“I am a hot bread freak,” grimly conceded Nancita. A size-four who hated photos of her heavy legs, rare images circulated, pre-social media, of the near-anorexic’s cankles. Monkey bread is loaded with sugar and butter, and mine has chopped pecans. “Well, there you have it, folks,” as Ben Meiselas says. Ron’s favorite sweet was jelly 🫘, and Nancy’s 🍪. They would not touch the avalanche of gift chocolates she claimed they so often received from their wealthy un-MAGA fans and benefactors. Bypassing Godiva for cheap treats betrayed the couple’s humble origins.
Probably See’s, the bitch. Nancy Kissinger was such a fan that they were delivered via diplomatic pouch. Whenever we visit our grandchildren, my husband follows my rant that war criminals have no right to See’s, he visits the nearest, where he’s known as, “Caramel-patty man for his lady,” by the See’s ladies in white Intensive Chocolate Update unfinished.
Accounts of the Reagans’ surgeries and duets appeared almost daily in the papers. Twisting the knife again, a female journalist remarked, “like a charming play with third-act problems, a pair of piano legs tapers with unhappy abruptness. Nancy had a stroke, redoubling a loathing of female reporters dating back to Joan Didion.*
On AF1, she took offense when diabetics and dieters refused the chocolates she forced on them, culminating in a second pass with a sign hanging around her neck reading TAKE ONE OR ELSE! This White House and food— well, I’ll make a post or two.
*
“Pretty Nancy,” Joan Didion, SATURDAY EVENING POST (1968); THE WHITE ALBUM (1979). The guys at J-school didn’t know why we chicks howled. “I guess she would have liked it better if I’d snarled,” sulked Nancy, giving Didion both barrels in her otherwise two evasive memoirs.
How you would have hated Washington in the ‘80s. She couldn’t even get new White House china without making a scene. HMTQ mixed patterns at the palace! “What do you think about Red China?” a man in a wifebeater asks a woman in a torn house dress. “What pattern?”
Yeah, so WTF IS Monkey Bread anyways?! Just another abomination from those great Reagan years? An homage to his leading chimp. Something Nancy came up with to keep the senile old coot happy? I guess we'll never know!
Maybe ask that ne'er-do-well, do-nothing daughter of his, by one of his fake wives. (Maybe the one who divorced him for reasons she agreed not to disclose. Surely not the one Ronny called "Mommy.") Somehow "Patty" turned into a flack, typing for once-respectable newspapers, insincerely defending the memory of the proudly ignorant daddy she rightly hated for so long.
It’s missing some old timey traditions: having servants do all of the work, hanging tinsel, snitching on your coworkers as communists and ruining lives, even though you’re only marginally an actress to begin with.
I seem to remember this recipe having more Percocet and crying, but maybe I'm sentimental that way. Nancy, though, is a nice reminder that happiness, for the rich, is just the thin veneer over a deep well of misery. It helps in that when rich assholes die, I feel more relief than joy.
Thank you, hic!
“I am a hot bread freak,” grimly conceded Nancita. A size-four who hated photos of her heavy legs, rare images circulated, pre-social media, of the near-anorexic’s cankles. Monkey bread is loaded with sugar and butter, and mine has chopped pecans. “Well, there you have it, folks,” as Ben Meiselas says. Ron’s favorite sweet was jelly 🫘, and Nancy’s 🍪. They would not touch the avalanche of gift chocolates she claimed they so often received from their wealthy un-MAGA fans and benefactors. Bypassing Godiva for cheap treats betrayed the couple’s humble origins.
Probably See’s, the bitch. Nancy Kissinger was such a fan that they were delivered via diplomatic pouch. Whenever we visit our grandchildren, my husband follows my rant that war criminals have no right to See’s, he visits the nearest, where he’s known as, “Caramel-patty man for his lady,” by the See’s ladies in white Intensive Chocolate Update unfinished.
