Is there such a thing as too much chocolate?

Rather than wax rhapsodic about turkey on this day of turkey, aka Thanksgiving, I thought I would discuss a food that we daily give thanks for, chocolate.

Ah, chocolate, made from the seeds of the tropical cacao tree, instrument of pleasure and even, occasionally, pain. Associated with virility and fertility, this product of the cacao bean has a long, rich history going back hundreds of years. And in Chicago this Wednesday, the spouse and I, along with our daughter, brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and two fellow (unrelated) chocoholics got to experience if not the ultimate chocolate fantasy certainly a chocoholics dream afternoon.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a Chicago Chocolate Tour, 90 minutes of chocolaty goodness in the Windy City (aka Obamaland) condensed into one blog post.

After meeting up at the main floor Concierge Desk at 900 N. Michigan Ave., on Chicago's Magnificent Mile, we headed upstairs to Teuscher Chocolates of Switzerland, home of "The best Champagne truffles on the planet," per Zagat -- and the J-TWO-O family:

Then we braved the wind and cold to go to More Cupcakes, a feast for the eyes and tummy, run by a mother of five. There we sampled chocolate/chocolate cream and chocolate/vanilla bean cupcakes:

After stumbling out of More Cupcakes in a sugar- and chocolate-induced haze, our band of merry chocolateers headed to Sarah's Candies & Pastries, the creation of longtime candy and pastry lover Sarah Levy (who is only in her 20s -- and proof that chocolate is the secret to happiness), where we got to watch a nice man enrobe candied orange peel in chocolate -- and then eat some.

After all that chocolate, things began to get a little fuzzy (and a little too milk chocolaty) for me. We headed to Water Tower Place, to Lindt, where I vaguely remember standing in front of The Wall of Truffles and eating an extra dark truffle and being cajoled to eat/buy more chocolate, and then stumbling out of the shop in search of some water, in a chocolate-induced haze.

Then we headed downstairs to the Frango store, where I did not even attempt to eat the chocolate-covered minty creations, though my daughter gamely downed both the original and limited-edition candy cane variety of Frango Mint (which has just not been the same since Macy's took over Marshall Field's, a Chicago institution).

Stumbling out of Water Tower Place we headed across several blocks to our final chocolate destination, Argo Tea, where we drank what can best be described as "liquid candy cane" but was some kind of white chocolate mint tea concoction, and were given samples of brownies, which, like the Frango Mints, I shoved into my goody bag.

Engorged with chocolate we waddled back to 900 N. Michigan and to our car -- and headed off to Whole Foods to do some last-minute Thanksgiving shopping.

And speaking of Thanksgiving, as I sit here in my heart-covered velveteen purple pajamas, I wish one and all a very happy and healthy Thanksgiving (one hopefully filled with at least a little dark chocolate, which as we now know is filled with healthy antioxidants).

Giving Thanks

As Thanksgiving is only two days away, I thought this an appropriate time and space to give thanks to all the people, things, and events I am thankful for this year.

I am thankful...

* that I have a spouse who not only loves me but supports all of my endeavors, including this blog (on which he often comments).

* that I have a daughter who can't say "I love you" enough; who does her homework without being asked; and who loves to learn and to read and to write. (Now if only we could get her to clean up after herself....)

* to have two affectionate cats who keep me company and make me laugh in sickness and in health (one of whom is currently batting a rubber ball all over our wooden-floored house and the other of whom is pawing my hands as I type and swishing her tail across my monitor).

* for all of YOU, my blog readers, especially the ones who take the extra time to leave a comment. (With special shout outs to Dave S., who is like the brother I never had and always wanted -- and was the one who encouraged me to blog, and EMM, who makes me laugh, over at Potpourri for $500; Larissa and her haikus; my mother, who reads EVERY blog post, bless her, and always emails me a nice comment; "Moishie," also one of my most devoted readers, who leaves me funny comments; Tommy over at Blah Blog Blah; "Betty" over at Betty Cracker, one of the best political blogs to come out of this election year; and Melanie, the estimable mistress of BeanPaste, one of the funniest, sweetest, and tastiest blogs on the Web, who gave me two honorable mentions and links recently, for which I am most grateful.)

