When the JedI and I decided on the menu for this year's Thanksgiving, it was based on what we wanted to eat rather than necessarily the 'traditional' meal. We decided on a ham, which naturally led to scalloped potatoes (gruyere and extra sharp white cheddar, thank you very much). I wanted my mother's dressing, because that is the Thanksgiving taste of childhood (other than Aunt Jane's divinity). The menu quickly filled up with the ubiquitous green bean casserole, only made from scratch and with fresh green beans and mushrooms...peppered chicken gravy to go on the dressing...cranberry yuzu chutney with candied ginger...a pumpkin pie (my first time making one ever!)...chocolate pot de creme...lemon chiffon pudding cake...
All of this may explain why I now fit in "big girl" clothing.
Nevertheless, it was wonderful. When I saw the ham, it was cradled tenderly in JedI's arms like Baby Jesus--and was about the size of the Baby Jesus. "Why would you order eight pounds of ham for two people?!" I demanded, and he was quick to point out that he had only requested that his boss order us in a ham, and had not specified quantity. Apparently my love of any type of pork product is well known for knowing not only no bounds, but no weight requirements either. I did try to get JedI to take a picture of it, possibly with a tea towel over his head like the Virgin Mary mantle. "We could use it for our Christmas card," I said, using the most persuasive argument I could think of. He very nearly agreed; but I think I ruined it by suggesting that the child had obviously taken after its father in the chin area.
And with Thanksgiving over, we move on to THE CHRISTMAS SEASON. I am so excited for it this year!
We still have no floor space for a tree, and even if we did there is still Feral Fawcett and her 3:47 a.m. Formula One racetrack, as well as her midnight crazies. And her midafternoon fury. And her early morning rumpus. And her late afternoon sulky rampage. And her daily taunting of the squirrel outside the window who does something to cheese her off and sets the tone for her whole attitude for the day. JedI says that having a cat is like having a teenage daughter. He works hard, he supports us, he comes home and wants just a little affection, and instead she attacks his feet, hisses, and rolls onto her back so when he tries to pet her belly she can turn into the feline equivalent of a bear trap. He maintains that it's like walking into a room and having your teenage daughter look up from her cell phone (that you pay for) and saying "Suck it, pops."
So I have done a Christmas tree out of lights on the wall, and hung ornaments on it, in the first stages of Christmas JOY. JedI came home early a few nights ago and found me with the lights on the wall (held up with masking tape so I could see how it would look) and the new Christmas bedding on the bed. Since he is firmly of the belief that Christmas season begins THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING, I was a little worried; but he sighed, and said with that husband-weary tone that means I am Not Actually In Trouble "I have realized you have absolutely no self control when it comes to Christmas." He did still ban Christmas carols until after Thanksgiving...but he can't stop me now!
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Trifecta Week 78, Arthurian Fashion: A Discussion (of Sorts)
We are
at our favorite restaurant. The
waitresses’ skirts are all at least two inches shorter than the aprons they
wear, which is one reason Arthur loves it.
“I think I’m in love,” he says, leering.
“Which
one? The one whose thighs meet at the
knee?”
“No,
the one with the tube socks pulled up.”
I
look. “She’s got a plastic flower in her
hair.”
Arthur
shrugs. “I’m a sucker for tube
socks.. Oh yeah, and remember that girl in my class? The one with the retainer?”
I
remember. He had shown up at my house a
week before, prancing. It’s a revolting
activity for anyone, but particularly nauseating when performed by a thirty
year old single man. “She has a retainer,
that’s almost as cool as braces,” he had reported gleefully between
prances. “I’m so going to make her date
me.”
“How’s
the romance of the Orthodontic World going?”
I say now, squeezing a lemon into my iced tea.
“Well,
I’m not asking her out after all because I found out she’s lactose intolerant.” He picks up his menu and studies it. “Do you think the steamed vegetables will
have cauliflower? I hate cauliflower.”
“You’re
seriously not asking her out because of that?”
“Of
course.”
“And you
accuse me of harboring phobias and quirks?”
“You
were the one who rejected a guy for leaving his participles dangling. God, you're pedantic.”
