I don’t fucking bake, here is video evidence why…
Sure I probably alienated 92% of my readers and am probably going to be sued by Ina Garten (Jeffrey call me) but the turnovers turned out delicious and at least I could use this video as evidence for any future bipolar diagnosis. Bon appétit bitches!
Baking is just not my fucking thing. Neither is going make-up free on camera. Consider both of things the first and last time either will be documented. Happy Friday.
I was going to do a VMA recap but… I don’t fucking feel like it. Recaps are so annoying. I will say Ariana Grande is too talented to keep dressing like the spokesperson for Wet Seal lingerie, Taylor Swift moves like a limp green bean with a minor case of cerebral palsy (although Shake it Off is my jam) and Yonce is STILL on my mouth like liquor…. Every female in the music industry should be EMBARASSED #queenbey.
If you don’t follow me on Instagram you are really missing out… I am like the Martin Scorcese of fucky 15 second instavids (@jackieschimmel #plug). Yesterday, continuing my pain in the ass world tour – vacation edition, I was lusting for a poolside pina colada in a big way. It is rare I have these fruity cocktail cravings since the only thing I drink is dirty martinis. Until yesterday I had been convinced a “Phil Collins” was just a super popular gin drink… awkward. Now I eat like a diabetic truck driver but I WILL turn down for liquid calories. 500 calories for one fucking drink? No thanks, I would rather have a burger. I have to keep my shit together, I have my television debut in a few weeks (I will be on Watch What Happens Live on Bravo 9/14 #doubleplug) and have no intention of doing any type of exercise. One of my cocktail making tricks is the importance of a good shaker. I make ALL my drinks in a shaker, it’s like an irresponsible arm work out. Another trick is swapping out ice cubes (which tend to dilute the happy juice) for fresh fruit popsicle chunks. I don’t mean loading up your drink with some syrupy bullshit – I am talking either real frozen fruit or some 100% juice popsicles. My faves are a watermelon mint popsicle (48 mutha fuckin calories) found at specialty markets and coconut water fruit floes from Trader Joes (perfect for this recipe). Here is my super easy Skinny Bitch Pina Colada recipe that will not result in a muffin top or a hangover.
This is hands down the most awkward video of all time. Bottoms up bitches.
I am not going to sit here and go on and on how I get a huge hipster boner for fresh summer produce and flourishing farmer markets. I don’t bring my own bags to the supermarket, wear gladiator sandals and a farmers hat to peruse locally sourced eggplant and insincerely grope lemons for 35 minutes to find one that is “just right”. That is just not me.
I do however enjoy the free samples and imported cheese selection at MY local farmer’s market so once in a blue moon I stray from my usual Gelson’s or Bristol Farms and head to roam amongst the granola crew. When I am cooking a meal my main focus is presentation, easy ingredients (inexpensive doesn’t hurt either) and obviously yummy. I really hate the word yummy and apologize for using it so carelessly. As I wandered the aisles of fresh fruits and hemp accessories I was inspired to make a dinner solely using ingredients bought at the farmer’s market (and by inspired I mean I was running low on gas and felt too lazy to stop at another store).
I got seduced by an Israeli man with more herbs than Whoopi Goldberg so I got swindled into buying almost everything under the sun. Basil, dill, italian parsley, green onions, rosemary, you name it. I tried to incorporate all of these into my dinner. I decided to make lavender lemon martini’s, a burrata caprese salad, herb salmon and grilled peaches with vanilla ice cream. It was a total stomach boner if I do say so myself and so colorful!
Lavender Cocktail – lemon juice, simple syrup (equal parts sugar and water boiled) infused with fresh lavender, vodka. Add to shaker with ice, shake, serve and sip responsibly… or don’t no judgements.
Caprese Salad – burrata cheese (buffalo mozzarella works too), heirloom tomatoes, basil, olive oil, balsamic vinegar (or glaze). Slice and layer, top with oil and vinegar, salt and pepper.