* similarly that there is this wondrous thing called "the blogosphere," which has given me (and a lot of other folks, for better and/or for worse) an outlet to say the things (well, at least some of the things) I've always wanted to say or write -- and allowed me to discover many other wonderful writers, thinkers, and photographers (many of whom are listed in my blogroll, to the right, which I recommend you check out) whom I may not otherwise have known about.

* for the work opportunities I have had and the new ones awaiting me.

* for the roof over my head, especially now that it no longer leaks.

* for the delicious food I hope to be eating over Thanksgiving break.

* for my health and the good health of my family and friends.

* that BOTH the Jets and the Giants are in first place. (And Lord, if it's not too much to ask, a Jets vs. Giants Super Bowl XLIII?)

* that Barack Hussein Obama will be our 44th President -- and that Sarah Palin will NOT be the Vice President (at least not for the next four years). For both these things, I am especially grateful.

What are you grateful for this Thanksgiving? Leave a comment and let me know.

Football! Beer! Sex! Pumpkin pie!

Finally, a blog post for everyone.

First, football. (And ladies, if you are not interested in me talking about a bunch of guys with no necks and upper arms the size of your waist in too-tight short pants constantly touching and trying to tackle each other all for a little pigskin, just scroll down the page a wee bit. I promise you will not be disappointed.)

So football. As many of you already know, yesterday afternoon the big story here in the New York City Metro Area (and probably in Tennessee, too, albeit for different reasons) was the New York Jets mowing down undefeated Tennessee for a Titan-ic upset (think crop duster and Cary Grant in "North by Northwest"). The stunning 34 - 13 upset now gives the Jets an 8 - 3 record, leaving them securely atop the AFC East. (Well, at least for another week.) Who'd a thunk it?

And, while I admit I am a wee bit disappointed that the Jets did not wear their New York Titans uniforms, I am not disappointed in the least with Brett Favre (who now has the most passing touchdowns in NFL history, passing Dan Marino -- and yes, probably the most picks, too), Leon Washington (that guy can MOVE), Laveranues (I rest my case) Coles, and the rest of Gang Green's performance today. Well done, Jets, well done.

As for the New York Giants... 10 and 1, baby -- and still leading the NFC! Giants. Could. Go. All. The. Way. (The crowd goes wild. Okay, I go wild. And the spouse. And, okay, probably several million Giants fans watching the G-Men put away the Arizona Cardinals last night, Eastern Time). Final score, 37 - 29. And they got it done without my man, Brandon Jacobs, who sat out the game with a knee injury; without Plaxico Burress, who had hamstring problems; and without David Tyree, the guy who made that amazing (and memorable) Super Bowl XLII catch. But you would have hardly known anyone was missing the way the Giants played yesterday.

I am definitely smelling Super Bowl (though it could just be leftover beer from last year's team-changing Big Game, which was also played at University of Phoenix Stadium).

And speaking of leftover beer...

As some of my readers may remember, this summer, while biking in the Pacific Northwest, I was introduced to Fat Tire Amber Ale, and quickly became addicted*. This addiction quickly turned into obsession when, upon my return to the Northeast, I discovered, you cannot get Fat Tire in the Northeast. Bereft and distraught (after discovering I could not even get New Belgium Brewing to ship me a case, nor could I find someone online who would ship me some), my dear friend, T. from B., who as far as I know isn't even that into beer, then took it upon herself to purchase and have shipped to me 20 22 oz. bottles of this nectar of the beer gods.

Beautiful, are they not? Talk about Drinkability. Mm mm.

Well, sadly, we are now down to eight bottles, two of which we are saving to give to my stepfather, who relishes a good beer, in a couple weeks. (And no, T. from B., this does NOT mean you need to order me more. Your original gift was more than generous.)

Besides, you know what too much beer leads to, right? Sex. Well, if you are lucky, guys. You know what else can lead to sex? Doing the dishes. (Hey, my man Obama is no fool.)

