Lobster Fra Diavolo And An old Italian DB.

My take on an old Italian-American favorite: Lobster Brotha' Devil

 Lobstermania is in full swing here in Maine, which is partly why I've been MIA.  I've been shamelessly sampling the goods since the day we arrived into Portland back in April, when I had my first Maine-style (cold meat, mayo) Lobster roll at The Dry Dock.  And I continue to sample the goods, for the sake of amateur Lobster research. 

Lobster is not a food that featured heavily in my diet until we moved to Maine.  It's expensive and kind of rare in, oh, you know, everywhere.  In fact, I could count the number of times I'd had a whole lobster in the shell before I got to Portland on, well, one finger. :)  I'd had lobster tails or lobster meat in pasta dishes maybe 5-10 times other than that, and therefore, having lobster has always had an absolutely mythical excitement surrounding it to me.  I remember almost every single lobster meal I've had pretty clearly.  And I am sure by now you know that I am a meal-remember that can hang with the best of them.

As a small homage to my past lobster experiences, several weeks ago I recreated one of my favorite Lobster dishes in the world - a dish that has special meaning to me because I've always eaten it at great restaurants and on memorable occasions: Lobster Fra Diavolo.  The ensuing lobster murder (because I decided to cut it in half while alive rather than just boil it whole) was semi-traumatic, but not traumatic enough to stop me from eating lobster again (and again).

With its spicy tomato sauce, Lobster Fra Diavolo can be a highly messy affair if the lobster does not come a) already picked for you or b) sliced in half lengthwise, which isn't ideal given that it's an expensive dish generally served at expensive establishments, which means you're probably dressed up when eating it.  As far as life experiences go, leaving a restaurant with a stained dress and garlic/lobster breath is a small price to pay as far as I'm concerned. :) 

Now this is also an interesting dish because it's technically considered more Italian-American than Italian-Italian as a dish.  The name "Fra Diavolo" means "brother devil," with the brother referring more to a monk or religious brother than the kid your mom also gave birth to.  I am not certain whether there is a connection or not but, tenuous as it is, there was also a crazy Neapolitan guerrilla leader named Michele Pezza back in the early 19th century who was nicknamed Fra Diavolo because he was such a brat as a kid.

From his photos Mikey looks like kind of a DB; I'm not gonna lie.  And I therefore am going to go ahead and un-claim any possible, tenuous connection he might have to the nomenclature of this favored dish of mine.  Someone who looks like that just doesn't deserve the honor:

If you want to make Lobster Fra Diavolo, I highly recommend Deborah Mele's recipe on Italian Food Forever. My modifications: use spaghetti, omit the basil, add more garlic, and add a generous helping of chopped fresh italian parsley and fresh lemon juice as a final garnish.  Don't forget an extra plate for the lobster shell bits. :)

And now the list of the day.

* * *

My Top 5 Lobster Meals Ever.
So good the devil may actually care.

5. The First: The first time I ever had lobster was in college at a no-name place in Cambridge, MA with Matt.  We got two 1lb lobsters for $20 and I was traumatized by the sheer quantity of butter Matt consumed in one sitting.  Ah, the college days.

4. The Last: The last time I ever ate at Steak-n-Ale was on my 1st anniversary with Matt in South Bend, IN.  I foolishly ordered the surf-n-turf and it was...pretty bad.  Mental note: they don't serve seafood often in the Midwest for a reason.  Still, great time. :)

3. The In-Laws: A few months before we got married, in March or April 2006, our parents met for the first time and had lunch together at Patsy's in the Upper West Side.  I boldly ordered Lobster Fra Diavolo.  It came out in all its glory on a huge platter, pre-cracked claws and lobster body.  To this day I maintain that everyone had entree envy. 

2. The Roll: A year ago or so I wrote about the best lobster roll I've ever had.  It was at the Lobster Landing in Connecticut and since then I've had a lot more lobster rolls here in Maine but none have ever compared.  I am not a fan of mayonnaise on seafood, which is the Maine-style of Lobster roll.  I want the hot meat, hot roll and hot butter poured all over it.
 
1. The Utter Madness: The second best Lobster Fra Diavolo I've ever had was at Cafe Tacci in New York, a place that no longer exists in its original form.  It was a small restaurant in NYC where professional opera singers would come to sing on a tiny wooden stage in their own time, while you ate and chatted.  The food was great and the ambiance was nothing short of total madness with Bolero! being belted out, the table shaking, and the tiny restaurant reverberating under the weight of the hefty voices.  Amazing.

