No reason for this picture, other than to prove that I wasn't THAT slovenly dressed for the 13th episode, regardless of how Madden carried on about my appearance.
But then, there's always NEXT week.
No reason for this picture, other than to prove that I wasn't THAT slovenly dressed for the 13th episode, regardless of how Madden carried on about my appearance.
But then, there's always NEXT week.
For all my friends, those within reach and those 5,000 miles away, I send you my love and wishes for a very Merry Christmas. (And please pretend I'm in a pub doing this, 'cause that's what I thought of while recording it.)
Before you begin this recipe, you must know right from the start that these are not traditional biscochitos, but they are from my mom, whose recipes should never, ever be questioned. The traditional verison would be made with lard and red wine and these are not. Feel free, however, to drink as much red wine as you'd like while baking them. I think this somehow makes up for it. And let's face it-the wine is much better going in your mouth then in the cookies.
Ingredients (or, as Teresa Giudice from the Real Housewives of NJ would say, "Ingredients-es")
1 cup softened butter
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg (room temperature...always room temperature. If you are like me and can't think far enough ahead to take your eggs out early, simply plop it in some warm water for a few minutes.)
3 cups all purpose flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp anise seed
3 tbl vanilla (or as Ina Garten would say, "The GOOD vanilla.")
1/2 cup sugar and 2 tbl cinnamon mixed together..voila! Cinnamon Sugar!
Cream together butter and sugar until very creamy. Add egg and continue to beat until a lovely yellow. Add anise and vanilla and mix just until incorporated.
In a separate bowl, mix together the flour and baking powder. Slowly add to butter mixture but do not overwork the dough-it will get stressed out and result in tough, unhappy cookies, much the same way the author of this recipe becomes when overworked. Roll dough out on floured surface to about 1/4" thickness and cut out with your favorite cutters. I use round, because I lack imagination.
Bake in a 350 oven for 7-8 minutes or until very lightly browned on bottom. Remove from baking sheet and toss in cinnamon sugar while still warm until completely coated and then place on rack to cool.
(Note: If you remove the cookies from the oven and forget to roll them in the cinnamon sugar, and instead do a load of wash or empty the dishwasher or sign onto Facebook and accidentally allow your cookies to cool, you'll find the sugar won't stick and you'll be left with only somewhat sugared cookies. Not wanting to mix that batch in with the others you might be forced to eat it, reasoning that they weren't good anyway and then the rest of the night you'll feel guilty about the 12 cookies you ate in one sitting. And then you'll end up drinking more wine to forget that you just downed a dozen cookies and you'll probably pass out on the couch in a red wine/biscochito coma. Trust me on this. xoxo)
***With the exciting news that there is a tiny new member of the Royal Family on his/her way, I thought I would share with you the live-blog I wrote during the actual wedding. Lizzie and I stayed up all night to watch it, while dressed in fancy pajamas, pearls and wearing big floppy wedding hats. I hope you enjoy! xoxo***
(Side note: Lizzie and I find it extremely inconsiderate of Wills and Kate to marry at 11am. Charles and Diana were married in the afternoon, which meant that we Yanks did not have to pull an all nighter just to witness their nuptials. Just sayin’…)
12:24: The coffee is ready. I didn’t expect that we would need a caffeine jolt quite so early, but it turns out that we do.
12:26: Reporter is interviewing a young male singer in the Westminster Choir. With his little gray cardigan, red tie and falsetto voice, I predict this kid is going to have one heck of a time getting dates.
12:31: This coffee is terrific. We usually buy the Costco brand, but for Wills and Kate, we splurged on Starbucks.
12:34: Just saw footage of Wills greeting the crowds yesterday. I make the observation that he seems like such a nice, well rounded guy-Diana would be proud.
12:36 Interviewing the police commissioner. Would he be called a “bobby?’
12:37: There’s talk of “sniffer” dogs policing the crowd. I have sniffers dogs, too, but the only policing they do is each other’s butts.