Herb Salmon – salmon filet(s), lemon, fresh italian parsley, dill, green onion and whatever else you have. Coat salmon in olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper and top with chopped herbs. Drizzle more olive oil over herbs so they don’t burn. Bake in 375 degree oven for 15-20 minutes.
Grilled Peaches with Vanilla Ice Cream – peaches, honey, vegetable oil, vanilla ice cream, mint (I used basil instead). Brush peaches with oil and grill until soft with pretty grill marks, top with vanilla ice cream (after peaches have cooled) drizzle with honey (optional) and garnish with mint.
Bon Appétit bitches.
Yesterday I spent 4 hours watching that fat ass Ina Garten waddle around her Hamptons humble abode and make all of her “effortlessly chic” meals. I will admit Barefoot Cuntessa is my fave cooking show and I genuinely enjoy her recipes and pretentious demeanor. What I can’t deal with is how many times she says the word “decadent”, her plump fingers finagling raw meat and her over sized polo shirts. She tries to overplay the whole rustic lifestyle, it’s like bitch you live in waterfront mansion with a closeted homosexual husband. Also, Matilda called and wants her hairstyle back. Ina pretends all of her recipes appeal to the everyday woman when in reality 96% of them include ingredients you sure as fuck won’t find at your neighborhood Vons.”It’s a super simple desert classic the kids will love. All you need is a imported French macaroon press, a mechanical sifter, locally sourced quail eggs, cashew milk and edible 14 karat gold sprinkles!” Seriously Ina? Go fuck yourself. Every time she goes to her specialty seafood shop or exotic cheese store you can just feel the sexual tension. She is obviously exchanging fellatio for a prime sea bass or the perfectly pungent brie cheese.
You may think I being too harsh to the Barefoot Cuntessa and your probably right. But in hopes of excusing my behavior you may want to take a peek at this. So nasty and so rude (Real Housewives reference…)
So after hours of watching Ina blow a cheese specialist, wrap centerpieces in burlap and skillfully trying to differentiate her wrist from her forearm I decided to give one of her recipes a go. Last time this year I was gallivanting in Paris with a beret and a permanent bottle of champs in my hand so naturally when I saw my bitch whooping this French dish up, I thought it would be perfect to make. I subbed out many of Ina’s faaaaaabulous ingredients for more accessible items you prob already have in the kitchen and added some special bitchy touches cause I am super considerate and down to earth…
- 2 cups of white wine
- 1 medium sized shallot
- 5 cloves of garlic
- Bunch of Italian parsley
- 4 tablespoons of butter
- 1 lb of mussels
- 1 lemon (zested)
- Crushed red pepper, S+P
- Olive oil (#duh)
- 5 russet potatoes
– Preheat oven to 420 degrees.
– Slice potatoes into fry like strips
– Toss with olive oil, s+p
– Bake until golden brown, top with parmesan
– Mince garlic and shallots. Add to pot with olive oil, butter, dash of s+p, double dash of crushed red pepper (more if you’re a spicy bitch) sauté for a couple minutes.
– Add alcohol, turn up the heat and let reduce for few minutes.
– Add mussels. Cover and let cook on higher heat for 5 minutes or until all of the mussels have opened up (toss the ones that don’t)
– Top with chopped parsley and lemon zest. Serve with frites and your fave cocktail.
First dates are literally my version of hell. I get so nervous and over analyze everything. What do I wear? What should I order? Will I accidentally start discussing my faulty digestive system? What if he makes me pay or should I not even offer? Is it a bad idea to bring my own blue cheesed stuffed olives for my martini like I usually do? It is all such a mind fuck and my neurosis really can’t handle all of these pressing precautions. I have only recently discovered how fucked I would be if I was single. When out of my comfort zone, my overall bitch factor becomes astronomically heightened and to say I become unapproachable would be the understatement of the century. Just this past weekend I went out for my best friends birthday and within one hour at the bar I had 3 altercations with various patrons. One guy jokingly called my girl a “loser” for politely denying his offer for a drink and messed with her hair. My inner Medusa shot back within 1.3 seconds as I yelled “Don’t you touch her you fat fuck.” He then told me I looked like a sofa which REALLY pissed me off since I was wearing a fabulous new brocade top that I completely wasted on such an unappreciative crowd. I concluded with “LIKE I WOULD EVER TAKE FASHION ADVICE FROM SOMEONE WEARING MOTHER FUCKING OAKLEY SUNGLASSES YOU SHITHEAD. GO BACK TO THE CAGE IN THE INLAND EMPIRE YOU ESCAPED FROM…FUCKHEAD. AND I DON’T LOOK LIKE A SOFA. FLORALS ARE IN AND THIS WAS EXPENSIVE. FUCK YOU!” But, actually #classy.