Feasting in the Med: Better than Gap Yah.

Honey Almond Pistachio Cake

I don't know exactly how the idea came about, but someone (probably me, actually) somehow suggested we have a feast at my house to toast our leaving London just once more (as if I haven't had enough random boozy nights out with the girls by now). That suggestion quickly turned into a potluck Mediterranean-themed dinner involving 4 couples, Cranium, charades, and all with a common goal: to empty our liquor/wine cabinet in the blessed name of "less packing."

You'll be relieved to hear that while the Cranium and charades were inadvertently left on the backburner, we did successfully finish off the household wine-supply of 6 bottles of wine (well minus the bottle of Madeira which it would just have been crass to open given we'd already had dessert by the time we noticed it in the corner), in addition to the other 6 bottles brought over for good measure by guests. 12 bottles for 12 people: 4 precariously-sleeping-babies, 8 adults of which - 1 non-drinker, 1 breast-feeder, and 2 early-duck-outs due to a 1st birthday party the next day.
You do the math.

By the end of the night, I was feeling like maybe - just maybe - I wasn't really doing the Mediterranean's tendency toward moderate social-drinking much justice, but, frankly I didn't care.

There was singing, there was dancing, and much smoking of the hookah. Hugs and smiles and tearful-premature-goodbyes abounded. At some point I also felt it was necessary to pay tribute to my own exaggerated intoxication by bringing up a video Matt recently shared with me via one of the British assistants at his office. It's a little gem that captures some of the absurdity of the nauseating British upper classes while gently reminding us all of our own idiotic tendencies to, every once in a while, and in the name of "good fun," overdrink and, well, chunder every-wah. Ah, good times.

"You're so right - global warming. It really is an insignificant truth."**

Does this count as a douche-baggery post? :)

* * *

But on a tastier note: It was a potluck. And everyone contributed to what has now become a legendary menu in the minds of all our husbands. Unfortunately my ambition to get pictures of everything was quickly forgotten, so I only have a shot of the table beforehand. *sheepish* But here is the menu anyway, along with a recipe for one of my personal favorite contributions to the evening: Honey Almond Cake. Yum.

Starters:
Mixed Olives
Feta, marinated in avocado oil, lemon oil, and chili oil
Toasted Cashew Nuts

Mains & Sides:
Fritto Misto of Calamari, Prawns & Okra
Greek meat balls with Spicy Tomato & Green Olive Sauce Tabbouleh

Baked Chickpeas and Greens
Chili & Garlic Sauteed Oyster Mushrooms
Chargrilled Cauliflower with Tomato, Dill and Capers

Marinated Romano Peppers with Buffalo Mozzarella

Fennel, Cherry tomato and Crumble Gratin

Desserts:
Pistachio Baklava
Chocolate-chip and Honey Cupcakes
Honey Almond Cake with Greek Yogurt


**If you don't know what a "gap year" is, please read this.

* * *

Honey Almond Cake with Greek Yogurt

Serves 10-12


honey, orange, lemon and nuts: the perfect Mediterranean dessert combo

I was inspired to make this cake after watching Jaime does Athens a couple of weeks ago. This is essentially Jaime's recipe, but I took some inspiration from a cake that I had previously made and written about (see my post Pseudo-Moroccan Orange & Almond Cake) and tweaked it to my taste.

I like this recipe better than the one I got in my Olive Magazine, actually - probably because it involves olive oil instead of butter. I also really prefer the syrup recipe for the cake, which involves lemon juice, no cinnamon and lots of fresh, whole nuts. The best part of this cake is there are no steps. You put everything in one bowl all at once, mix, pour and bake. Boom - done.

This is a huge crowd-pleaser and is a great summer dessert, especially served with a nice cold dollop of thick Greek yogurt on the side.


Ingredients

CAKE:
5 eggs
225g Greek yogurt
225g caster sugar
75g ground almonds
1 lemon, zested
1 orange, zested
150g plain flour
200g semolina
1tsp baking powder
200ml olive oil

SYRUP:
2 lemons, 1 zested and 2 juiced
1 orange, zested and juiced
1 cup honey
2 tbsp caster sugar (optional)
1- 1 1/2 cups of whole, peeled pistachios and almonds

Method
1. Preheat oven to 180C.