“”I’m
not dating a dangling-participler. And
before you even bring him up, we will not address the man with split infinitives.”
“I don’t
care if a girl communicates in grunts and obscene gestures, as long as she can eat
cheese with me.”
“Ah,
the romance of cheese.”
“In
fact I’d almost prefer that she exclusive uses obscene gestures, now that I
think about it.”
“I can’t
believe you’re so prejudiced you won’t go out with someone because she can’t
have dairy.”
“It’s important. Yes, even
more than retainers.”
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Sorry, dude.
For this one? Totally crossing the streams. I am sorry if it doesn't meet up with expectations.
http://www.surlytemple.blogspot.com/
http://www.surlytemple.blogspot.com/
Monday, May 6, 2013
It's the Staff of Life, People.
The thing about our E-Z Bake Oven we have squatting in our luxurious studio flat is that:
1. It has only three working burners, which are the burner size of...;
2. Since Keebler Elves are clearly its target purchasing demographic, it fits a standard cookie sheet pan...if you don't go for highfalutin' extras like edges;
3. If you have the oven on, do not expect the bottom right of the aforementioned 3 burners to work, because clearly you are expecting too much out of life;
4. The vagaries of its oven temperature and my oven thermometer are constantly in the kind of d'accord usually found after treaties are signed and both sides figure out that the other one was compromising in a way they never intended to honor, but before each one has deteriorated to open "suck it, sideways" hostilities;* and,
5. Its constantly-burning pilot light makes a ROCKING dough-proofer.
This doesn't mean I don't want to set it on fire, constantly. Or suspect that it wants to do the same to me. Believe me, the kitchen rant is coming. And when that rant comes, I want none of the following to detract from its well-deserved kick in the metaphorical Y, wherever an oven's Y is found.
But...I can't afford a proofer. Not monetarily, not counter-wise (I can't afford the room or the Union Dues for three tapdancing Smurfs, counter-space-wise, if we're being honest, here). I want a proofer, just because I get into these bizarre obsessions and naturally assume that nobody, EVER, has gone through this same thing. The people at The Fresh Loaf? I love 'em; I stalk 'em; I am intimidated as HELL by them. I am a novice and a dilettante once again on the home ground of people who have spent their whole lives learning to do what I want to do maybe one or two afternoons a week.
We also are looking to save money; newlywed under a year, I bake our bread. ALL of our bread, barring the occasional Sunday-eating-what-we-want splurge or the JedI bringing home a treat from the restaurant. I try all kinds of recipes, and am a huge, huge, HUGE fan of http://www.artisanbreadinfive.com/. Sweet crunchy cracker, is it gorgeous, and seriously? No kneading? WHY DID WE GET TO KNEADING AS A SPECIES, ANYWAY?!**
So tonight, as I made a bread that totally decided on its own to be a total ahole, the only thing that made me want to not slice open the dough and bewail its lack of entrails, was that my E-Z Bake Oven does appear to be every bit as forgiving and possibly a bit more maternal than the mini-cake packs, icing-pack debacles, and neighbors whose parents clearly make more than yours and give you really awesome shit like an E-Z Bake Oven.
I loathe my E-Z Bake Oven. It is a total dick, and anybody who says differently heats up those Ramen packet noodles and doesn't even bother to put butter on them and sprinkle the seasoning packet over it.
Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.
*A great deal more on this in an upcoming post. The oven, not the treaties not honored. I have no effect upon world politics, less so over my personal domain which includes the aforementioned rat bastard oven, as well as a cat that thinks, well, exactly like a cat.
**Is this simply people trying to make people who haven't the patience necessary to knead something making everybody else feel like an asshole, thereby assuring job security?
1. It has only three working burners, which are the burner size of...;
2. Since Keebler Elves are clearly its target purchasing demographic, it fits a standard cookie sheet pan...if you don't go for highfalutin' extras like edges;
3. If you have the oven on, do not expect the bottom right of the aforementioned 3 burners to work, because clearly you are expecting too much out of life;
4. The vagaries of its oven temperature and my oven thermometer are constantly in the kind of d'accord usually found after treaties are signed and both sides figure out that the other one was compromising in a way they never intended to honor, but before each one has deteriorated to open "suck it, sideways" hostilities;* and,
5. Its constantly-burning pilot light makes a ROCKING dough-proofer.
This doesn't mean I don't want to set it on fire, constantly. Or suspect that it wants to do the same to me. Believe me, the kitchen rant is coming. And when that rant comes, I want none of the following to detract from its well-deserved kick in the metaphorical Y, wherever an oven's Y is found.
