nuys as a kid, who shared less in common with Adam Carolla growing up, than the Wheatgrass bartender for Jamba Juice.

So, for Super Bowl Sunday this year, this old G, decided to make my own Mac Daddy version of Mac and Cheese, to make my 3 Koshertarian kids yell with unmatched glee, “Party time, excellent, I feel the funk.” Not, “Who’s that black chick with Austin Powers in that commercial Daddy? Is she a mini me version of Queen Latifah? I don’t get it.” My plan of attack was to create a Mac Daddy and Cheese that wasn’t to cheesy like the Phantom of The Opera halftime show, because nothing screams half time entertainment more than a bunch of jilted, creepy looking dancers in masks putting on a zero thrills production of Phantom Of the Opera meets Friday The 13th during the year of COVID 19, which has unmasked all the propagandists in the media, who prop up fakes news working class heroes such as Bruce Springsteen who blames his manager for never paying taxes till he got on the cover of Times Magazine after Born To Run blew up but I digress. Bruce pretended he was on Acid to avoid being drafted yelling, “War, what’s it good for? Besides fodder for my upcoming Born In The USA album, about my fake news brother who dies in Vietnam. Does your office look like Salvador Dali took a giant kaleidoscope shit on your desk? And why does Uncle Sam keep pointing at me? It’s not my fault Sandy is a miserable, knocked up diner waitress, who was born to cry in the dark and die alone in the Swamp Thing State.”

Still, the Super Bowl is an American tradition, so I based my Mac Daddy and Cheese dish around the east coast standard, always unifying, pretentious free, yellow Landa Lakes American Cheese. Understand, my wife openly detests American Cheese because she’s a more evolved hick who grew up in the hinterlands of Brisbane Australia, who grew up playing with mud in the yard, knowing she only grew up with 2 TV stations in the outback and if you’ve seen one episode of Astro Boy, you’ve seen them all.  So, making my star standalone dish for Super Bowl Sunday based on yellow Landa Lakes American cheese required some level of American made balls, knowing what potential, all knowing resistor fury, lurked in the nearby distance as Tom Brady continued the greatest winning streak in life ever recorded, which helps when you’re reunited with the always reliable Gronk, as your go to, money in the bank, tight friend.  At the same time, I didn’t want the American cheese to be the sole attraction, similar to The Weekend surrounding himself with the most unattractive, peaceful protestors against the savagery of self-esteem enhancing plastic surgery within the Sunshine scurrying state.

My kids love Broccoli, like myself, assuming you make it with love, destem all the florets, blanch them in a bucket of ice water you’d pour on Bill Parcels if it was made of Gatorade back in the day, before I sautéed them in a butter, high end olive oil, sliced shallots and peeled off bits of garlic, to ensure the gorgeous flowers of green, matched the intensity of hop forward wonderfulness of my pounded 90 Minute Dog Fish IPA prior, which took me only 9 minutes to finish my second.

I used pasta macaroni shells from some Italian pasta maker, which cost 3 buck max in addition, made a basic bechamel, including, butter, flour, milk and spicy brown mustard to help the green goodness stick together with the torn-up bits of American Cheese and olive oil massaged Mac Daddy shells, which looked like glistening tubes of inhalatory perfection.  The only complaint I received was Daddy using a tad too much fresh ground pepper to spice things up, beyond memories of boxed Kraft Mac and Cheese, which are too uncomfortably queasy to replicate for the mere ease of convenience sake for my taste.

I’m not going to call my Mac Daddy and Cheese the Tom Brady of Mac and Cheeses, although my 4-year-old son continuing to polish off his bowl even after his mac and cheese cooled is still sustained excellence in my book to.

