Time for a Spot of Tea

Though in England they’re just muffins, and our muffins are “fairy cakes.”  Chips, biscuits and crisps, oh my!

For some reason I’ve never thought about being able to make English Muffins at home until I found a new book at Barnes and Noble.



The first section is about breads from various regions of the world and was pretty interesting.  Then there was a section about tools and techniques.  Finally, the rest is recipes.  The only thing that disappointed me about the book was that there are only about 110 pages of regular oven recipes, and about 250 for a bread machine – which I don’t have.  One of the best things about this book is that it includes metric measurements which I like so much better for baking.

My first recipe to try was the English Muffins which turned out to be ridiculously easy to make.  Some company that starts with a “T” and ends with “homas’s” has been ripping us off charging $3-4 for a six-pack of muffins that are mostly holes.

These can be mixed by hand (though a brief turn in a stand mixer would be easier on the arm).  Surprisingly, they are cooked on the stovetop on a griddle!  I didn’t have any semolina – that cornmeal-looking stuff that goes everywhere when you cut the muffin – so I just used some flour which may have been why some of them got a little burnt.

I forgot to take a picture of the inside, so below is the one from the book.  As you can see, they have a much finer crumb than what we are used to, but I kind of liked it better than the other.  Plus, it was easier to spread the butter!



The Recipe
450g (4 cups) unbleached white bread flour
7.5ml (1.5 tsp) salt
350-375 ml (1.5-1.66 cups) lukewarm milk – 105 to 115F
2.5 ml (0.5 tsp) caster (superfine) sugar
15g (0.5 oz) fresh yeast
15 ml (1 tbsp) melted butter or olive oil
rice flour or semolina, for dusting

Mix the milk, sugar and yeast; set aside.  Sift the flour and salt together in a large mixing bowl, then make a well in the center.  Stir the oil into the liquid mixture and pour into the well in the dry ingredients.  Mix well until smooth and elastic.  The dough will be soft, but will just hold its shape. 

Cover with lightly oiled plastic wrap and leave to rise in a warm place for 45-60 minutes, or until doubled in bulk.  (I always just use a tea towel to cover my dough.)
Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and punch down.  Roll out to 1 cm (0.5 in) thick and cut with and floured 7.5 cm (3 in) round cutter.  Dust with rice flour or semolina and place on a generously floured non-stick sheet pan.  Cover with a towel and leave to rise for 20-30 minutes.

Lightly grease a griddle and warm in over medium heat.  Transfer the muffins in batches to the griddle and cook slowly for about seven minutes on each side, or until golden brown.  Transfer to a wire rack to cool.

Tips (from the book): Muffins should be cut only around the edge and then torn apart.  Try toasting the muffin before cutting it for a crunchy outside and soft middle.
Some of mine got a little burnt trying to follow the seven minute instruction, turns out it was only about five minutes on my burner with my big 12” non-stick skillet.



Cook! Eat! Repeat!!!

Biological Weapon

Oh, The Toddler.  The light of your life, the bane of your existence.  Born with the genetics to perfectly infuriate at least two full-grown adults simultaneously.  No matter how different the buttons of two parents are, The Toddler can push them all.

With today's advances in genetics and cloning, the Army should be taking advantage of this.  Just get a sample of DNA from whatever enemy you wish to defeat and create a ton of clones. Wait until they're two, then send them in to wreak havoc.  Make sure half of them are tired and hungry and tell the other half they are going to a birthday party and the mean man has hidden the cake.  Guaranteed victory in five minutes or less.

But then what do you do with 1,000 tiny Hitlers?  Since everyone knows that clones age extremely rapidly, they will all die of natural causes before their "third" birthday.

The Modern Toddler

Emotional instability allows The Toddler to go from hugging you, to slapping you in the face, to laughing hysterically at nothing in particular before you even know what has happened.

Short attention spans make incessantly repeating the same annoying behavior an art form.

With their selective memory and uncanny knack for inappropriateness, The Toddler will forget every rule you've ever told them.  However, they will remember exactly that rude thing you accidentally said in the kitchen the day before when you dropped an entire sandwich on the floor, the dog ate it in one bite, and then immediately puked it back up and repeat it in the grocery store...at top volume.

Attempts to reward good behavior with praise will earn you the response, "you're welcome!" to let you know that they were, in fact, rewarding you.

What evil lurks in the mind of The Toddler?  Let's hope we never see the full extent.

Forget Evil Robots, Watch the Animals

Ever since we moved to this neighborhood four years ago, there has been a constant supply of feral cats that live near the entrance.  I'm beginning to think that, with each successive inbreeding, these cats get more and more insidious.  There is one, whom I've dubbed Psycho Death Cat, that has made multiple attempts to cause my own dear, hairy children to kill me.

 

One day recently it would have been really embarassing and extremely funny if someone had been filming us on our daily walk/jog.  I was jogging (the dogs were walking fast) when Psycho Death Cat made an appearance.  Since we already had some forward momentum, I was powerless to stop them; I have to brace my legs and use my entire body to stop them if they both decide to charge after something at the same time.