12:38: Interviewer shares with us that she is impressed that the “sniffer” dogs sniffed her sandwich and left it alone. This was met with a chuckle and a “Why, I never!” from the commentator. Love those Brits!
12:47: Commercial: Did you know that you can go to college AND stay in your pajamas?
12:50: How awful to have to fill two hours of air time with uninteresting trivia and man-on-the-street interviews. Of course, we’re watching it, so it can’t be THAT awful.
1:00: Lizzie suggests we take a break from all the mindless filler coverage and watch an X-Files. Would that be anti-Royal Wedding? Well, yes, but we’re pretty sure that’s what Fox Mulder would want.
2:10: After watching the chupacabra X-files episode, we are back, baby!
2:11: Hey, there’s David and Victoria Beckham. Can’t help but think how appropriate it is to have Victoria Beckham appearing on the heels of the X-Files.
2:11: Awful dress alert. Woman behind Victoria Beckham in striped monstrosity. I suspect Victoria warned her to walk several feet behind her or else she would open a can of David on her shins.
2:12: Just saw Prince Harry’s on again/off again girlfriend, Chelsey Davy arrive and believe you me, her dress looks nothing like the sketch. Chelsey is kind of like the British equivalent of Paris Hilton, albeit with unkempt hair.
2:31: Wow, just saw a royal blue clad woman with what appears to be an equally royal blue hat in the shape of a banana placed directly in the middle of her head.
2:42: A little Princess Diana footage. One can never see enough of that.
2:43: T-minus 17 minutes til we get some Prince action
2:45: All these musical lyrical British accents…and then you hear an American interviewed in the crowd. And she’s from Milwaukee. I have nothing against Milwaukee, mind you-it’s just that accent is a bit jarring.
2:50: The hats. Oh, the hats.
2:57: Commentator’s take on a very unusual hat: “Hey, look at that Fly Trap thing on her face.”
2:58: Commentator: “There’s that guest with that hat-she’s in every shot. Watch her turn out to be someone incredibly important and I’m going to get in trouble for that Fly Trap comment.” 3:00: Cosette is barking at a car horn on a commercial. She’s so tired that her mind is playing tricks on her.
3:02: Okay, where are William and Harry?
3:02: Most of these guests have arrived two hours early; wonder what happens when one of them have to use the bathroom?
3:05: A guest arrives in a wheelchair with a fancy hat, fancy dress and foot propped up in a cast. Royal Wedding Fail.
3:07: David Cameron just arrived with his wife. I expected his wife to be more stylish, but what do I know? I’m sitting on my couch in leopard print pajamas with a fancy hat and pearls.
3:15: And here come the Princes. William’s red coat just shines out of that back seat. They do look quite handsome.
3:18: I’m switching between stations which is frustrating Lizzie.
3:18: Wasn’t the prince in Cinderella wearing a red coat?
3:19: What’s with the little red crown cut-out affixed to a spring on the roof of the Princes’ car? I mean, couldn’t they have come up with something a little better?
3:21: The princes are in the abbey. I repeat, the princes are in the abbey.
3:23: Thinking about how Kate was infatuated with William for all those years. Lizzie feels reasonably sure she could make her move on Prince Harry. Chelsey Davy wouldn’t stand a chance.
3:25: The boys are shmoozing with the guests.
3:28: We have Middleton movement.
3:30: We now have the ”Minor” members of the royal family being shuttle off a bus. “Minor” in that these are, like, 34th in line to the throne.
3:40: And…we have Charles and Camilla…
3:46: And…dressed in a bright yellow suit…Queen Elizabeth
3:48: If I was a betting woman, I would bet Prince Phillip is going to fall asleep during the ceremony
3:55: First glimpse of Kate’s dress as she gets into the car…and it is beautiful.
3:56: Kate’s sister, Pippa, arrives with the children attendants. She is sporting the Royal Spray Tan.
4:00: Kate seems so very composed. I suspect she has a flask under her seat.
4:05: The service has begun.
4:17: Just thinking it would be great to hear the Archbishop of Canterbury say, “Wuv. True Wuv..”