Michael Kornbluth

Uncomfortably Queasy

Weekend memories of my mom’s Kraft Mac and Cheese don’t fill me with comforting ease. For some reason, the mere image of a half-eaten bowl in the sink gives me imminent deathly chills inside, like the time I started pissing on myself after snorting Crystal Meth prior, thinking it was just exceptionally pure, uncut Cocaine, because after only 1 line, 5 hours later, I kept pronouncing out loud to myself, “This shit is great”, like a coked-out Tony Tiger used to bad coke which tastes like chalky AJAX.  In my mom’s defense, she worked full time as a Loan Officer for JP Morgan in Manhattan, so I can’t blame her for mailing it in on Saturdays by throwing together some Kraft Mac and Cheese, knowing my dad’s half ass, serially undersalted, sickly looking, off yellow, scrambled eggs made before Basketball practice on Saturdays weren’t filling me with unconditional lovely cheer either. Again, I can’t totally shit on my parents half-hearted weekend creations in the kitchen throughout the eighties and early nineties, because Brunch wasn’t a thing yet, nor was any craft put into making mac and cheese from scratch yet, using a plethora of fancy foreign, pricy cheeses such as specs of imported Parm, always sultry smooth Italian Fontina or rind free French brie.  Lobster Mac and Cheese wasn’t conceived yet by some fabulous, brunch visionary hot spot restaurant owner in West Hollywood who longed for something dreamier to sink his teeth into at noon on a Saturday hungover, basking in the gorgeous LA patio sun after being burnt out on being reared on fried egg topped cheeseburgers from Fat Burger in Van Nuys as a kid, who shared less in common with Adam Carolla growing up, than the Wheatgrass bartender for Jamba Juice.

So, for Super Bowl Sunday this year, this old G, decided to make my own Mac Daddy version of Mac and Cheese, to make my 3 Koshertarian kids yell with unmatched glee, “Party time, excellent, I feel the funk.” Not, “Who’s that black chick with Austin Powers in that commercial Daddy? Is she a mini me version of Queen Latifah? I don’t get it.” My plan of attack was to create a Mac Daddy and Cheese that wasn’t to cheesy like the Phantom of The Opera halftime show, because nothing screams half time entertainment more than a bunch of jilted, creepy looking dancers in masks putting on a zero thrills production of Phantom Of the Opera meets Friday The 13th during the year of COVID 19, which has unmasked all the propagandists in the media, who prop up fakes news working class heroes such as Bruce Springsteen who blames his manager for never paying taxes till he got on the cover of Times Magazine after Born To Run blew up but I digress. Bruce pretended he was on Acid to avoid being drafted yelling, “War, what’s it good for? Besides fodder for my upcoming Born In The USA album, about my fake news brother who dies in Vietnam. Does your office look like Salvador Dali took a giant kaleidoscope shit on your desk? And why does Uncle Sam keep pointing at me? It’s not my fault Sandy is a miserable, knocked up diner waitress, who was born to cry in the dark and die alone in the Swamp Thing State.”

Still, the Super Bowl is an American tradition, so I based my Mac Daddy and Cheese dish around the east coast standard, always unifying, pretentious free, yellow Landa Lakes American Cheese. Understand, my wife openly detests American Cheese because she’s a more evolved hick who grew up in the hinterlands of Brisbane Australia, who grew up playing with mud in the yard, knowing she only grew up with 2 TV stations in the outback and if you’ve seen one episode of Astro Boy, you’ve seen them all.  So, making my star standalone dish for Super Bowl Sunday based on yellow Landa Lakes American cheese required some level of American made balls, knowing what potential, all knowing resistor fury, lurked in the nearby distance as Tom Brady continued the greatest winning streak in life ever recorded, which helps when you’re reunited with the always reliable Gronk, as your go to, money in the bank, tight friend.  At the same time, I didn’t want the American cheese to be the sole attraction, similar to The Weekend surrounding himself with the most unattractive, peaceful protestors against the savagery of self-esteem enhancing plastic surgery within the Sunshine scurrying state.

My kids love Broccoli, like myself, assuming you make it with love, destem all the florets, blanch them in a bucket of ice water you’d pour on Bill Parcels if it was made of Gatorade back in the day, before I sautéed them in a butter, high end olive oil, sliced shallots and peeled off bits of garlic, to ensure the gorgeous flowers of green, matched the intensity of hop forward wonderfulness of my pounded 90 Minute Dog Fish IPA prior, which took me only 9 minutes to finish my second.