My jog became a sprint as I was forcibly dragged forward by the 120 pounds of dog attached to my right arm.  I'm yelling, "Stop! STOP!!!" while thinking that I was surely going to fall and break something.  Or worse, hurt my teeth!  I was just about to let go when they lost sight of Psycho Death Cat and stopped. 

Good workout, guys.  Thanks.

So, if you see two brown dogs on the same leash tangled up in a tree somewhere, they're probably mine.  Approach at your own risk because I'm sure the Cat will be lurking somewhere near awaiting a fresh victim.

Photo Essay

Since yesterday's post was kind of a downer, today I give you:

Why Grampa is Out of Toilet Paper

After all of that, she didn't even go.  Le sigh.

Faking It: My PSA About PPD

Well, I had a really shitty summer last year.  In my usual nothing is sacred way, I will tell you about it. I'll warn you that there is some heavy stuff ahead, but I promise I am doing much better. 

Two years after the partum, the depression finally struck.

I definitely had the "baby blues" after having Sweet P, but pretty much everyone does.  I pulled up my big girl panties and carried on.  It started less than an hour before she made her grand entrance when the nurse said, "I'll go call the doctor, it's time to have a baby!"  My reaction: panic, tears, blubbering.  Fear of giving birth?  Nope, something more like, "Shit, I'm actually having a baby.  I'm going to be a Mother.  Why did I ever think that this was a good idea?!?"

You would think this would have occurred to me at some point in the previous 35 weeks.  Not so much.  Luckily, it was an easy delivery without any drama.  It was actually so fast that she still had some fluid in her lungs and after getting to hold her for a few minutes she was taken to the nursery to get fixed up.  I'm sorry to say that I did not have the immediate connection with her that everyone expects.  It was just kind of, "well, I guess you're here.  Now what?"  Then everyone followed her to the nursery and I'm there, alone with the doctor and nurse.  The old, broken eggshell, forgotten as soon as the Golden Goose hatches.  Exhausted, starving, paralyzed from the waist down, sad.

The act began in the hospital, putting on a happy face for visitors.  Trying to eat, though everything tasted terrible.  Finally free from the fear of Listeria, I didn't even enjoy the cold deli sandwich I had been lusting after for months.  There was a moment the first night when the nurse had brought Sweet P into my room around 2 or 3 a.m. Doug was asleep and I looked down at the bassinet at the foot of the bed.  She was awake, and though I know she couldn't see more than a foot in front of her, she was looking right at me with those tiny, dark, newborn eyes.  Realizing that there was truly a life in my hands, I fought the rising panic and made a silent promise to her to do my best.  It may not be the best, but it would be my best.

I cried the whole way home from the hospital.  I couldn't believe that they actually sent her home with us.  I had been expecting someone to come in and report that I had been determined unsuitable and couldn't have her.  I mean, I lose things.  I drop things.  Couldn't they tell I was going to be a horrible mother?!?  It just seemed wrong somehow.  Irresponsible.

When we got home, I laid in my bed and tried to figure out how I could get out of it.  I didn't want anything to happen to her, I just didn't want to have to be in charge.  I wanted my former life back, the one with less responsibility.  The emptiness I felt was mirrored by the literal hole in my stomach left behind where she had lived when it had been so easy to keep her safe.  Babies start by rearranging your internal organs, and then your entire life.  The knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again was oppressive.  I knew I loved her, but she seemed like a strange alien creature to me.  I had no idea what I was doing.

Things did improve in a few weeks.  You quickly learn to accept being second fiddle to the newborn, and even to enjoy the short times of not constantly holding the baby.  Life goes on.  Smile.  Nod.  Yes, yes, very happy.



Forward two years to the summer of 2011.  I had been having a hard time with the toddler. I just didn't have the patience I needed to deal with a two-year-old, and that made me feel like a failure. She was happy and wanted to play, and I just couldn't.  I felt numb.  I found joy in nothing because of my own guilt.  I was a terrible mother and a terrible person and I didn't deserve to do anything fun. So I would do chores. Go to sleep. Go to work. Repeat.

I still don't know if it was me or just chance, but I was having trouble keeping up with things at work.  Not the actual work, just what people were talking about.  We do tend to get quite technical at times, but I felt like I wasn't getting any of it.  So now not only was I a bad mother and a bad person, I was also stupid.  I got paranoid about my friends not liking me anymore, as if I were still in high school.  What I felt was my inability to do anything right turned into anxiety...about everything.

Every part of my life was affected, and it had to get that bad before I would admit that there was a problem.  I got very good at the act and no one even knew that there was a problem.  Doug was suspicious, but I even hid the seriousness from him.  Below is text from the actual e-mail I finally managed - after 5 days of crying and hiding in bed - to send to the most fabulous work nurse anyone could hope for:

Hi Kay,

I left you a message earlier. I wanted to talk to you to see if I have any options for taking some time off of work. Things have been building up for a while and came to a head last week. The stresses and disappointments of daily life have piled up until I just feel buried by them and the thought of going to work makes me feel panicky and sick to my stomach. I have trouble driving anywhere because I get so nervous and stressed out by the other drivers. I feel like I'm about 80. I want to find a therapist and most likely start taking an anti-depressant to see if I can get my life back.