But...I can't afford a proofer. Not monetarily, not counter-wise (I can't afford the room or the Union Dues for three tapdancing Smurfs, counter-space-wise, if we're being honest, here). I want a proofer, just because I get into these bizarre obsessions and naturally assume that nobody, EVER, has gone through this same thing. The people at The Fresh Loaf? I love 'em; I stalk 'em; I am intimidated as HELL by them. I am a novice and a dilettante once again on the home ground of people who have spent their whole lives learning to do what I want to do maybe one or two afternoons a week.
We also are looking to save money; newlywed under a year, I bake our bread. ALL of our bread, barring the occasional Sunday-eating-what-we-want splurge or the JedI bringing home a treat from the restaurant. I try all kinds of recipes, and am a huge, huge, HUGE fan of http://www.artisanbreadinfive.com/. Sweet crunchy cracker, is it gorgeous, and seriously? No kneading? WHY DID WE GET TO KNEADING AS A SPECIES, ANYWAY?!**
So tonight, as I made a bread that totally decided on its own to be a total ahole, the only thing that made me want to not slice open the dough and bewail its lack of entrails, was that my E-Z Bake Oven does appear to be every bit as forgiving and possibly a bit more maternal than the mini-cake packs, icing-pack debacles, and neighbors whose parents clearly make more than yours and give you really awesome shit like an E-Z Bake Oven.
I loathe my E-Z Bake Oven. It is a total dick, and anybody who says differently heats up those Ramen packet noodles and doesn't even bother to put butter on them and sprinkle the seasoning packet over it.
Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.
*A great deal more on this in an upcoming post. The oven, not the treaties not honored. I have no effect upon world politics, less so over my personal domain which includes the aforementioned rat bastard oven, as well as a cat that thinks, well, exactly like a cat.
**Is this simply people trying to make people who haven't the patience necessary to knead something making everybody else feel like an asshole, thereby assuring job security?
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Four Calling Birds (Are Too Many) Trifecta Challenge Week #75
"YOU WILL BE PLEASED TO KNOW," I informed my husband via text,
"That I believe I have identified That Bird."
"I am so proud of you, honey," he said as he walked in the door that night. "I can't believe it. How many online birdsongs did you have to listen to?"
"No clue."
"Over twenty?"
"Easily."
"So now what?"
"I've already scoped out my sniper's nest. But first I need to make myself a gilly suit."
"I know how to make a gilly suit," he volunteered, deliberately oblivious to the hilarity that should have ensued at the mental image of a woman in a gilly suit sitting in a bay window on the second floor of a converted whorehouse in California.
That Bird first became known to me during a bout of insomnia. As I lay there in the predawn light, listening to its monotonous ‘twoo-whoo’ that surely had to stop sometime soon, surely, it will stop, I had no idea at the time that this bird was to become a nemesis. Later, I charitably thought it must have just been a transient bird, and that of course it would move on and we could also move on to other irritants, like the neighbor’s tetchy car alarm or the midnight crazies of our cat, Feral Fawcett.
One week later, I elbowed my husband in the ribs. “That bird,” I announced, “is an asshole.”
“It’ll quiet down,” he said sleepily, no doubt mentally wishing his wife would do the same.
Six weeks later that dream has also died, for both of us. The offender has been (in theory) identified, the plans have been laid, the doors of retribution kicked wide as a practice maneuver for when I find the bird and kick it in the tailfeathers.
I’m on to you, some-type-of-dove. For now, I have your real name. It’s Latin. And it’s Assholus Maximus. Until we meet on the playing field…oh, yes. Until then.
http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/
"I am so proud of you, honey," he said as he walked in the door that night. "I can't believe it. How many online birdsongs did you have to listen to?"
"No clue."
"Over twenty?"
"Easily."
"So now what?"