I used pasta macaroni shells from some Italian pasta maker, which cost 3 buck max in addition, made a basic bechamel, including, butter, flour, milk and spicy brown mustard to help the green goodness stick together with the torn-up bits of American Cheese and olive oil massaged Mac Daddy shells, which looked like glistening tubes of inhalatory perfection.  The only complaint I received was Daddy using a tad too much fresh ground pepper to spice things up, beyond memories of boxed Kraft Mac and Cheese, which are too uncomfortably queasy to replicate for the mere ease of convenience sake for my taste.

I’m not going to call my Mac Daddy and Cheese the Tom Brady of Mac and Cheeses, although my 4-year-old son continuing to polish off his bowl even after his mac and cheese cooled is still sustained excellence in my book to.

Michael Kornbluth

The Fearless Maniac


Remember your dad taking you sledding? Yeah, I don’t either. I do recall the red flying saucer sled, which never achieved anything close to resembling manic speed, compared to my 4-year old’s son new Snow Screamer, which is slicker than Michael Jackson’s moon walk before we learned how he got away with murdering kids age of innocence like a smooth criminal. Also, if Michael Jackson were alive today, how would he defend himself against his Neverland accusers exactly? All the Beatles royalty points in the world, can’t buy me love.

I shared video of my son Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo, sledding down a huge hill on a local golf course on his new Snow Screamer with my mom who lives Arizona, with the headline, winter loving, having a blast. Sometimes, I can’t help being a passive aggressive c word to my mother, knowing her standard line this time every winter in February is, “How are you handling the cold Scoops?” Growing closer to my 3 Koshertarian comedian children the more laughs and yummy dances I get, yeah, yeah, yeah. Also, doesn’t my mom realize it would be in equal poor taste, if I were to text her this summer, “How are you handling melting to death in the Arizona August sun again mom? Have you fried up a Chorizo egg scramble on your side patio tile yet? Is it hard to block out the smell of burning rubber from your Nike flip flops, mask on or not?”

My mother’s reply to the sledding video of her grandson whizzing down the golf course hill at ridiculous speed, was, “He’s fearless”, and she had no clue about the Peach Linzer Tart Hardcore Hunga Treat Trophy I got him afterwards in honor of his obvious bravery and his hardcore edge knowing he wasn’t wearing any Freezie Freakie Gloves and only wearing a thin a layer of pajama pants on to. I was in a rush to get all 3 of my kids to the golf course for a rapid barrage of sled runs before darkness fell because I still had to buy some canned pineapple later for my planned Koshertarian Chicken Fried Rice Dish soon after, so the pajama pant oversight on my part, only enhanced my 4-year old’s hard-core appeal in the end. Fearless, but my mother hates her grandson’s need for a Floatie in their Arizona Estate Pool, whose gone on record how she refuses to erect another netted pool fence in his honor ever again, for our next annual Arizona visit. That’s right, the pool fence is an eye sore. You’d think the pool fence my parents got temporarily installed to prevent their grandchild from drowning to death resembled the barbed wire fencing on the cover of an Elie Wiesel novel. Still, the slight danger element to sledding or when doing Improv in front of a live audience for your graduation show at UCB, where you ended up playing a gay swamp monster and received howls of approval in return, got me thinking about the importance of never being too married to whatever your initial dinner dish presentation was without leaving room to make last minute adjustments, instead of being held hostage by fear filled, sealed in stone failure forever.

It doesn’t matter what my original vision of my dish was, which was to make a Koshertarian Chicken Fried Rice dish using pineapple, green onions, and cilantro for some diversified springy adornment crunch on top. What matters was keeping myself loose enough on the cooking stage to make a last-minute adjustment, if I were to ever reclaim my kids respect as a star powered Do It All Dad Cook again. Whenever you’ve done stand-up comedy or Improv, you become consumed with self-lacerating fury whenever you don’t get laughs. Do It All Mom’s also wear their dejection on a sleave and become progressively pissed off at their kids, if their dinner dish, made with love or not, is received with nothing but sneering disdain from their kids, especially if there was a grand vision and a significant semblance of preparation and excessive chopping involved. Whenever my kids reluctantly slog through eating another obligatory bite from one of Mama’s quicky thrown together, Instant pot dishes, where the stems on the Cauliflower are thicker than Joe Theisman’s ankle after Lawrence Taylor almost snapped his entire leg off back in the day, mama will always attack her dinner table audience for not appreciating it’s nuanced, eccentric wonderfulness. All of a sudden, insisting our 3 Koshetarian comedian children are a bunch of ungrateful, unsophisticated, twats, unworthy of such exotic rounded goodness. But when my wife does this, she divorces herself from any form of self-correcting awareness along the way, which only sets herself up for increased, repeated failure and further depreciation of her cooking skills brand again and again.