Please call me so I can find out what I can do.

Kay, you saved my life.  I needed someone to tell me exactly what to do: "You have post-partum depression.  Call your doctor, and don't worry about work."

It's one thing to realize that you need help and another thing completely to actually say it out loud; even to your own family.  Depression makes you incapable of the simplest things, even just getting up out of bed.  Those TV commercials about depression where they show the lady sitting on the edge of the bed?  That's right before she gives up and lays back down.

I just didn't see the point.  There wasn't anything I wanted to do.  Nothing I was good at.  No one wanted me around.

It sounds silly now, but I truly believed it at the time.  I thought it would just be easier for everyone if I was gone.  Especially me, because then I wouldn't have to worry about all of the things I wasn't getting done or doing wrong.  Part of the reason I didn't want to drive was because I would find myself thinking about how easy it would be to just turn the wheel into a tree, oncoming traffic, whatever.  The strange thing was that it all seemed so logical, like I was thinking about these things so clearly.

I knew it was selfish and not what I wanted to do, but I still spent days hiding in bed too afraid to get up because I wasn't sure what I would do.  After the first dose of Prozac stopped working, I was worse than I had been before.  I laid in bed thinking about the 6.5 Xanax tablets on the bathroom counter.  I didn't know what they would do to me, but I considered finding out.  Then I realized that if my death wasn't accidental, Doug wouldn't get any insurance money.  I'd have to think of a different way.

Fortunately, it never came to that.  The increased dose worked and I slowly started to feel human again.  Prozac worked, but had way too many side effects.  So began the battle of finding the right drug.  I am now on Zoloft which only kind of works.  I have an appointment on Wednesday with a psychiatrist to find a new anti-depressant.  I see a therapist about every two weeks; just having a safe place to talk about things helps so much.

The  irony of depression is that it makes it so hard for you to get the help you need.  I am guilty of thinking that someone who is depressed should just go and get help.  Duh!  It's so easy, right?  Now I know how paralyzed you feel, incapable of mustering the energy to do the smallest things.  If I hadn't had people who depend on me and care about me, I fear I might have been lost.

Don't let the people you love get lost, help them.

I am not weak, I am human.
I am a wife, daughter, sister, granddaughter, cousin, niece, and aunt.
I am family.
I am a boo-boo kisser, bath giver, doll finder, puzzle-doer, book reader, song singer, and tucker-inner.
I am a mother.
I am a listener, a commiserator, a laugher, and an advice-giver.
I am a friend.
I am a chef, dishwasher, laundress, duster, folder, wiper, mopper, scrubber, and shopper.
I am a homeowner and a neighbor.
I am a member of the Quality Team, party planner, meeting facilitator, poster-maker, presenter, consultant, report writer, experiment planner, and a good employee.
I am a scientist.
I am a blogger.
I am a promise-keeper.

Crazy Daisy

So, we thought it would be a nice idea to get a new a dog about a month ago.  Dozer had been sad since we lost Kaleb (us, too!), and we thought a friend might cheer him up (see the post titled Kaleb: A Dog With Great Character, since fb apparently thinks it is "unsafe or spammy" and won't let me link it).  I also like having two dogs.  Here she is the day we brought her home, unsure about the whole deal:

We got her at the Wake County Animal Center - same as Dozer - and nothing has been the same since.  Now Dozer aka Bubba has a friend to bark at ladies with babies and little girls walking their dogs with:

Someone to wrestle with.  Here they are recreating the title bout between Kang the Destruc-Tor and Nellie Nine Nipples:

They've even been working on their formations:

Every day brings something new and interesting.  Today I walked in through the laundry room to this:

Hmm, something seems to be missing...

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Your guess is as good as mine.  However, seeing as she often eats like this:

I suppose I can see the appeal of a carpeted surface.

P.S.  The food stations were removed to the laundry room because Daisy has a drinking problem.  Approximately 85% of the water that goes into her mouth flows back out creating both a marsh-like area immediately surrounding and under the placemat as well as a nice long drippy trail.  This varies in length between 10 - 20 feet, depending on the speed at which she leaves the water bowl.  Daisy's massive water consumption causes some amount of distress for Dozer, because he will not eat unless his water bowl is full.

I will leave you with this:

People don't have dogs, dogs have people.  So it follows that two dogs have me.

Do You Know What I Love About Fall?

PIE!!!

Pumpkin pie, pecan pie, apple pie...especially the most awesome pie in the whole world:

French Apple Pie!

My mouth is watering just thinking about it.  Thanks to my Mom for introducing us to this wonderous creation.  This fall I have found that it is especially delicious when made using fresh, local apples.  Specifically, Mutsu, Granny Smith, Red Delicious, or a combination of varieties.  I would love to taste a pie made completely with the super-tasty Arkansas Black apples, but I only have a few and they are so good fresh!