Just look at that picture. Is that sexy or what? Ladies, you know what I am talking about. The best part? I did not even have to ask the spouse to clean those filthy oven racks. He just donned his bright orange latex gloves and started scrubbing away, while our oven was self cleaning and we were watching the Jets game (see above). I think that behavior deserves a reward.

Which is why I made this:

That be mighty fine pie -- topped with the best homemade whipped cream you never had. (My secret: rum. And vanilla. Hmm. Guess it's not a secret anymore.)

Okay, technically, I made this delicious-looking (and tasting!) pumpkin pie because our neighbors (both of whom are Giants and Fat Tire fans) invited us over for a pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving feast yesterday, and we were tasked with bringing a pie and a vegetable. (I made a big autumn salad, even though it feels more like winter.) Also, the kid's been pestering me to make a pumpkin pie for years.

In all, it was a mighty fine Sunday. A win-win-win. (Great football. Great food. Great fun.)

Coming up next on J-TWO-O, things I am thankful for. Stay tuned...

12 NOON OFF-TOPIC UPDATE: This just in: Tiger Woods will no longer be forced to drive a Buick. According to reports, GM will no longer use Woods as a pitchman after this year, which is reportedly fine by Tiger as he hated being taken for an eighty-something driver and wearing those funny driving caps.

*A clarification: I am not technically addicted to Flat Tire (or any other beer or form of alcohol), though it sure felt that way during the latter part of the summer. It was a TURN OF PHRASE, a bit of hyperbole. Happy now, J1?

"Bronx Mowgli" and what else NOT to name your child

I get the whole "let's be original! our child needs to stand out from the pack!" mentality, parents of Suri, Sunday, Shiloh, Moses and Apple. But Ever Gabo? Zuma Nesta Rock? And Bronx Mowgli? Give me -- and the poor kid -- a friggin' break! Not that I am saying everyone should name his or her kid something traditional (i.e., English or Biblical -- and let's face it, there are some mighty odd names, at least by today's standards, in the Bible). Just something spellable and pronounceable, that won't give the poor kid a complex.

So herewith I give you "J.'s Rules for What Not to Name Your Child." (Note: The opinions expressed herein are J.'s and are not necessarily shared by her family or friends.)

1. Do not name your child something offensive or obsene (or just downright stupid), like "Shithead" (pronounced "Shuh-TEED") or "Loser" (though Loser turned out to be a winner, while his brother, Winner, turned out to be a loser), both cases mentioned in the book Freakonomics. In New Zealand, authorities have the right to turn down names that are openly offensive or obscene and have already said no to Fish and Chips, Yeah Detroit, Stallion, Twisty Poi, Keenan Got Lucky, Sex Fruit, Fat Boy, Satan, Adolf Hitler, and 4Real. For real. In fact, the parents of "Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii" lost custody of the child, who went by the initial "K" instead, she was so embarrassed by her name.

2. Do not name your child after a borough of the City of New York. (Yeah, I'm talking to you David and Victoria "Posh Spice" Beckham and you, Ashlee with two "e"s and Pete Wenz.)

3. Do not name your child after a beach. (Do you know what kind of sludge washes up onto beaches?)

4. Do not name your child after a beverage, adult or otherwise. (Does the world really need another "Budweiser" or "Zuma"? Though the parents of the latter say they named him after the beach. Though really, is a beach any better? See above.)

5. Do not name your child after a day of the week, unless you are a member of the Addams Family. (Though, okay, Tuesday -- nee Susan -- Weld was pretty cute, though she suffered a nervous breakdown at 9, started drinking heavily at 10, and tried to kill herself at 12. Are you paying attention, Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban?)

6. Do not name your child after your or anyone else's car. (Why? Do you really want to hear some guy say "Oh what a feeling to drive a Toyota" when you know he's not talking about the car? Enough said.)

7. Do not name your child after a menu item, even one from a fancy French restaurant. (Yes, I'm talking 'bout you, parents of all those "Happy Meals." And while I love a good cupcake, I do not suggest naming your child after one.)