Look, I used to be guilty of blaming the audience when they didn’t laugh at my jokes either but sucking to the core, forced me to dig deeper and work harder at making it impossible for the audience to resist sucking off my new and improved, material next time around. Another valuable lesson I received from taking UCB 101, is to spend more time actively listening to your scene partner, versus force feeding any predetermined shtick, which never gelled, because it didn’t arise naturally from the scene being created in real time, which is supposed to be a conversation rooted in your rapidly developing made up reality, versus a wrong way, cringe inducing monologue U Turn about your rage issues directed toward your mother who called your desire to write a screenplay back then as being,“Too ambitious.” I’ve applied these hard-earned lessons to how I innovate in the kitchen with my 3 kids, which explains why I generate more yummy dances galore than Mama does, because I don’t blame my kids for being stupid hicks for not loving her brown shit looking black bean soup, thereby allowing no room for any last-minute improvisational flourish to help win back her kids interest in giving a shit about what momentous free création mom put together next. In other words, you don’t grow as a comedian or cook if you’re constantly blaming the audience for their sucky reaction to your creations again. More importantly, if you care about killing in the kitchen to, don’t become fixated with sticking with your dreamy, grandiose, sure fire hit creation in your mind, when it doesn’t get the immediate, all consuming, loving reaction you envisioned it would receive. You think God was overjoyed with T.J Miller’s fake news standup special on HBO? No, so he got him fired from Silicon Alley, forcing him to write some funnier jokes or act outs that don’t involve egging himself on stage like a poor man’s Carrot Top, minus the six pack of abs, residency in Vegas and more hilarious hidden gem treasured bits up his sleeve.  

Even good old honest Abe once said, “The voice of the people is second only to God”, which means, the audience will always tell you what’s working and what needs work by either their lack of emotiveness or crushing disappointment worn on their face. After one bite of my Koshertarian Chicken Fried Rice with bit of scrambled egg, green onion cilantro and pineapple, my daughter’s face froze up in disgust. All of a sudden, her face was completely motionless, as if she was doing everything in her power to hide her shock of disdain for her Do It All Dad’s latest bust creation but failing miserably to conceal the perplexed, jaw dropping, abject horror eating up her soul alive. Granted, my daughter Singing Rose Kornbluth, expects me to deliver the goods and you only get good at anything, when you possess a passionate, all-consuming desire to keep your hardcore fans happy in addition to a burning, manic urge to constantly outdo whatever you did before with over-the-top fearless relish, like any self-respecting fearless maniac would.

So, I took one final look at my daughter’s face, which screamed, “You’ve got to be kidding me with this shit dada. I had to wait till 7pm on a weekday for this slop? How does it take so long to just plop bits of chicken into some oatmeal with some canned pineapple thrown on top? If this rice were any mushier, you could make it into a Jennifer Garner movie about rebounding from her breakup with JJ Abraham’s on the Hallmark Channel.”

So, thank God, my UCB improv training kicked in to full gear as I took my 1st bite out of my Koshtertarian Chicken Fried Rice bust, thinking, “My daughter isn’t a know it all, teen bitch in the making after all. I better get creative to save what remnant of respect my daughter has for my Do It All Dad cooking prowess immediately. Then, I dart into the kitchen to grab some sweet chili sauce, which I introduced my kids to recently over some frozen egg rolls mama got from Trade Joes’ to give the standard, cheap, starter appetizer some much needed oomphy zing. In the end, the last minute improvised add on addition of much needed sweet chili sauce saved my dish from dying a premature, depressingly dreary death. Plus, my kids regained faith in their Do It All Dad’s improv chops once again, proving I’ll always get by with a little help from my Koshtertarian comedy friends.

So, like Adam Sandler’s character Donny Berger says to his friend Vanilla Ice in the hilarious movie, That’s My Boy, “You better stop, collaborate and listen.” And if your kids are less than enthralled from your latest and greatest creation, there’s a reason. I wouldn’t want it any other way, because Koshertarian Comedians will never rule if they remain nothing more than cry, cry, babies.