4:22: Vows. Rings. Pronouncement.
4:23: Pronouncement. Cheers from outside the abbey! Benediction. 4:24: Another hymn.
4:27: Kate’s brother is speaking. In. Short. Sentences. It’s. In part. From. Corinthians. Chapter. 13.
4:29: Westminster Men/Boy’s Choir is singing. I wonder if we’ll see the little boy from the earlier interview. They all kind of blend together at 4:30 in the morning.
4:31: All the pets are officially miffed that we are not in bed. Wibo is so tired he keeps falling of the Love Sac.
4:32: Choir is still singing. You heard one men/boy’s choir, you’ve heard ‘em all.
4:32: Lizzie just now realizes there are no women in this choir and declares the lot of them sexist.
4:34: Whew. Finally done.
4:34: Here comes the sermon. “Be who God wants you to be and set the world on fire.” I can get behind that.
4:34: More choir. Ugh.
4:46: Choir finished. William and Kate are standing. Here comes the kiss!
4:46: But first, another prayer.
4:47: And…back to the Archbishop of Canterbury. 4:48: The cat is playing with the monkey dog toy, activating the sound mechanism inside. In between each prayer, we hear monkey screams.
4:5:. Sheesh. KISS already.
4:53: Another benediction. But, will it be the last one?
4:53: More Sexist Choir stuff.
4:55: God save the Queen. Okay, I’m a little choked up. Seriously. This always gets me.
4:56: Hey…where are they going? William and Kate and all the parents have left via the back of the altar. I’m so confused. Is there some kind of secret marriage thing that takes place? Maybe a signing of something? A wine and cheese reception? All I know is that we are forced to listen to the more of the Westminster Abbey “No Girls Allowed” Choir.
4:59: Maybe it’s a magic trick. The song ends and BOOM! They come up through the floor in a cloud of smoke Criss Angel style.
5:00: Just realized we have another hour and a half before we get to see the balcony kiss. This calls for breakfast casserole and more coffee.
5:01: I glance over and notice that Lizzie has removed her tiara, ergo, I am removing my hat. Protocol be damned.
5:04: We have altar action. The parents are returning to their seats. I’m still hoping for that cloud of smoke. Maybe a laser.
5:05: Where the heck are William and Kate? Maybe they were abducted…I think they might want to consider calling Fox Mulder.
5:06: TRUMPETS! This sounds promising.
5:07: And…they’re back!
5:08: And…they’re walking… 5:10: Yikes! My battery is at 18%.
5:11: The crowd is going insane, and rightly so. They are a beautiful couple.
5:30: Talking talking talking….
6:26…and finally…The Kiss!
In the Christmas shed, no one can hear you scream.Read More
A ritual was performed in my kitchen last night.
The moment the sun sank and pitched the world into blackness, the knives came out. They had been sharpened to a razor's edge the day before in anticipation of this ritual, their stainless steel shining gleefully. This was no ordinary ritual, and because of it, careful preparation had been made. A ritual of this sort was messy, very messy and special consideration was given to catch the drippings before they made their way onto the floor.
I brought my children in as witnesses. They wanted to play a role, anxious to participate even at the risk of they themselves getting messy. They had waited all day, nay, all year for this moment and their eyes shone with a fevered excitement. They begged to help, but I bid them wait; their time would come soon enough. They obediently sat on their chairs and waited, breathlessly, for the ritual to begin.
Summoning all my strength, I lifted the knife into the air and plunged it down. Despite the years of similar rituals, I was surprised at the difficulty of that first cut. Undeterred, I continued, until my arms ached and my knife had grown dull. With a final stab, I removed my knife, victorious at last.
The children rushed forward, ready now to begin that which they had waited for. With delight, they plunged their hands in and removed every stringy bit and piece. Over and over, they pulled out large and small chunks until their arms were covered.
The second stage of the ritual completed, it was time to move to the stage of the ritual that required the most skill, and dare I say, artistic vision. With knife once more in hand, I began creating. Not just creating, but giving birth to a new creation. Life from death. I stood back frequently to take in the full effect of my work, pausing to get every cut, every nick perfect.