2. Mix all ingredients in a large bowl until well combined.

3. Pour mixture into a 9" cake tin that has been rubbed with olive oil and then lightly floured. Bake at 180C for 35-40 minutes or until cake is firm and golden. You can also bake it in a rectangular pan as Jaime did, but I prefer round cakes.

4. Allow the cake to cool in its tin for 10-15 minutes, then place it on a large plate and allow to cool completely. Do ahead: You can make this cake 2 days ahead of time. Just wrap in cling film and leave in a cool, dry place.

5. While the cake is baking, make the syrup by combining the syrup ingredients (minus the nuts) in a small sauce pan. Allow the mixture to come to a simmer (not a heavy boil) and keep it simmering for 10-15 minutes or until the mixture is syrupy. Add the nuts at the very last minute and mix well so they are completely coated. Set aside but keep warm.

6. When the cake is completely cooled and up to a day before serving, poke copious amounts of holes all over the cake with a wooden skewer and pour the syrup and nuts all over it. Allow the syrup to soak in completely and only once everything has cooled should you put the cake in a dome.

Malta: My Own Personal Benidorm

My Beloved Kinnie:
Bittersweetness in a sad, disgusting world of Maltese Benidorminess.

I'm not going to lie - I've seriously been avoiding posting my thoughts on our trip to Malta last October. Not that we had a bad time, but, well, the food was just terrible and to me that kind of taints the whole experience. Yes, I do realize it's been like 5 months, but it's such a dreary day outside, and if nothing else, we had great weather in Malta, so here's to the memory of that!

* * *

Have you ever seen the show "Benidorm?" If you haven't, you're not missing much. Well, ok, you are. because it's a comedic show that exploits the natural hilarity and inherent grotesque quality that is the reality of the used-to-be-quaint-village turned skyscraper-hotel-package-holiday-hell in the south of Spain called Benidorm.

Benidorm (the show) cleverly draws out and makes fun of the stereotypical (can't emphasize that word enough here!), working-class, Northern-European (read: British) tourist. It points out their quirks, annoying habits, and inevitably-familiar preferences. To them a vacation is an all-inclusive package of nothing but British food (English breakfast every morning!), bad cabaret shows put on by dolled-up locals who treat the tourists like the idiots they are, and days spent sunning (burning?) at the pool, critiquing the other "stupider" tourists and / or conspicuously flirting / making out by said poolside.

It hurts a little bit to watch shows like this because probably every single one of us either knows someone like the characters or has to admit to wanting their "eggs and bacon" breakfast everywhere they go. But it is hilarious because, in the end - whether it touches something personal or not - we all know exactly what they're talking about, and can laugh our haughty that-will-never-be-me-laugh from the comfort of our (my British) living rooms.

The Family: single-mother-daughter with token-interracial-baby, annoying brother, overweight dad, clueless mom. Mel & Madge, the feisty grandmother with the saggy-perma-tan and her (not-so) beau.

I did say grotesque.

But returning to the point of this post, I'm still not quite sure how Matt and I ended up in the real-life Maltese version of Benidorm in early October, but we did.

We were at a really nice hotel in the off-season in what was advertised as a "quaint village" north of Valletta in Malta. Numerous people on Trip Advisor had specifically commented on how great the buffet breakfast was --

* Small Note on Buffet Breakfasts *

I do not hold my nose up at buffet breakfasts. I am a fan of the buffet concept as a general rule, as long as it is done well. For example, the hotel we stayed at in Thailand had a buffet breakfast that rivaled many a la carte restaurants I've been to. Grilled fish, fresh tropical fruits, complimentary champagne...on the other hand, I've had my fair share of crappy Chinese buffets and so I do know the dangers that can and often do lurk beneath the stainless steal lids...

* end small note on Buffet Breakfasts*

-- and frankly, I was looking forward to my all-included gluttonous morning feastivities. The hotel had three pools (a must with the Master in tow), was in walking-distance from the beach, and offered easy access to both Valletta and Gozo. Great? Not so great.