If you have "The Gift" like my Mom, you can make your own pie pastry.  For the rest of us, the pre-rolled Pillsbury pie crusts are pretty darn good!  Here is how you can make your own 8 little slices of heaven from Betty Crocker's recipe circa 1978:

French Apple Pie

Pastry for a 9" pie

Pie Filling:
3/4 c. Sugar
1/4 c. All-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. Ground nutmeg
1/2 tsp. Ground cinnamon
Dash of salt
6 c. thinly sliced tart apples (about 6 medium)

Crumb Topping:
1 c. All-purpose flour
1/2 c. Packed brown sugar
1/2 c. Firm margarine or butter

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
Line 9" pie plate with pastry.
Combine dry ingredients for pie filling in a large bowl; add apples and stir to coat.
Turn into pastry-lined pie plate.

Combine Crumb Topping ingredients with a pastry blender or fork until crumbly.
Spread evenly over apples.

Bake for 50 minutes, cover topping with foil for the last 10 minutes of baking.
Best served warm.

Notes:

• I am not a huge nutmeg fan, so I use about 3/4 tsp. of cinnamon and 1/4 tsp. nutmeg in the filling.
• I put the apples in the pastry about a cup at a time and spread them out to evenly cover the pastry and to lay flat.  (Purely aesthetic and obsessive, re. Me).
• I add salt and cinnamon to the topping as well.  About 1/8 tsp and 1/4 tsp., respectively.  Maybe a dash of nutmeg, too.
• Any apple will do.  This pie is perfectly delightful when using Red Delicious (when the Produce Box provides you with 16 of them in one week!)  However, it does take on a completely different attitude when tart apples are used.  It's up to you.
• A surprisingly tasty pie resulted from me forgetting to put the salt in the apple filling.  I sprinkled it on top of the (Red Delicious) apples and added some salt in the Crumb Topping for good measure.  There was a great contrast between the sweet, spicy apples and slightly salty topping that was really nice.

Enjoy!  And remember:

Who needs cake when you can have pie?!?

Tricks and Treats

First of all, the baby food sold in little pouches is too awesome for words (see Ella's or Plum Organics).  While Sweet P is definitely no longer a baby, I don't really care.  She has recently eaten broccoli and tonight she had spinach, peas and pears.  No bowls needed, just twist off the cap and give it to the toddler.  It's so fun that they don't appear to care what is in the pouch.  Verdict:  Yay!

Now pie, because eating vegetables means dessert.

Think about how you eat pie.  Go ahead.  First bite.  Second bite.  Good, now forget all of that.

How does a toddler eat pie?

However she darn well pleases!

"Cookie."

Parenthood affords us the opportunity to see the world through new eyes. Watching Sweet P grow and learn sometimes brings to my attention how many constrictions we live by, without even realizing it.  So, start in the middle. Start in the back.  Do whatever you want!

Parenting Fail

I can't say that I understand a bully's motivation; causing a small child to cry is not a fun pastime in my opinion.  However, as a parent, there are days when it seems like it is an Olympic sport and you are about to win the Gold.  Refer to Screamy Mimi for cryings past.

As far as I can tell, Sweet P has the saddest sad face ever in the entire history of sadness.  Causing that face to appear is akin to having your heart ripped out, stomped on by a linebacker in rusty golf cleats and then run over by 73 dump trucks full of broken glass just before a dog comes and pees on it.

Here is a sad face:

Fresh from this morning due to cereal envy in conjunction with Daddy's absence and failure to save her from Mean Mommy.  Now keep in mind, this is not the full-on sad face.  She has this frowny, quivering lip pout that makes me want to do anything to make it go away.  Whole chocolate cake with sprinkles?  Every toy in the world? A unicorn?  Anything!!!

Instead, I have to be firm and follow through with the necessary parenting BS.  (That stands for Blue Shirt, if you didn't know.)  Below is a conversation Sweet P and I had recently at bedtime.

Me:  I've been working on the rail-

Sweet P:  No, no, Mommy! (*smack!)

Me:  (Puts Sweet P down in the crib)  No, you do not hit Mommy!

Sweet P:  (Spectacular sad face complete with pouty-lip super frown and giant teardrops)  Mooommeeeeeeeeeeee!

Me:  (Feeling like a dried-up dog turd)  You do not hit Mommy.  In fact, don't hit anybody.  That is not the way to express yourself.

Sweet P:  (Frown and tears continue) Mommy rock?

Me:  (Picks her back up and returns to the rocking chair)  You do not hit people.  No hit.

Sweet P:  No hit.

Me:  That's right, no hit.

Sweet P:  No hit.

The sad face has subsided by now and only a few tears remain.  I can see her thinking and she perks up,

Sweet P:  Daddy hit.

Me:  Nooooooooo, Daddy doesn't hit.

Sweet P:  Mommy hit.

Me:  ............................

Awesome.  Really glad we had this conversation.

So, how long do we have before day care sends Social Services?