And then, with one final flick of my knife, the ritual was completed. To celebrate, we lit a candle, stood back, and admired our work.
I know it's only October, but I have to admit it...I am SO ready for Christmas.
It is, bar none, my favorite holiday. I decorate the entire house the beginning of November, which means that my children have never known what it was like to eat Thanksgiving dinner without a Christmas tree in the background. It also means that I start playing Christmas music November 1, and oh, the Christmas music. I have everything.
Or at least, I thought so until today. For it was today that I read an early Christmas wish is coming true. The one Christmas album I NEVER thought I would have will be available shortly for purchase:
Yes, Sandy and Danny have reunited to bring us all the sounds of the season as only they can and I can promise you it's cheesier than a nut log at Hickory Farms. And while those wacky kids from Rydell High are bringing us all our traditional Christmas favorites, there's one song I am especially anxious to hear. It's a little tune called "I Think You Might Like It" and it's being described as the sequel to that famous "Grease" duet, "You're the One That I Want." Will the Pink Ladies be singing backup? I don't know. Will the T-Birds be doo-whopping? I don't know that, either. All I care is that this miracle of holiday albums is right around the corner.
This is going to be the best Christmas. EVER.
There are tidy, well organized people in this world for whom a pile of clutter is akin to nails on a chalkboard; who relish compartmentalizing their office into a highly functional workspace, complete with labels and plastic bins; people who would rather gouge out their own eyes than allow the accumulation of plastic water bottle tops or coffee cups on their desk; people who would die of shame to find sunflower seed shells on the floor around their wastebasket.
I am not one of those people, but I have tried to be. Really, I have.
I have drooled over the pages of glossy magazines featuring pictures of perfect offices; pictures that showed the late morning sun casting its rays over pristine orderly workspaces where neat and tidy people do neat and tidy work. Beautiful offices that looked like showpieces, both stylish and functional. I wanted an office like that, so I purchased organizers and letter holders and plastic bins so that there would be "a place for everything and everything in its place." I put up an "inspiration board" (this was pre-Pinterest days) I even went so far as to buy an honest to God label maker, reasoning that if I had a visual of where things should go, I would be more inclined to put them there. Kind of like Label Guilt. But that purchase quickly went south as I found it more fun to label the chair, the phone, the children, and the dog than to actually use it for its intended purposes.
And then it hit me: I am not a neat and tidy person-I am someone who would rather label the dog, than organize her office. I mean, no matter how beautiful that magazine office is, I simply couldn't be creative in it until a couple of Post-Its were on the floor, a drawer was semi-open and my phone was lost under a pile of paperwork. It's how I roll, and although I know I will never be an Ikea poster girl, I'm okay with that.
Now, excuse me while I try to find my stapler.
Today is National Coffee Day, a day wherein we pay tribute to that most awesome of beverages-coffee. I shall pay my tribute by singling out that Mecca in the world of coffee...Starbucks.
Now, I wasn't always a Starbucks' drinker. It's okay, I'll hold on while the shock of that statement wears off. The early patrons of Starbucks considered themselves "coffee connoisseurs," a term I took great delight in disputing at every occasion. It was coffee, for crying out loud, not wine. It was a bean, not a ripe succulent fruit fermented to perfection. In fact, I was one of those people who felt obligated to point out to Starbucks drinkers that coffee was coffee. It's a bean; you grind it: you brew it; you add cream and sugar. Bam! Coffee!
Determined to stand firm in the midst of the turning tide of coffee drinkers toward Starbucks, I insisted I would get my late night coffee at McDonalds or Dunkin Donuts. (Dunkin Donuts was actually my preferred coffee venue, as you could also get a donut. My mama didn't raise a fool.) It was cheaper and, if freshly brewed, every bit as good. The problem, however, was that it wasn't always freshly brewed, and as any coffee drinker can tell you, coffee from an old pot can strip the enamel off your teeth faster than sandpaper. Still, I would rather risk enamel-less teeth than join the ranks of those who got their coffee from Starbucks.