* * *

My Top 5 Stories, Thoughts, Musings on the Maltese Experience
or, why Mellieha is Benidorm

5. Guido the Cab Driver
As is often the case, our first introduction to Malta came via our cab driver from the airport. Unlike in Brussels, the guy we got was about as close to the stereotypical idea of a sleaze-bucket-douche-bag as one man can get. His name was Guido (I won't get into the ironically appropriate implications there) and he knew everything there was to know on any subject worth knowing - and better than anybody else (especially women).

We weren't paying him to drive us, he was doing us a favor. He escorted us to the car by clicking his mouth to signal he was ready to go after leaving us to wait (me, seething) for five minutes while he chatted in Maltese with a fellow cabby, all the while lifting his shirt half-way to rub his nasty middle-aged belly, the way sleaze-buckets are wont to do. (This was at 2 in the morning, mind you.) He would only address Matt ("stupid women don't understand") and he claimed to speak four languages and assumed we only spoke one ("stupid Americans don't understand") even after we'd told him several times that wasn't the case (still seething).

He gave Matt a lecture on driving on the left-side of the road (even though he has done it pretty consistently for the three years we've lived in the UK, which we mentioned to Guido), told us to check "on top of [our] heads" whenever we park somewhere to see if there is a no-parking sign, told me that all women are after men's money and possessions and that's why he'd never married (apologizing the whole time for saying so but that it was true, "so, sorry") and was back in Malta living with his mother (silent internal screaming fit in Brenda's head start NOW.).

When we asked if there were any good restaurants in Mellieha (his hometown apparently), he patronizingly said, "well, none of them are bad - you'll get food no problem. It's not tough - just check the menu to see what they have and how much it costs before you go in or you might end up somewhere you don't want to be."

Thank you Guido. Seeing as the stupid American woman has never been to a restaurant, other country, or outside of the kitchen (where she permanently resides, barefoot and sometimes pregnant, scheming for her husband's money and possessions) frankly, it is a good thing we got you as our cabby.

Once we'd arrived, he then proceeded to say he didn't have change (in order to "con" the stupid American man out of an extra large tip) but quickly changed his tune when Matt said he had no problem waiting for him to go into the hotel lobby to get change from the concierge. Bastard Guido. At least now we knew where we stood as American tourists.


4. The Food Dilemma
The buffet breakfast was up to snuff...if you're a character in Benidorm. It consisted of a continental breakfast (not my bag) and a British breakfast, complete with badly cooked sausages, soggy bacon, baked beans, and copious amounts of ketchup and brown sauce available. In fact, probably the best things they had were the fresh rye bread loafs (which I could only snag on the days we were early) and the fried eggs (and even those were sometimes really bad). Oh and the little foil-wrapped cheese wedges you get at all European hotels. I'm a fan of those.

Thinking breakfast was an anomaly, we decided to try out the hotel's really well furnished pizzeria downstairs. It offered really basic fair that it would take a decidedly, determinedly bad chef to mess up: pizza, spaghetti, salads. Guess what, they had a decidedly - triumphantly, even! - bad chef.

The experience at every other place we ate was the same. The menu looked good, the place looked good, the food was horrendous, even their "typical Maltese dishes" which were generally "rabbit in a white wine sauce" (oh it sounds good, but oh it isn't!) or some horrific variance thereof.

To put it in black and white for you: Matt and I ended up eating at the local Chinese Restaurant 3 out of 5 nights we were there. Desperate times call for desperate measures (and fried ice cream).


3. Another Douche Bag and his Famiglia
When you're at a medium-sized hotel it's inevitable to run into other guests on a repeated basis. I actually find that charming about certain travel experiences - getting to know others on a basic, acquaintance level, so that you have someone to nod or smile to every morning at breakfast, at the pool, or even a new friend. Sadly, the only people (besides several German, senior citizen couples) this happened to us with was a douchey Italian power-couple and their catamite (as Matt shamelessly dubbed him) son.

I wish with every fiber in my being that I had mustered up the courage to take a picture of these people. You probably won't believe me when I describe them. Then again, if you've ever been to an Italian city or beach you are likely to have run into them or one of their many followers: Hands flying, chins jutting out and shoulders raising, they walk and talk as if they were being followed by an entourage of paparazzi at all times. After all, they are too cool with their curly hair stiff with too much product, a generous whiff of spray-on deodorant, skin-tight clothing and permanent sunglasses - at breakfast, lunch, dinner, while swimming, while coffeeing, day or night, inside or outside. Oh, and they all seem to possess an unshakable conviction that they can convince anyone of anything anywhere (I like to call this the "veni, vidi, vici complex"), just because they deserve to get their way.