Accounts of the Reagans’ surgeries and duets appeared almost daily in the papers. Twisting the knife again, a female journalist remarked, “like a charming play with third-act problems, a pair of piano legs tapers with unhappy abruptness. Nancy had a stroke, redoubling a loathing of female reporters dating back to Joan Didion.*
On AF1, she took offense when diabetics and dieters refused the chocolates she forced on them, culminating in a second pass with a sign hanging around her neck reading TAKE ONE OR ELSE! This White House and food— well, I’ll make a post or two.
*
“Pretty Nancy,” Joan Didion, SATURDAY EVENING POST (1968); THE WHITE ALBUM (1979). The guys at J-school didn’t know why we chicks howled. “I guess she would have liked it better if I’d snarled,” sulked Nancy, giving Didion both barrels in her otherwise two evasive memoirs.
Nothing the Rayguns did ever came to any good. I'll never forgive that sonofabitch or the spouse.
Ugh. Pass.
Fucking Reagans.
Every Thanksgiving I read this, laugh well, and always wonder, "What happened to the second Percocet?"
I think she had adequate tolerance to double down.
Sorry -- the thought of that vile human being renders this food "of hers" inedible.
How you would have hated Washington in the ‘80s. She couldn’t even get new White House china without making a scene. HMTQ mixed patterns at the palace! “What do you think about Red China?” a man in a wifebeater asks a woman in a torn house dress. “What pattern?”
I go Eeep eeep eeep for Nancy's monkeybread!
Yeah, so WTF IS Monkey Bread anyways?! Just another abomination from those great Reagan years? An homage to his leading chimp. Something Nancy came up with to keep the senile old coot happy? I guess we'll never know!
Maybe ask that ne'er-do-well, do-nothing daughter of his, by one of his fake wives. (Maybe the one who divorced him for reasons she agreed not to disclose. Surely not the one Ronny called "Mommy.") Somehow "Patty" turned into a flack, typing for once-respectable newspapers, insincerely defending the memory of the proudly ignorant daddy she rightly hated for so long.
Sorry, but you immediately lost me at "Nancy Reagan". Nope.
Nancy Reagan? (may her name be erased)
Just something I found interesting - because I always liked ZaSu Pitts in the movies.
https://folklife.si.edu/magazine/foodways-holiday-monkey-bread-hungary-hollywood
Monkey Brane Klezmer Time!
The Crew looking like they are going to mayhem. They mayhemed while I dreamed about being a grunt in combat against N. Koreans before I woke up.
https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fmedia_upload%2Fcomment%2F0c6f6b9e-73f9-472e-b70f-e905b26b3a89%2Fa7ddcff9-d9fc-4a29-a625-675e0c02c5fa.jpeg
Bear says I'd eat that. Because apparently Bear is preparing for hibernation and is eating all the things. I believe it's a sign of a cold winter like the colors on a woolly worm(or bear). https://substack.com/@ziggywiggy/note/c-79083291?utm_source=notes-share-action&r=2knfuc
"Drink third whisky sour, fall asleep on floor."
And remember, you washed down that Percocet with your first whiskey sour.
Oh, you don't remember?
One person's "fall asleep" is another person's "pass out."
Good health to ye!
Never forget "Paul's Law".
It's impossible to fall off the floor.
Three whiskey sours to pass out? Ah, I remember when I was 12.
Yeah what an amateur! Three whiskey sours and 2 Percocets would have me painting the house! No sleeping for me.
It’s missing some old timey traditions: having servants do all of the work, hanging tinsel, snitching on your coworkers as communists and ruining lives, even though you’re only marginally an actress to begin with.
I seem to remember this recipe having more Percocet and crying, but maybe I'm sentimental that way. Nancy, though, is a nice reminder that happiness, for the rich, is just the thin veneer over a deep well of misery. It helps in that when rich assholes die, I feel more relief than joy.
What do you buy a man who has everything?
a bullet.
"You will be remembered not for what you did, but for what you were" always applies.