When Baby gets out of her comfort zone I become a huge C-U-Next-Tuesday. It’s not wonderful but I must accept the things I cannot change. Needless to say, my first date track records are not something I am proud of (ehem… that time I dated a gay guy). After some happy juice aka my slightly dirty vodka martini, I usually can loosen up and try and project the faux façade of a seemingly mentally stable, fun, all around “good time gal”. So not me. However, there are some dating situations that can never be comfortable… even if the Goose got ya feeling loose. The worst of first dates cannot compare to the extremely traumatizing and potentially life threatening nature of my first date with Dave. Dave was a senior producer at a show I was working at and he had been stalking me for months. This was a rarity given that I am used to doing most of the stalking. He would casually allude to events I had attended without his knowledge, friends of mine I had never spoken of to him and information one could only find from researching the scary depths of my Facebook page. But hey, who am I to judge. I have googled potential suitors until my fingers bled. After one too many weekends Saturday nights alone in my apartment drinking alone and watching that fat fuck Ina Garten make the perfect risotto for her blatantly homosexual husband Jeffrey like a fucking loser, I decided I needed to have a little adventure and finally accepted his date offer.
He invited me over to his home and said he wanted to cook me dinner. In hindsight I should have counter offered to meet at a public space, something less rapey, but being coworkers I figured he wouldn’t be able to kill me and bury me in the backyard. Right? When I got there he had a beautiful cheese plate waiting for me and I instantly felt at ease. Imported cheeses does that for me. After insuring further digestive complications with shoving 3 lbs of blue stilton down my throat, Dave put the gorgeous rack of lamb he made in the oven and we went to the front patio to have drinks. Wow. This was going so well. Could it be possible I was having my first big girl mature dinner date? I had barely dropped any f-bombs or made any Real Housewife references. Fuck, I felt mature. Who knows? Maybe soon I would start watching the news, stop ding dong ditching as a pastime and hiding my housekeepers purse for fun. His phone had been ringing off the hook and he kept politely silencing the calls. “You can totally get that if you need to!” “No it’s not important” Awww, he totally loves me. Minutes later we saw a car speed across his street, then rush around the cul-de-sac almost decapitating a little Hispanic boy playing catch with his Abuelo. What the fuck? The car came to a screeching halt right in front of Dave’s house and some innocent looking petite blonde revealed herself through the window and screamed at the top of her lungs “FUCK YOU AND THAT WHORE. YOU ARE A LIAR. I AM GOING TO KILL MYSELF. YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME. FUCK YOU” She was hysterically crying, SCREAMING and started throwing shit from the passenger seat onto his front lawn. Um… refill anyone? “Jackie you need to go inside NOW.” I waited there stunned and sickly entertained at this shit show. What the fuck is happening? This was fantastic. “JACKIE. INSIDE. NOW. SHE IS DANGEROUS.” Okay so this was actually happening. I grabbed my cocktail (priorities) and hesitantly headed towards the door. “LOCK THE DOORS JACKIE. ALL OF THEM. CALL 911” Um, pardon?! Holy ball fuck. I probably should have followed instructions but the only thing I could think to do was grab the cheese plate, top off my drink and perch myself by a window and watch what was happening outside. She got out of the car and started sprinting to the front door screaming at the top of her lungs. This bitch clearly had escaped some mental ward. I checked for an ankle monitor or straight jacket. Nada. He intersected her mad dash and firmly grabbed her by the shoulders and was hushedly demanding she get the fuck out of here and the police would be their soon. She began hitting him in the chest over and over while still uncontrollably crying. Soon his grip softened and they started having one of those long awkward hugs. She wiped her tears they had a quick laugh and she got back in her car and drove away. He had a cigarette outside, came in and said “So sorry about that. You must be starving. I’ll go check on the lamb!” SERIOUSLY? A reasonable person would grab their shit and run for the fucking hills. But this bitch really likes lamb. BAHHHHd decision (get it… bah like a lamb? I hate myself)