Recipe: Creamy Pasta Primavera

I made a variation of one of my favorite invented recipes that I think came out really well.  It was tri-color rotini pasta with julienned carrots and zucchini in a creamy sauce with shredded Parmesan cheese, lemon zest and fresh parsley. Sounds decadent, but guess what makes it creamy?  Hummus!

I came up with adding the hummus to pasta sauce partly to create a lighter version of the garlicky cream sauce I love so much and partly to punch up the protein when Sweet P had less teeth.  The vegetables were easy, thanks to my awesome new julienne peeler from Pampered Chef.  That is, it was easy once I figured out how to use it without julienning my hand.  It was supposed to be a vegetarian dish, after all.

I imagine this would be good with just about any vegetables and any shape pasta you like.  Add some chicken or shrimp and dinner is done!

Initially, I had hoped the vegetables would get twisted into the rotini and therefore consumed along with the pasta.  Unfortunately, the toddler is always smarter than me.  I think some of the veggies may have accidentally been ingested, but she still won't eat the green noodles.  Next I think I'll try the cut spaghetti I found at the store so everything will be essentially the same shape.

Update!  It took me so long to get the original picture off of the camera that I have tried the recipe with the cut spaghetti.  For those with picky eaters, the majority of the zucchini just disappeared into the pasta.  You would never believe that there was a whole giant zucchini in the bowl.  It's not as pretty because I didn't have any herbs on hand beside rosemary (which was already on the chicken), but Sweet P loved it!

I did my best on the amounts, but I am of the "that looks about right" school of measuring.  If all else fails, taste it.  Faincy chefs say they never serve anything without tasting it first.  Simple, yet effective.

Ingredients:8 oz pasta
1 tbsp. olive oil
3 medium carrots, julienned
3 cloves of garlic, minced (more or less depending on your preference)
1 large or 2 medium zucchini, julienned
1/2 cup hummus
1 tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. lemon zest
pasta water or chicken or vegetable broth
1/3 cup Parmesan cheese
1/3 cup fresh parsley, chopped (or whatever herb you have available)
salt
pepper

Cook pasta as directed on package.  While the pasta is cooking, saute the carrots with salt and pepper in olive oil over medium heat in a large skillet for 3 to 4 minutes.  Add the garlic and cook for a minute or two more before adding the zucchini and a bit more salt and pepper.  Cook for a few minutes more, until carrots are softened.

Reduce heat and add the hummus, lemon juice and lemon zest.  Begin adding pasta water or broth and mix until a sauce has formed.  (this would be a good place to taste and add more salt, pepper or lemon juice.)  Stir in the Parmesan cheese and parsley, reserving some for garnish.  Stir in the cooked pasta, adding more water or broth if it is too dry.

Put in a serving dish and garnish with remaining Parmesan cheese and parsley.

Beauty and the Yeast

Oh, hello there.

What? What's this I'm eating?

It's just a grilled cheese sandwich I made with some bread I baked the other day.

From scratch.

You know, I'm a baker

I bake bread

With flour and yeast.

And the kneading and rising and punching down.....

.....okay, I think I'm done.

Thanks for letting me toot my own horn there for a minute. I felt like I deserved at least a little bit of bragging after finally triumphing in what I estimate to be roughly an eleven year battle with certain fields of baking in general and yeast dough in particular. I can bake just about any type of cookie or cake with no problems worse than some occasional overflow or pan-sticking issues. Pies are iffy, but yeast breads have always been my nemesis, with the exception of a few sourdough successes, but those don't really count.

This eleven years ago previously mentioned is the first time I can remember trying to bake bread from scratch. It was to be rosemary olive oil bread and it was going to be fantastic!

What I ended up with were some very fragrant doorstops.  I think I either created some small, matter-sucking black holes or I really screwed with the law of conservation of mass because those bad boys weighed way more coming out of the oven than they did going in.

There were some other less memorable but still ill-fated attempts at bread-making over the years culminating more recently in an attempt to make focaccia, because who can mess that up, right?  Apparently I can.  I'll refer to it as the focaccia/Frisbee incident and leave it at that.  (These also involved rosemary.  Coincidence?)

The fact that I could not do something so seemingly simple and basic as baking aq stupid loaf of bread was incredibly annoying to me.  I use yeast at work to ferment things all the time.  I am the boss and the larger life form, I make the rules.  (Not really, just go with it.)  The yeasts were not going to beat me!  Especially not some run-of-the-mill, ho-hum, yer momma yeast that I bought in bulk at Sam's Club!!!

So, how did I finally succeed?  The same way the cave man showed his superiority over the apes:

TOOLS!

Specifically, my Kitchen Aid + the dough hook.  I've always felt that my problem was overkneading.  This method takes that responsibility out of my hands.

I started simply with the basic white bread recipe in the little book that comes with the Kitchen Aid.  It came out fantastic!  After even this small measure of success I will admit to having delusions of great grandeur involving never buying bread from the grocery again and my house always smelling deliciously of yeast and fresh bread.  People will come to visit and I'll come out of the kitchen in a flour-spattered apron with a smudge on my nose and say, "Oh, hi.  I was just baking some baguettes..."