8. Do not pick a name you can't spell, and then come up with some weird spelling that no one else can spell or pronounce. (FYI, If you, an adult, can't spell it, what makes you think your kid, his friends, and/or his teachers will?) PC Warning: The only possible exception to this rule is if you know for sure your son is going to grow up to be a professional basketball or football player in the United States. And even then, can't you cut the announcers/commentators some slack? Their job is hard enough as is.

Special note here for my Welsh and Irish/Gaelic readers: This rule does not necessarily apply to you, especially if you reside in Wales or Ireland where I assume you and other people will know how to spell your child's name, even if the rest of us don't.

I am sure if I sat here long enough, I could come up with more rules, but I need to take little Hard Day's Night Two-O shopping for some winter outerwear.

P.S. If you want to have a little fun researching baby names, try the The Baby Name Wizard, where you can "explore name trends letter by letter."

UPDATED 12:08 P.M.: I just came across this blog/web post titled "Baby's Named a Bad, Bad Thing: A Primer on Parent Cruelty," which is also pretty darn funny (and/or scary, depending on your point of view).

UPDATED AGAIN AT 3:55 P.M.: How could I have possibly left off Kal-el Coppola Cage, Moxie CrimeFighter Jillette, or Soleil Moon Frye, who named her children Jagger and Poet? (For more unusual celebrity baby names, click on the link.)

Will it be the (NY) Titans vs. the (TN) Titans this Sunday? And other things on my mind...

First, the Jets, and this Sunday's big matchup against the Tennessee Titans.

Think of the mayhem and witty repartee that matchup would elicit from the CBS crew covering the game, especially the color commentator, if the Jets decided to wear their New York Titans uniforms! (Laura S., cover your ears.) It would be the (New York) Titans vs. the (Tennessee) Titans, both of whom are first in their respective divisions (albeit the ones from Tennessee are undefeated)!

Btw, for those who did not read my previous post on this subject, where I asked "Yo Jets, what's the deal with the 'Titans' uniforms?, I get that the Jets (who play in New Jersey, though originally played in New York, at Shea Stadium) started life in 1960 as the New York Titans. And I get the whole nostalgia, yearning for the glory days, it's a great marketing opportunity/sell more stuff thing. But let us recall, dear Jets management and sports fans, it was not the New York Titans who won Super Bowl III. It was the New York Jets.

And this whole throwback uniform thing has got to stop. Well, after Sunday anyways, that is assuming the Jets do don their Titans regalia, which they probably won't. I mean, did you see the Pittsburgh Steelers throwback uniforms the other week? Pathetic.

More importantly, you do not see the Baltimore Ravens donning Colts uniforms (even though, technically, they were the Cleveland Browns). No. Nor do you see the Houston Texans donning Oilers uniforms (though technically the Oilers are now the Tennessee Titans, as opposed to the New York Titans, who are, as we know, now known as the New York Jets, even though they play in -- everybody now -- New Jersey). As for the current Cleveland Browns... I'll just leave that one alone.

Getting back to the Jets... As I was saying, I get the whole nostalgia + cool new uniforms = $$$ thing (though I doubt that New York Titans jerseys and paraphernalia are exactly flying off the shelves), but enough already. Or enough after this Sunday.

Please, Eric Mangini and Mike Tannenbaum, grant me this one little wish and have the Jets wear their New York Titans uniforms one last time? Then, boys, it's back to business and to being Gang Green, not Gang Teal and Gold, OK?

Btw, I am not 100% sure about this, but I am pretty sure the Jets Flight Crew (aka the Jets cheerleaders, pictured above, obviously before winter came early) never donned Titans uniforms, though someone please correct me if I am wrong. And don't they look fine?

No matter which uniforms they wear this Sunday, though, I wish the Jets luck in their matchup with the (soon to be defeated?) Tennessee Titans, though the spouse and I have a soft spot for Titans QB Kerry Collins, who once played for the New York Giants. Still, if Brett Favre doesn't throw a pick (or three) and doesn't get sacked, and the Jets defense holds, I think the Jets could just clip the Titans.

Other Things on My Mind (in No Particular Order)...

* Dave S.'s theory of grocery bagging, which I don't have a problem with, as long as he's the one left holding the bag(s).