He eventually explained that they had broken up a few months ago and she had since gone on a total downward spiral. She sporadically would drive by the home that they formerly lived in together and plead for him to take her back. She hadn’t done one of these scorn woman drive bys in months so he hadn’t even thought about the consequences of having me over. On this particular evening she was not expecting to see Dave and myself perched on the patio. “She has a really good heart but is very mentally unstable.” Well that’s just fucking fabulous. About 2 hours later, the front beams of Psycho Sally’s car peered into the living room. She was baaaaaaack. The engine turned off and the bitch was on foot. Dave immediately went to the front yard but she stealthily averted her entrance to the side yard. I sat there ready for the show. Shit where was my drink? I started chugging. I heard the side door keylock rattle. HOLY BALL FUCK. THIS BITCH IS GOING TO STAB ME “DAAAAAVE!!!!” I saw my life flash before my eyes. Would I die before I even got to see my upcoming Real Housewife reunion? I am too young to die. At least not like this! This is so not a chic way to go. I’ll smell like lamb for the coroner. Fuck my life! “JACKIE COME WITH ME GET IN THE CAR” the doorknob continued to rattle as Mental-case Mindy struggled for entry. I RAN to the front door and got in Dave’s car barely escaping this crazy bitch. “Where are we going?” “Somewhere safe. I am so sorry to put you through this.” I didn’t want to seem like a terrible person but this was turning into the most exciting night of my life. I hadn’t had an adrenaline rush like this since last summer’s Barney’s Warehouse sale where I had to wrangle a Alexander Wang backpack out of a feisty Asian woman’s claws (asians lose their gyoza for designer travel bags… they rearry rearry do).
We headed to a nearby restaurant aka our Bunny Boiler security base. Dave received another slew of threatening text messages. He decided his only option was calling the police. An hour later we were given the green light to return home as Fatal Attraction Fiona was in custody. When we returned there were 4 cops waiting for us. She had tore his house upside down. I had left my leather jacket which she had used kitchen scissors to defile and basically overturned every piece of furniture, broken every dish and destroyed anything in her path. The house was a total warzone. I was actually super impressed. She seemed so petite, clearly that bitch had been up in da gym. I would never have the upper body strength to overturn a chaise lounge. Dave filed a restraining order and the girl was apparently arrested. Although being questioned by the cops was incredibly romantic I felt it was best for me to head home and leave Dave to deal with the authorities. I drove home and wondered how the fuck any of this could be real and more importantly if I was going to be reimbursed for my leather jacket. I started to empathize for the poor girl and started wondering whether I should visit her in jail and bring her some magazines and a fresh loofah…
I am sure many of you are reading this thinking, this CANT be true. I promise you it is 100% accurate. Some gals get flowers, dinner and a movie. This bitch gets death threats, a police report and 5 days of post-traumatic constipation. I look back on this evening with extreme fondness, gratitude and am happy I am able to share such a whimsical evening with all of you.
Bitch Bible Prophecy: First dates are the ultimate preview to the rest of your impending relationship. When the universe (or local police men) give you clear signals (like a motherfucking RESTRAINING order) finish your cocktail, be gracious and GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE.