*sigh

What?  Right.  Well, let's see if I can at least repeat the magic one more time before I swear off of commercial bread forever.

Yes, that big bite was me.  I think I was still chewing when I started giddily snapping pictures, as if the loaves were going to disappear before I could prove to anyone that I had actually baked good bread.


P.S.  All of the vegetables on the plate with my grilled cheese were purchased at the Raleigh Farmers Market, as was the butter on the bread in the second picture.

Buy Local NC!

Art, Vanity and Getting what you pay for

You know how you always see the caricature artists at the fair or Disneyland or other places people are having fun and you think, "it might be kind of fun to have one of those done of me," but you don't do it because you don't really want to wait in line/pay for it/see how they draw you?  Well, I had an opportunity to have one done for free recently.  Anyway, I love the cake and my hair looks pretty good...

The only cure for vanity is laughter, and the only fault that is laughable is vanity. ~Henri Bergson

Playing with Food

Over Easter weekend I made a trip to the Farmers Market and got some early strawberries.  Some of them had really fun shapes and if you have been reading my blog for a while you know I have a thing for funny-shaped produce, natural or contrived.

So, what do you see?

Here's what I see:

(I didn't have anything good to make an eye, so I just added one in MS Paint.)

The Importance of Being Earnest

Updated:  No major changes, just fixing some weird things that happened when Blogger was down.  I also lost my two comments.  :(

I was going to make my next post about the awesome pasta dish I made for dinner Tuesday night, but then something interesting happened at the grocery store.  Specifically, the parking lot of the grocery store.  The recipe will come soon.

I was walking along pushing my cart, within yards of Nemo, when suddenly the car I was behind lurched into reverse.  I usually come up with some silly expletive like "fart" or "poop" or the infamous "uh-oh, UH-OH!"  Sometimes all I can manage is sort of a whimper, but this time was a straight up "oh, s***!"  and then a dorky looking run with the cart to get out of the way. In flip flops.  Fortunately, he saw me and stopped.  I wasn't angry, I know that accidents happen.  I may even be guilty of committing a few myself.  (If "a few" means thousands.  It's all perception).  Anyway, I continued on to my car and began transferring my groceries to my trunk.  I was still alive and unharmed.  No big.

Then, something amazing happened.  He stopped and apologized!  Sincerely apologized.

Wow.

Think about it.  Remember the last time you did something embarrassing, especially if it did or could have affected another person adversely.  Did you really want to stop and apologize?  Did you want to risk the wrath of one of those people that appears normal on the outside but hides an angry, scathingly bitter soul inside, just waiting for some unsuspecting person to unleash it upon?

Sometimes there's no opportunity to apologize, like when you almost crash into someone while driving.  But what if you're right there?  Do you make it a point to apologize?  I'd like to think that I do and/or would, but, honestly, I could do better.  The problem is fear.  I hate to have people angry at me.  Even making a complete stranger mad at me can potentially reduce me to tears.  At the same time, I know that sometimes a simple apology and admission of fault can go a long way.

It's hard.  Very, very hard to look someone in the face and admit your guilt, but I will try.

I will try to be strong and offer apologies when I do wrong.  As a wife, I know the power of a heartfelt apology.  As a mother, I am charged to teach Sweet P how to apologize...and mean it.  As a human, I owe my fellow (wo)man the benefit of the doubt that it was truly an accident and graciously accept an honest apology.  It may also mean forgiving the lack of an apology; there are reasons for that, too.

So, thank you, man who almost ran me over at Lowe's Foods.  You are brave and kind.  I forgave you in the parking lot and I am inspired by you in my heart.  Ideally, I would not make mistakes, but that is about as likely as Dozer (my dog) not chasing bunnies and making a fool of himself anymore.  Until then, I will hike up my big girl panties and say those two very powerful words.

I'm sorry.

Chicks, Books and Famous People

My opinion of famous people has gotten a boost!  I organized a small group of ladies to accompany me to WRAL FM's Lipstick Luncheon on March 19th.  My main interest in going was to hear the keynote speaker, Celia Rivenbark, who does have her own website but does not have a page on Wikipedia.  What?  She is an NC Girl from Duplin County and, besides her weekly syndicated column, has authored six high-larious books.  At least the two I've read were funny and, judging from the titles, the rest should be great, too.

• Bless Your Heart, Tramp and Other Southern Endearments (owned and have read it)
• We're Just Like You, Only Prettier
• Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank (have read it, but lost to an unknown borrower)
• Belle Weather:  Mostly Sunny with a Chance of Scattered Hissy Fits
• You Can't Drink All Day if You Don't Start in the Mornin' (owned but have not yet read it)
• You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl (forthcoming)

After her speech, Celia set up in the hall to sign her books.  She was extremely nice and actually stopped to allow her fans to compose themselves into a flattering picture with her, unlike other famous people I have "met," and I got a decent inscription.