"I've already scoped out my sniper's nest. But first I need to make myself a gilly suit."
"I know how to make a gilly suit," he volunteered, deliberately oblivious to the hilarity that should have ensued at the mental image of a woman in a gilly suit sitting in a bay window on the second floor of a converted whorehouse in California.
That Bird first became known to me during a bout of insomnia. As I lay there in the predawn light, listening to its monotonous ‘twoo-whoo’ that surely had to stop sometime soon, surely, it will stop, I had no idea at the time that this bird was to become a nemesis. Later, I charitably thought it must have just been a transient bird, and that of course it would move on and we could also move on to other irritants, like the neighbor’s tetchy car alarm or the midnight crazies of our cat, Feral Fawcett.
One week later, I elbowed my husband in the ribs. “That bird,” I announced, “is an asshole.”
“It’ll quiet down,” he said sleepily, no doubt mentally wishing his wife would do the same.
Six weeks later that dream has also died, for both of us. The offender has been (in theory) identified, the plans have been laid, the doors of retribution kicked wide as a practice maneuver for when I find the bird and kick it in the tailfeathers.
I’m on to you, some-type-of-dove. For now, I have your real name. It’s Latin. And it’s Assholus Maximus. Until we meet on the playing field…oh, yes. Until then.
http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
A Commercial Approach to Married Life
Last night JedI and I were watching the final episode of Face Off, because we love it and *NOT* because we have become a boring married couple who stays at home and watches "their shows." A commercial came on for (I think) Ace
Hardware, with a man rushing in panicked about having lost his wedding ring down the sink drain.
"That would be me if I lost my wedding ring," JedI informed me. "Actually, even his panic wouldn't compare to what I would be doing. I would actually vomit with panic. I would be sprinting into the hardware store with vomit dribbling down my chin.
"Also," he continued, really getting into it, "I would probably have shit myself, so there would be a brown stain down my backside. Probably peed as well, so I would also have a big wet spot on my front. And I probably would have started to lose my hair. Actually, I would have developed a tonsure, with like three hairs growing out of it. I'd look like Ziggy, minus the big man cover."
"Maybe you should just forego pants and wear the Ziggy man cover," I suggested. "Your buns could hang out the back and be all cute."
"Good idea," he agreed. "By not wearing pants at all it means I could just spend 25 cents at the car wash to hose myself off before going into the hardware store. Except I'd be so panicked I'd probably inadvertently aim wrong and shoot my penis off with the spray hose." He started mimicking himself at the car wash, flopping all over the bed and sobbing "Oh, God, no, no, no..."
Anthony won Face Off.
I won a man who makes me laugh until I cry.
This message is not in any way sponsored by Ace Hardware. (I am pretty sure they would disavow anything to do with us, and possibly refuse to ever sell us anything, ever, if they knew their commercial led to a conversation like that.)
Hardware, with a man rushing in panicked about having lost his wedding ring down the sink drain.
"That would be me if I lost my wedding ring," JedI informed me. "Actually, even his panic wouldn't compare to what I would be doing. I would actually vomit with panic. I would be sprinting into the hardware store with vomit dribbling down my chin.
"Also," he continued, really getting into it, "I would probably have shit myself, so there would be a brown stain down my backside. Probably peed as well, so I would also have a big wet spot on my front. And I probably would have started to lose my hair. Actually, I would have developed a tonsure, with like three hairs growing out of it. I'd look like Ziggy, minus the big man cover."
"Maybe you should just forego pants and wear the Ziggy man cover," I suggested. "Your buns could hang out the back and be all cute."
"Good idea," he agreed. "By not wearing pants at all it means I could just spend 25 cents at the car wash to hose myself off before going into the hardware store. Except I'd be so panicked I'd probably inadvertently aim wrong and shoot my penis off with the spray hose." He started mimicking himself at the car wash, flopping all over the bed and sobbing "Oh, God, no, no, no..."
Anthony won Face Off.
I won a man who makes me laugh until I cry.
This message is not in any way sponsored by Ace Hardware. (I am pretty sure they would disavow anything to do with us, and possibly refuse to ever sell us anything, ever, if they knew their commercial led to a conversation like that.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)