* Cupcakes! My friend, Cat, who lives in Paris, recently started a cupcake business and blog -- and the cupcake pictures alone (which she took) have me continually checking the site.

* When the will-she-or-won't-she drama over whether Hillary Clinton will be Obama's Secretary of State will end. (Please tell me this psychodrama will end BEFORE Thanksgiving. Please?)

* Why lawmakers (i.e., Congress) are holding the auto industry to higher standards (something they should have done YEARS ago) than the financial services industry, which has also done a good job of pissing away money, and taking consumers for a ride.

* Wondering if there is a new post up on my new favorite humor blog, I'm Not Feeling You.

* Anderson Cooper. (Blog post to come soon, Lizzy.)

* The Puppy Cam!

* People who walk behind moving cars (namely mine), i.e., see you moving but decide to walk or run behind you as you are backing out anyway and then get annoyed with YOU.

* And, should I be concerned that my spouse now has a Facebook page?

Have something on your mind that you want to share with the group? Go ahead and leave me a comment.

Alas, poor Yugo! (Last Yugo rolls of the assembly line today.)

Sure, the Yugo, the pride of the former Soviet Yugoslavia, had its problems -- engine problems, transmission problems, clutch problems, electrical problems, door problems... (Did I leave anything out?) But according to this Associated Press story, it was the Volkswagen Beetle (the original, popular one) of the former Yugoslav republics. A practical cult figure in car culture. And "over 100,000 Yugo GVs — standing for Great Value — were sold in the U.S. before Yugo America — the company that imported it — went bankrupt."

(Although Time magazine voted the Yugo one of The Fifty Worst Cars of All Time, you would hardly have guessed it from this commercial.)



But, sadly, as of today, even Eastern Europeans will no longer have the Yugo to kick (or push*) around anymore, at least not any new ones, because today, comrades, the last Yugo is rolling off the assembly line in Kragujevac, Serbia.

And as we bid a fond farewell (or good riddance) to the Yugo, which joins other once iconic vehicles (aka deathtraps) such as the Ford Pinto and the AMC Gremlin in that junkyard in the sky, I leave you with this quote from a proud Serbian Yugo owner: "This is driving in its most natural form. You feel every bump, squeak and jolt, and one can enjoy the sweet smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes.... No car can replace it."

(Or, as Hamlet might have said: "Alas, poor Yugo! I knew it, Horatio. A car of infinite jest, of most ill-conceived fancy. It hath bore me on its seats a thousand times, and now how abhorr'd in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it.")

So goodbye Yugo. And goodbye Yugo jokes*. You will be missed. (Not.)

* Q: Why does a Yugo have a defroster on the rear window?

A: To keep your hands warm while you push it.

Happy Belated Birthday to Demi Moore

Who turned 46 (46!) on November 11. (Making her much older than I am. Ahem. ; ) While I am not personally a Demi Moore fan, I know at least one of my (male) readers is. So here is a little Demi Candy for you, honey.

For the record, though, I do not believe she was Mrs. Ashton Kutcher yet when this photo was taken (if you catch my drift). ; )

And speaking of Ashton Kutcher, 30, who is not-so-bad-looking himself, per today's Scoop column on MSNBC, Mr. Demi Moore threw his wifey an intimate dinner party for 20 or so friends near where Demi was shooting her latest film.

As Scoop columnist Courtney Hazlett reported:

“They were cuddling and kissing all night,” a witness told Us. And it’s no secret that Kutcher is completely smitten with his wife of three years. “He’s in such awe of her,” a source tells Us. “He’s always telling her how beautiful she is and telling his friends how lucky he is.”

All together now: Aaaaaaw.

Gentleman, please take notice. You want to know the way to a woman's heart, the real one? Remember to tell her how beautiful she is -- and tell your friends how lucky you are. Granted, we are not all Demi Moores. But then again, how many of you are Ashton Kutchers?

UPDATED 11:15 A.M.: Blog reader "Another David S." just sent me this pre-boob job picture of Demi, with the note, "How gorgeous was this woman?"

I think Demi was around 18 at the time. I am with the boys on this one: she was way better looking before all the work. But I may be a bit biased as a lifetime member of the IBTC.