Although I am sad to learn that those measly six point five-ish years spent in the Cold North have rendered me unable to truly be Southern, it was a great day and we all had fun.

Nemo and Bambi's Dad (Updated)

Update:  I got into a fight with my netbook in the middle of composing this post.  The netbook may have won, but it fights dirty with tactics such as publishing posts prematurely and then shutting everything down to run updates.


I killed a deer...probably.

I was driving to work one morning in early April when it happened.  My commute is not like most; instead of four-lane highways, I travel back roads.  Rather than fast food restaurants and shopping malls, I see farms and livestock...and deer.

Since I don't remember too much leading up to the hit, I was probably zoned out a bit in that "I drive this route twice a day" way.  I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and hit the brakes.  I'm so glad I did because this deer was BIG.  Of course, in my mind, he kept seeming bigger and bigger as I related to story, but he was still big.  I knocked his legs out from under him a bit, he fell over onto my hood and then kept running.  Fortunately I had completely stopped by this time because several more deer followed.  No one was behind me, so I just sat there for a moment thinking how glad I was that I had been able to hit the brakes.  If I hadn't, I'm pretty sure I would have had a giant deer through my windshield.

I vaguely recalled seeing pieces flying when I hit him, but I couldn't see any damage from inside the car so I naively thought that perhaps it wasn't so bad.  I started driving again, no issues there.  Then I pulled into a church parking lot a few hundred yards away to check for damage.  The door won't open.  Yep, there's damage.  So I get out on the passenger side and walk around to find:

So, a busted grill and my Nissan emblem popped off.

Close-up of the grill and hood (and fur, ew!).

Broken headlight.

And the bumper that got smashed into the fender that got crammed into the door...



Anyway, I was able to drive the remaining two miles or so to work and then had it towed to a body shop in Knightdale.  I probably could have driven it, but it was 26 miles and I didn't want to press my luck.  State Farm was great and got me hooked up with a great body shop that arranged the tow for me and reserved a car for me which we picked up later that same day.

My little Versa is called Nemo because he has a lucky wiper on the passenger side.  To keep with the theme, I named my "new" car Bruce.

Bruce is a Dodge Charger, which I always thought were kind of cool.  It was fun to have a powerful car for a little bit.  The novelty began to wear off when after a week I still couldn't park the damn thing and I had to drop another $60 on a second tank of gas.

After two weeks and one day one got my Nemo back.  I can once again practically park sideways in a parking space again and still be cool.  I love my car, and the fuzzy doggie paw print steering wheel cover, too!

My Latest Food Obsession: The Monte Cristo Sandwich

On my recent trip to Anaheim and Disneyland, I ate some delicious things.  Being in California, I also ate some very fresh and healthy things.  One meal in particular stands out: the famous Monte Cristo sandwich from Cafe Orleans at Disneyland.  While it was definitely not healthy, it was at least wisely paired with fresh fruit as a side; french fries would have been overkill on the fried food front.  As it was, I focused on the meat and cheese containing parts while Mom "I'm just going to have a salad" took care of the corners for me.

The almighty reference, wikipedia, proclaims the version I had to be the traditional version, but with an addition.  That means the sandwich is completely dipped in fluffy, funnel cake-like batter, deep-fried, dusted with powdered sugar and served with a berry puree.  The addition was a common one in some areas of turkey to go with the traditional ham and Swiss.  The turkey was probably unnecessary since it was so mild it was essentially unnoticable when compared with all of the other flavors.

I had heard of the Monte Cristo sandwich, but I didn't really know what it was. Furthermore, I realized that I couldn't remember ever having noticed one on a menu around Wake County.  Though, I must admit that I don't usually pay too much attention to the sandwich sections of menus, especially if there is a Reuben listed near the beginning of the list.  I'm a sucker for pretty much anything involving sauerkraut as long as it is not of the Bavarian variety.  See shredded brussels sprouts for my opinion of caraway seeds.

In doing internet research around the Triangle in search of the elusive Monte Cristo, I have learned one thing: beware of imitations.  Yes, I know regional variation allows for the sandwich to just be fried on the outside.  It is even acceptable for the whole thing to just be thrown between a couple slices of French toast.  While both of those do sound tasty and might have pleased me previously, I have had the Cadillac and can now never turn back to tamer versions.

I have been ruined forever for anything but the original.  I have considered the improbability of powdered sugar on a ham and cheese sandwich and found the contrast delicious.  I have delighted in the crisp, fluffy batter encasing soft, fresh bread and its salty, smoky contents.  I have dunked in the berry puree until there was but a sad smear of it left in the cup.

Monte Cristo Sandwich - I will have you again, even if I must resort to cooking you myself!

Lost in Translation

As we are trying to teach Sweet P certain rules about how things work in our house as far as meal times and personal grooming, I realized that she isn't necessarily understanding what we are saying to her.  Some rules I realize are rather confusing upon analysis.  For example:

Rule: No cookies if you don't eat your dinner.
Analysis: If you eat food, you get more food.