Michael Kornbluth

The Mixed Up Mozzarella Man

“Pizza isn’t everybody’s favorite food because the universe loves melted Gouda. Nobody today, is waiting online to inhale entire pizza pies drenched in smoked cheeses like gouda, unless you’re a hardcore Dutch dude from Amsterdam in lower Manhattan on holiday, because working Europeans get 5 weeks of a paid vacation and have nothing better to do than try the new Gastro pub in town, Crackers and Brews, which offers state of the art mini pizza’s on in-house made crackers, to leave more room inside for perpetual IPA poundage soon after. Mozzarella will always be the most popular cheese in New York, because you’re not melting sharp Vermont cheddar cheese on a Veal Parm hero in NOHO either. Mozzarella is the king of NY cool dominance like Laurence Fishburne and Westley Snipes in New Jack all wrapped up into one. Am I being too talky, again boss?” Boss says, “There’s no practicing schtick in the dressed-up Mozzarella hawking game off St. Marks place, especially knowing you can practice your routine at a plethora of open mikes throughout the east village and Brooklyn, that ANTIFA hasn’t planned to take over yet in your own spare, non-billable time, where you can continue to make jack shit, spewing semi-coherent streams of thought, that never amount to as much hilarity mountaintops as you think.” Talking Mozzarella Stick says, “Alright boss, I’ll stick to the script and only ask girls who pass me by, “Have you ever been sticked by Big Buster before? Because you know I have but his name was Dave from Long Island, not Big Buster, which reminds me of a fat white rapper who had no role models to emulate really. Beastie Boys always rocked skinny, jeans dragging off their ankles and shit. Vanilla Ice always opted for the flaptastic, fly guy silk sweats. Anthrax was the backup thrash metal band for Public Enemy on Bring The Noise and they’re scrappy skinny yet muscular metal white boys from Queens, the former breeding ground for Dee Sider from Twisted Sister, Nasty Nas, Black Sheep, 3rd Bass. I know the list is a greatest hits one that keeps you guessing whose even bigger on the list next. Art Garfunkel, the angelic sounding Jew and Paul Simon both hail from Queens, which stings the Republican gentile who’s jealous of creatively successful Jews, who didn’t take the Bernie Madoff route, I totally get it. But to round out the list of all-time great artists from Queens, you also have to include the consistently funny and transcendent Cyndy Lauper while also giving a loving, gushing shout out in honor of  showrunner and comedic writer, ball busting great, Doug Ellen behind Entourage, who made the legendary show on HBO infinitely cooler than Wahlberg’s producer name credits it on it. Doug Ellen is the funnier, cooler, version of John Favreau, until he started to produce, direct and write every episode it seems for the first season of Mandalorian, asshole. Look, I think John Favreau deserves a shot to reimagine Boba Fett’s backstory for Disney just for teaming up with Vince again on Made alone, even more than Richard Linklater for making Dazed and Confused the pitch perfect film to come out my senior year in high school among my old school pinko brethren buds of old. But still, asshole, if you’re creatively competitive at all, knowing John Favreau directed Elf, all the Iron Man’s and wasn’t too shabby in Rudy or PCU either. ” The big boss in charge of founding and running Mozzarella Man, says to his mouthy, unknown, unrepresented wannabe standup comedy star, “If you love John Favreau so much, then write your screenplay about being Vince Vaughn’s non-successful twin brother, because you look like him in a pre-good living, insomniac fashion and leave me out of it already.” Michael Kornbluth

The Divorce Immunity Quesadilla

Last night, with mama at work, my daughter asks, “Daddy, what do you love about mommy?” All of a sudden, I felt like a gay Tony Soprano, splathering, “I love that she’s the mother of my children.” Still, I’m not loving mama more, for saying in mean spirited, call back jest, “Don’t worry, Matilda, I won’t divorce Daddy if he keeps on making Quesadilla’s like this.” You can make an argument that a comedian should be able to take a joke at his own expense to. Still, when, my precious Bashert daughter gets involved, knowing she was the one who retrieved mama’s smartphone search history involving how to do divorce an unemployed, lushy, stay at home, she male comedian, made the offhanded on the surface innocuous reply, personally offensive to me, because I don’t consider my daughter’s happiness plummeting through the equator without me in her life in my standard, beautifying at home fashion a laughing matter to derive self-serving chuckles with.