Matt, Roman and I were lucky enough to see them everywhere every single day of our vacation. We breakfasted at the same times, swam at the same times (their 6 year old, for the record, swam entirely naked in the pool and I am compelled to comment here that I really think that age is a little past the cutoff where kids are "cute" when naked in public places), asked questions (well, demanded things) at reception at the same time, we arrived the same day and left the same day, and we even decided to take a day trip to Gozo and eat and play at the same beach the same day. It was funny in a "why the hell is this happening to us?" kind of way.


2. Gozo & Jeffrey's Restaurant
Gozo: If you don't plan to go(zo) there, you better not go(zo) to Malta. :) Ok, enough with the cheesy gozo jokes, and enough with the exaggeration: there were other nice places in Malta. Valletta was very pretty, actually, and has lots of amazing history. But Gozo is stunning. Stunn-ing. And if we hadn't gone there, I probably would have left Malta feeling really cheated because my favorite place we'd have gone would have been the indoor pool at our hotel. (Enough with the exaggeration, Brenda!)

But of course there was a catch: Jeffrey's Restaurant almost ruined Gozo for me.

We spent the day lounging on beaches, seeing Calypso's disappointingly small cave, and driving through beautiful little villages. The island itself is the picture of rusticity and untouched beauty with only one small "town" on the harbor for the large ferries that are constantly coming and going, and even that is very pretty. The most amazing thing we saw while there was what is sold to tourists as the "azure window." It is a rock formation that dramatically juts out onto the ocean on the wilder side of Gozo and one of the most beautifully wondrous places to see a sunset. Being there on the off-season, it was only lightly sprinkled with other sunset seekers. But it is awkward climbing on spiky eroded rock, and the light goes quickly, so if you do go, make sure you're not carrying a baby, or bring a flashlight. Or both. :)

After a small transcendentalist moment at the azure window, we, famished, headed out to find a restaurant that was open nearly 9pm, which in Gozo is much harder than one would imagine. Given that there are literally probably under 5 ATMs for the entire island, Matt and I jumped at the first half-decent place we saw that wasn't fast food and ended up at Jeffrey's Restaurant.
So quaint, so cute, and so jam-packed full of happy looking people, I sighed a great relief when Roman fell asleep and the women gave me a table despite not having a reservation (several people came through the door and were turned away after us). How could we go wrong? The menu was full of local dishes as well as international cuisine and had some decent sounding seafood. Matt and I felt happy to have finally found Malta's culinary redemption in an off-the-beaten-path little family joint such as this.

But then we got our food. Seafood soup - more unopened mussels and clams than open ones. Shady fish, and crappy broth. I ordered a filet mignon steak (mistake 1), then asked for it medium (mistake 2). What I got was something approximating leather in the form of a salisbury steak - so dry and old I almost threw up the moment I tasted it. Then Matt thought I was exaggerating (mistake 3) so he tasted it (mistake 4) and also almost threw up. I tried to compose myself as I gagged into my napkin and realized the maitre d' / owner had seen the whole thing. He brought the chef over who insisted on giving me a new steak. ONLY in order not to make a scene did I accept the second steak which was slightly less old but equally disgusting. I couldn't eat more than 2 bites. We paid and left as soon as we finished the "on the house" dessert we got to compensate us for the rotten 40Euro steak they had given us, TWICE.

Ah, we had a good time anyway. But if you like food and depend on it as a big part of your vacations - take it from us, don't go to Malta.


1. How Kinnie Saved the Trip
One out of two of the only truly and uniquely Maltese things that I found redeeming about this trip was, amazingly, a soda.

I don't drink much soda and therefore I'd never heard of Kinnie until this trip to Malta. I've still never seen it sold here in the UK, and think it would probably be hard to find almost anywhere. But I dream about it - oh how I dream about it.

Kinnie is like coca-cola with a few drops of orange bitters thrown in. It's like a grown-up version of a soft drink minus the alcohol. A campari and soda with the sweetness of pop. It's tasty, refreshing and comes in an awesome orange can reminiscent of the only other uniquely Maltese thing I found redeeming of Malta: its really cool retro orangey-yellow public buses.