So the other night I busted out one of my favorite salmon dishes that gives me and anyone who has had it a massive stomach boner. This recipe is special because it is entirely my own (so I don’t have to give any more credit to that fat ass Ina Garten) is super easy and deceivingly impressive. It is great to make ahead and store in fridge until your ready to chow and is moderately healthy. Also I apologize for the head crop in the first 30 seconds of this video, I blame it on my faulty tripod. I wasn’t actually trying to have a close up of my chesticles despite what it may look like…
- Boneless Skinless Salmon Filet
- Olive Oil
- Salt +Pepper (duh)
- Crushed Red Pepper
- Puff Pastry
- Homemade Herb Butter (butter, garlic, lemon zest and Italian parsley)
Sorry this has taken so long, I have been next level lazy this past week. I LOVE all the Haute Mess Help emails I have received and promise to (eventually) respond to all of them (unless they are really dumb). Here we go…
“ Hi Jack (nickname status already?) I watched your happy hour video and wanted to know if you had any good nonalcoholic drink recipes, something that is still festive so my friend doesn’t feel excluded. She just got over a drinking problem so not the best idea to tempt her with mojitos lol. Thanks – Anna ”
Anna, I try not to mingle with recently recovering alcoholics at all costs but for the sake of being helpful can provide some mocktail recipes. I would probably keep it simple like soda water with a splash of cranberry in a tumbler with lime wedge. For me it’s all about a garnish. I think if you make something too elaborate with umbrellas and monkeys coming out of the glass you may be drawing too much attention to your sober friend Lindsay Lohan. Maybe a “Promises Punch” “Rehab Russian” or even a “Sober Sex on the Beach”? Hope that helps.
“ Hey! I love your blog (thank you!!) especially haute mess for hundred. I am meeting my boyfriends parents this weekend for the first time and they are really conservative. My boyfriend has been warning me I will need to dress more modestly then usual and it has been stressing me out. We are going for lunch this weekend at their hotel, what should I wear? x G”
Hi “G”. If I were you I would keep it simple with some latex thigh high boots and maybe some hot pants and a rhinestoned bra. Kidding. Don’t stress, wear some dark jeans, heels or wedges and a cute blouse. Why is your boyfriend giving you such a hard time? Do you wear a see through mesh body suit every day? Are his parents Amish? I hate when guys tell girls what to wear, know your place. Boring. Tell him if he is so worried about your ensemble, he can go to Ann Taylor and buy you a Barbara Walters skirt suit. Or better yet, a Chanel tweed suit.
And the best for last… What. The. Fuck. “Do you have any sexy single friends, wanna hook me up 😉 i am 5’9, built and love a good time. I will send pics if you think of a good match 🙂 xxx”
Dear future Megan’s law register, yes and definitely not. Please do not send pics – or do if you want them published. I would like a looksie . Simmer down Pauly D, this isn’t fucking plenty of fish. And 5’9 isn’t very tall so cool it. But please continue to read my blog. I’m assuming you have a lot of free time on (and with) your hands to do so. Also I am offended by your winky face. (see Haute Mess Red Flags ) xo
I generally like the process of cooking. The chopping, sautéing, preparing is all very therapeutic for me. God knows I need all the therapy I can get, especially if it’s free. However, cooking a four course meal on a Monday night is just NOT an option. I don’t know about you, but Monday night of television is my ultimate state of euphoria. (When “Homeland” and “Girls” come back on Sunday nights will take priority). Given my incredibly ambitious 5 HOURS of TV to watch, a gal has to make some shortcuts. My ego is far too big to resort to take-out so I prefer to half assedly prepare a dinner with minimal prep work using (mostly) pre-prepared food. I get to pretend I slaved away making dinner, get major girlfriend points, he cleans AND I get to let out my years of suppressed tears watching “The Bachelorette”? Win fucking win.
It has been a dream of mine to be bartender for a couple days, I could never pull it off long term but a short stint I could handle… in a really slow bar. Whenever my friends or I have a party I always like to be in charge of appetizers and drinks cause those are my specialties. I also HATE the taste of mixes – way too much sugar. Some of my favorite drinks to make are…
- Haute Mess Dirty Martini
- The Ivy “Schimlet”
- Spicy Grapefruit Margarita
- Lavender Champagne
Here is me living a dream and playing bartender in my apartment. My boyfriend almost went into cardiac arrest after drinking my margarita… maybe omit some of the jalapeno. Coyote Ugly anyone?