But just to reminisce a little, my love for the Quesadilla doesn’t start with past Brooklyn made Quesadilla’s flush with bomb fresh, not too tarty goat cheese and glistening, piercing green zucchini blossoms, which you always spend a spleen on at the Farmer’s Market to get, the 2 days a year they’re for sale at the Farmer’s Market in Union Square and beyond. No, the roots of my fetching, surging interest in recreating some Quesadilla love on my own from home, stems from the various salsa’s I fell in love with during my IT Headhunter agency days after college throughout Southern, California, before it resembled an extended, roadside mall tent city.

The Black Dog Café on Wilshire Blvd. across the street from E Entertainment Television where I scored my 1st temp job in LA, which lead to me dating a casting director who used to date Gabriel Byrne from Unusual Suspects, is where my lifelong fixation on replicating the side herbed, darkened hued, tomato salsa to dip their bomb scallion, diced up chicken breast, medium sharp cheddar, always tasty, never lump or dried up, scrambled egg lined Quesadilla began. I’ll never forgive my younger brother for giving me grief for taking him to the Black Dog Café when he visited from NY once, going completely ballistic over the fact how I made the affordable, posh, no line hassle, brunch dining experience all about my needs instead of his, because I dared to order him something different than his standard, bacon egg and cheese on a roll. Granted, my younger brother had no clue about the incredibly annoying fact how in 2001 in LA, deli’s that served bacon, egg and cheeses didn’t exist, forcing me to try a microwaved egg sandwich once, which tastes like zapped happiness on the spot.

The Black Dog egg and cheese Quesadilla with the killer side of zippy, never soupy dark red salsa was never burnt beneath and their in-house, dark roast coffee blend to help digest this meaty, scrumptious, protein rich, breakfast offering, made any meh deli back east, with their faded Goodfellas posters, barely hanging on for dear life, a far flung, easily discarded, memory. When I lived in Sherman Oaks in the Valley, I would schlep over the Laurel Canyon up to borderline Koreatown to hit up my old school stomping ground at the Black Dog Café, just for that blended, concentrated blast, of brain deepening dark roast coffee again and again. So go woke yourself little bro, you unsophisticated hick, who orders angostura bitters to put in the Woodford Reserve with one cube I ordered for both of us to celebrate the birth of my lucky number 3, my chest.  

Tito’s Taco’s in Culver City also offered a simple yet bomb Salsa, which you could always order a larger side portion of for less than 4 bucks, which was a consistent no-brainer like hitting on the chesty MILF at the Black Dog Cafe, only for you to regret receiving her phone number after she insisted, “We do more than meet for a drink”, as if I’d waste a Benjamin on taking her to Six Flags in Valencia either.   I used to live in West Hollywood and would take my ex-live-in girlfriend to a local Tex-Mex joint on Santa Monica, which boasted a beautiful retractable roof while serving the freshest, sliced, heat packing Jalapeno’s that every chicken and steak fajita felt incomplete depressing without them dancing on top.

So yeah, back to the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla to keep your kids mental health in good shape for another day. Sauteing red, yellow, orange, any sweet pepper with red onion in butter alone and you’re set it the veggie department. Throw some freaking Arugula in there to make your soul feel healthier than usual if you’d like. Shredded cheddar is nice, but so is the killer combo from Stew Leonard’s, which boasts Queso, the Mexican Mozzarella, light Cheddar and plenty of creamy, meant to be melted Monterey.

Making homemade salsa for the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla proves, you’re not above being cheesy romantic either. I made a new batch yesterday and served it to my nurse wife upstairs in bed at 1, who worked all night prior and said, “Divorce Immunity Quesadilla Part 2.” Wife laughed long time. So never underestimate the power of the comedic callback and forgiving, loving nature of the Divorce Immunity Quesadilla, because there’s nothing cheesy about giving love another shot, in a joy spewing, non-begrudging way, with all you got.

Michael Kornbluth