GO KINNIE! At the end of the day, I took refuge in you, knowing that I would one day get back to my own kitchen again and eat normal food, but just a little bit the sadder also knowing that you would not be there to share it with me!

* * *

Some fun Maltese Moments


Roman at Ramla Beach;
still young (and cute) enough to go naked at the beach.


Fried Ice Cream at the local Chinese in Mellieha


The Azure Window: worth the trip to Gozo.


Maltese Public Buses - super retro, super cool.


So happy to be here.

Douchebaggery abounds.

Thanks Perez Hilton via Beckers.

Three words, my friends, three words: Gucci Tennis Shoes.
(Or should I say "Kate Plus 8"?)

No, I don't take the high road and look away when I see a nasty accident.
Is that so wrong? :)

Why do all the work when somebody else has already done it for you?

Life Coaching & Douche-baggery Continued.

It's been a while since I added to what has now become an unintentional but critical segment in my blog: Life Coaching & Douche-baggery. (I realize some may take issue with my choice of adjectives and nouns here, but why write a blog if I can't indulge in using my favorite, albeit sometimes inappropriate, slang terms on it?)

Life Coaching

Every month or so Matt and I bother to pick up the latest issue of our local borough newspaper: The (Wandsworth) Guardian. It generally boasts funny local anecdotes, random historical information about the borough, and announcements for goings-on such as food festivals, D-grade concerts, and random business openings. It also, however, has a classifieds section.

It was with equal glee and shock and plenty of cynical sniggering (snickering?) that Matt shoved this little doozy under my already preemptively flared nostrils:

Yes, the Guardian does actually have a special section devoted entirely to Life Coaching. Am I missing something here?! What the hell is a "Life Coach"!?!



Douche-baggery

One of my (many) sinful indulgences is reality tv. The most recent butts of my (and Matt's) reality tv obsession, and therefore also our merciless criticism, are none other than the unlikely stars of, well anything, but this time "Date my Ex": ex-fiances Jo "the ho" De la Rosa and Slade Smiley. Yes, that is apparently his real name. What gives, right?

Jo & Slade;
in the words of my favorite mulleted man:
how can we be lovers if we can't be friends?

If you don't know the plot, I won't bother explaining it - just go here. If you've seen the show, then chances are you probably already know what I'm about to tell you. It doesn't make it any less funny. I will probably have to devote a separate entry itself to Jo (Matt pronounces it in Spanish: "ho." Yes, that is ironic.), but Slade definitely falls under the category of D-baggery, and so here we are.

Top 3 Reasons Slade Smiley is a Douche Bag

I almost feel bad...but you know you were thinking it too.

3. Because Dave says so, and it takes one to know one.
(See comments on second link.)


2. Because Lucas says so, and Lucas (despite appearing somewhat vapid) is kinda hot.


1. Because this blog says so, and it's freakin' hilarious.
(See comments at the end as well.)

* * *

And just because it's a great video...



What can I say? We all need a small dose of power-balladery every once in a while. :)

Life Coaches (Part II) & a little spring in my step

Not sure who this is, but he/she/it definitely takes his place this month...

What is with the continued theme of douche-baggery with regards to anything relating to Life Coaches?

And, more to the point, what is with me randomly running into this stuff and feeling compelled to post it?

* * *

On a highly unrelated but predictably random note...

Woke up and it felt like spring today. Not sure why, not sure how, but it's 20 degrees warmer, the birds are singing, and the church bells harkening in what promises to be a good, lounge-like weekend with, I hope, plenty of blue skies. (All the perfect reasons to break out the Hovis and make some French Toast! - stay tuned for that post!)

As we were walking home from our favorite local Thai restaurant last night, Matt and I noticed that at least three of the trees on our street have flower buds on them. Identifiable, bona fide flower buds. And a couple are even blooming. There's nothing like London in the springtime and the anticipation of it all is, well even I have to admit, almost too much to take.

Just had to say that.

Life Coaches.

I'm not too sure what they are, nor am I too eager to find out.

But what I do know is that this guy definitely doesn't need one.

The full back cover of this month's Harvard Magazine




A close up on the unfortunate man who Matt and I have taken to calling
"D-Bag of the Month":

"Daniel Bernhardt, Hollywood.
Doesn't need a life coach."

Wth?