Rule: You don't get crackers every time you ask for them, especially since you ask for them all the time.
Analysis:  Don't ask for crackers and you just might get some.  Also known as the Law of Random Crackering

Other rules I have translated based on her reaction to them.

Rule: It's time to go inside.
Translation: You don't get to do anything fun again for the rest of your life.

Rule: Big girls don't need bottles or pacifiers.
Translation: I'm taking away everything that you love.

Rule: No crackers before dinner.
Translation: I don't care if you're hungry, I'm just going to let you starve to death.

Rule: Go to sleep.
Translation: I don't love you anymore.

Rule: You have to sit in your booster seat and wear a bib to eat.
Translation: Ilike to torture you.

Rule: Let's wash your hands and face.
Translation: I like to torture you.

Rule: It's trim to trim your nails.
Translation: I like to torture you.

Book Review: Listen

First of all, I apologize for the hiatus.  I was battling the Mutant Death Crud for about a week and then just never found the time to write.  I also read a lot, and one novel has moved me to share.  If you have a nook, perhaps you downloaded the Free Friday book a few weeks ago?  If not, it is currently at $9.

Listen by Rene Gutteridge

In Listen, Rene addresses the power of the spoken word.  In this case, words not intended to be heard by the subject.  The story takes place in a small town full of seemingly normal people.  Then a website appears with transcripts of private conversations, turmoil ensues.  Turmoil that crosses generations and eventually ends in death.

I started reading the book and found it very entertaining with the aura of mystery surrounding the identity of the website creator.  I just finished it Sunday morning and I was surprised at how incredibly moved I felt at the end.  I am reminded of the pain I was put through by my classmates between 6th and 12th grade.  At first I was a brain, then later a freak as I tried to figure out who I was in the sea of conformity or social death that is high school.  In my struggle to identify myself as me, the only fact I had to work with was that I knew I wasn't everyone else.

As it was the 90's, I got caught up in the "grunge" or "alternative" scene.  I wore baggy pants and flannel shirts from thrift stores the hung awkwardly on my painfully thin frame.  I finally grew tired of it and stopped dressing like an old, color-blind man, but not until after I had been identified as "the biggest pothead in the school."  Which was intriguing because I had never done drugs.  I'm pretty sure it was also said I was anorexic, which was also not true.  I was only blessed with an extremely good metabolism, which has now, sadly, gone the way of the old-man pants.  At times I was also apparently a slut, but isn't that what most gossips will eventually resort to when the target is a female?

The struggles of Jenna, one of the main character's teenage daughter, make my heart ache for what Sweet P will have to endure throughout her life.  Paradoxically, Doug was the taunter rather than the tanted in school.  I can only hope that between the two of us and our different experiences we will have the strength and knowledge to get her through it relatively unscathed.

To be honest, I am guilty of many conversations that I would be mortified to have exposed.  It won't be easy, but I hope to learn to consider what I say, even if the subject isn't present.

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"...as much as I hated it at first, I actually think it has done some good.  I hear it in the break room.  People are starting to talk about the power of words.  People are listening more than they're talking...Life and death are in the power of the tongue, if you give the tongue all of the power, I guess."

Too Pretty to Eat...Almost

Doug and I were introduced to the joys of bacon from happy pigs last New Year's Eve when some friends brought over some from Rainbow Meadow Farms.  It has since been referred to as the "Amazing Bacon".  It is so thick and fresh that it doesn't even curl up when you cook it.  I bake it in the oven and it comes out, flat, crisp and, well, amazing.  Unfortunately there are no pictures of the bacon, I was too busy eating it.

I went by the Rainbow Meadow Farms stand on my latest trip to the State Farmers Market to hopefully score some Amazing Bacon and to consider buying an Amazing Chicken while I was at it.  While I am all in favor of eating critters that live a happy life in open pastures, I am not quite ready for an $18 chicken.  This is in large part due to my lack of expertise with cooking whole birds.  I'll get there.

The very nice (and chatty) lady running the booth was going to run my debit card for the $7.something for the bacon even though she only liked to do it for over $10 when she offered me some fresh eggs to go with it.  Having not even thought about eggs, I happily agreed.  She then pulled out the most beautiful eggs I have ever seen.  They are Araucana eggs, and although I had a hard time capturing it on film, they are a delicate greenish-blue.

I'll admit to having entirely too much fun snapping pictures of these little beauties.  After a lifetime of sorted-by-size plain old white eggs, I found it incredibly and ridiculously charming that these were all different shapes and sizes.  I fried a bunch of them up (in a bit of Amazing Bacon fat of course) to have with the Amazing Bacon on Sunday and got a surprise.  I felt silly because I was a little sad to break such pretty eggs, but it was fun to crack the two biggest ones to find double yolks.  These eggs were even pretty on the inside, with a rich, golden yolk.  The only thing that could have made Sunday breakfast better would have been fresh-baked bread, but I have absolutely no luck in the kitchen with yeast.  In the lab, on the other hand, I put those yeasties to work!

Now, prepare for Eggs as Art!