Not everyone around me felt that way, though, including my husband. As my trusty "Coffee Gopher" from way back, he had subjected himself to my complaints regarding old, stale coffee for years. As I often work into the wee hours, caffeine is the deciding factor as to whether a project will be completed or not. Knowing this, he would often surprise me with a cup of coffee purchased from McDonalds or Dunkin Donuts on his way home. So, you can imagine my surprise when he arrived home one evening with a cup of coffee for me in a little white cup with a green logo.
I immediately sensed betrayal.
"WHAT IS THIS?" I demanded, as he handed me the cup.
"I just thought you might like to give it a try," he explained, ducking into the back seat to grab something, anything, so as not to have to look me in the eyes while he spoke. "It's brewed fresh, so you don't have to worry about it being old and it's right on my way home."
I was at a cross-roads. I knew that by drinking that cup of Starbucks coffee, I was crossing over to the Dark Side. Me, who had fought so bravely and steadfastly to not become one of those coffee drinkers was now faced with uncertainty. Unfortunately, I was also faced with a mountain of work, which meant caffeine was needed. So, with the shame normally reserved for closet Snickers eaters and those who might, in a pinch, use their hair as dental floss (not that I would know anything about either of those things) I took a sip.
The moment that brown creamy coffee hit my tongue, I heard the "Hallelujah Chorus." Colors were brighter, sounds were sweeter. I wanted to sing, dance, write poetry, ride a horse to wherever you ride horses. It was, in a word, delicious.
That was ten years ago. Since then, Starbucks and I have become good friends. It has been with me during good times and bed, always warm, always comforting, always delicious.
And I am happy to officially be considered as one of "those people."
As I type this, I am trying my best to remain calm. My nerves have been shaken to my core; I feel myself breaking out in a cold sweat and I hear an odd buzzing in my ears. Why, you ask? Am I getting the flu? Oh no, although I wish it was something as simple as that.
No, my friends, my heart palpitations are over the disturbing news I read today courtesy of the LA Times. It seems the world is bracing for a...for a...for a...PORK SHORTAGE! Yes, according to the news report, drought conditions have lessened the pigs food crop, resulting in a decline in herds. A decline in herds? What is this nonsense? We can put a man on the moon (well, not anymore, but we used to) but we can't prevent a shortage in the Best Meat of all time? How can this be? We can talk to someone across the world 24 hours a day, but we can't provide bacon? This is a travesty of unspeakable proportions. (I have always wanted to say that.)
My friends, however, aren't buying the story. I mean, they believe there could be a shortage, but they don't think it's drought related; they think it's Missy related. In my defense, all I can is this:
As parents, we want the best for our children.
We want to raise them correctly, teaching them right from wrong. We want to develop their ability to problem solve and strengthen their sense of logic and reasoning. We want them to tackle tasks, both new and mundane, with vigor and confidence, knowing that upon completion they will bask in the warm glow of accomplishment.
Like all parents, I want these things for my children, but it has become altogether evident that somewhere along the line, I have failed in my parenting skills. It is now clear that I am raising children who, when faced with a simple task, become perplexed and confused. As tiny children, they were so quick to stack the little plastic rings on their toy that I felt I had prodigies.
But I see now that something has gone terribly wrong. I might need to seek help.
Dear Starbucks in the Old Navy Shopping Center,
I appreciate you.
I appreciate that when I am doing some Old Navy shopping, filling my bag with “Fleece for the Whole Family,” you are there on the corner to meet my caffeine needs. And because I am a whore for convenience, and usually opt for locations with drive-thrus, it is unusual for me to actually park my car and walk into a Starbucks. You are my exception.
With that in mind, let me say that I am very, very disappointed in your behavior as of late. I drove to your store last Sunday evening. I was bone tired and in need of a little Starbucks cheer. I had Whoopie Pie on the brain and could almost taste that creamy red velvet treat. As I pulled up to the store and glanced inside, I saw the chairs turned over onto the tables. Anticipation turned to dismay as I wondered if you were closed. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the hours on the door read that you close at 7pm. It was only 6:15.
