It’s the Little Things


Secret Agent Fred has been staying over here for the last few weeks while he makes some coin renting his place out on AirBnB which brings a recent story in the NY Times to stark attention.  Here’s the Times’s bit:

The Airbnb host locked (the guest) in the fourth-floor apartment where he was supposed to be staying and removed the key. The host then began rattling knives around in the kitchen drawer and pressing him to submit to a sexual act. He begged his mother for help by texts.

When she called Airbnb, its employees would not give her the address and would not call the police. Instead, they gave her a number for the Madrid police and told her to ask the police to call the company for the address. But the number led to a recording in Spanish that kept disconnecting her, she said, and when she repeatedly called back her Airbnb contact, the calls went straight to voice mail.

According to her son, Jacob Lopez, he was sexually assaulted that night. Eventually, he persuaded his host to free him. He returned home to Massachusetts and is in trauma therapy.

His host, who was born male but is living as a woman, denied Mr. Lopez’s accusations. She denied threatening him and said that the sex act was consensual and that he is transphobic.

Transphobic or not, I am just suspicious about the host’s claims.  When it comes to sexcapades, I can modestly claim to have been around the block plenty of times (puh-lenty) and none of the festivities ever commenced with my host locking me in.  Girl, do you understand what “consensual” means?  If one of you is send his mommy texts along the lines of “Get me the fuck out of here” consensual has pretty much left the building.


Why don’t you wait here while I go check the deadbolt?

In a happier note, while Fred was here he burst into a cooking frenzy one afternoon and produced chicken consommé, steak a poivre, a batch of pesto sauce, and spaghetti with home made red sauce.  In one day.  I have no idea what possessed the little devil, I was asleep through most of it and only woke up to the most delicious scents filling the house.

Actually, I do know what set off the consommé.  We often go to tea at Neiman’s and they always start you off with a tiny cup of it and a popover.  An odd combination, but absolutely delicious so who’s complaining?  Anyway, Fred got it in his tiny little head to recreate it for our friend Jen, who’s particularly fond of it and who just got a new job, in congratulations.  It was Neiman’s recipe, but even tastier.

The recipe called for a whole chicken cut up and filled my 6 quart stock pot, but by the time it finished cooking down to consommé, it only produced a couple pints.  Still, totally delicious.

About mrpeenee

A former bon vivant and terror of a number of New Orleans bars in the mad, gay 1980s, I'm now quietly retired and widowed in San Francisco. I have a crooked nose due to an unfortunate Frisbee accident.

7 responses »

  1. I’m think I’m most speechless from that illustration. Who is that uniquely talented young creature?

    I’ve always liked my grandmother’s approach to reductions, which she said requires the most deceptively simple of directions: “Take one cow; reduce to one cup.”


    • The thing is I don’t know what to do with the massive remains of chicken bits and stock vegetables. It seems so wasteful to toss them, but they don’t really lend themselves to much else.


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