As I entered the store, the two employees behind the counter seemed less than thrilled to see me. As did the guy leaning on the counter, drinking his coffee, and conversing with said two employees. I placed my order. It was only for a coffee. Why no pastry delights, you ask? Let me think…oh, yes, I remember…
BECAUSE YOU HAD ALREADY PULLED THEM ALL FROM THE PASTRY CASES.
6:15 and you had de-pastried the cases. I felt violated. I was as though I had slipped into some alternate universe where coffee cakes and whoopie pies are dangled just out of reach. And because I COULDN’T have them, I wanted them even more.
To make matters worse, when my Amerciano was ready, the barista handed me a a 1/2 gallon jug of cream. A JUG, I say! It seems they had already cleared out their standard silver dairy pitchers and, instead, were handing customers a big ass jug of half-and-half, instead. I’ll bet had I arrived later, they would have thrown a canister of powdered non-dairy creamer at me.
Now, Starbucks by Old Navy, I don’t expect you to be open when I want you to be open. That would be lovely, but I am sensible enough to realize that the world does not revolve around me and my Coffee and Whoopie Pie needs. I do, however, expect you to offer your customers the same experience and products 45 minutes before closing that one would find earlier in the day.
I was nice about it THIS time, but I make no guarantees if it happens again.
Nobody stands between me and a Whoopie Pie.
Nobody likes to go to the dentist.
I don't care how kind and compassionate he or she may be, nobody relishes the moment you helplessly recline on a dental chair and surrender yourself to a man or woman with sharp metal objects destined for your mouth.
It had been a year since my last check up and cleaning. Me, of the every-six-months-like-clockwork-cleaning had waited a whole year and I'm not going to lie...I was worried. Would they find cavities? Would there be massive amounts of plaque? Would they believe that I really do floss three times a day? All these thoughts and more were running through my head as the hygienist smiled and instructed me to have a seat in the chair, open my mouth, and relax.
She was a sweet lady, brown curly hair and warm brown eyes, but I swear to God she must have graduated from the Indiana Jones School of Dentistry, 'cause she attacked my mouth like an archeological dig. To say she was thorough would be a gross understatement. She delved into every nook and cranny and even when her sharp pointy hook thing nicked my gum and the warm copper taste of blood trickled down my throat, she did not stop. She was undeterred in her quest to eradicate every last trace of plaque from my mouth. I tried to yell out, but the two blue gloved hands in my mouth made sound impossible. Only once was I able to speak and that was simply in reply to her question of what flavor tooth polish I preferred. I asked if she had anything in the Happy Hour flavorings: vodka, margarita, chardonnay...but, alas, it was not to be. She dived back in with the gritty polish, which bore a striking resemblance to Comet Cleanser, and polished away. For my part, I gripped the chair arms, closed my eyes, and prayed to sweet Jesus that it would all be over soon.
And it was. After the last bit of plaque was removed and the last tooth polished to a shiny brilliance, she patted me on the shoulder, gave me my goody bag filled with toothpaste, toothbrush and floss, donned her brown fedora and was off on her next Cleaning Adventure, whip at her side.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew I was home free, for all I had to do know was wait for the dentist to do his evaluation and really...how bad could that be?
I love making Shepherd's Pie:
("Shepherd's Pie peppered with actual shepherds..." A little Sweeney Todd reference for those of you musical buffs. )
And while my shepherd's pie is void of actual shepherds, it does include sirloin, ground beef and vegetables all melded together in a glorious sauce and topped with mashed potatoes. I make shepherd's pie quite often, as it's a family favorite. And while I like it, I don't LOVE it. It's not like it's pork, or anything.
The last time I made shepherd's pie was in July for a large family get-together. I made 3 trays, so I would have an extra pie in the freezer for an easy dinner down the road. I call these Emergency Back-Up dinners, and feel much better about feeding these to my family when I am too busy to cook. When the Emergency Back-Up dinners are gone, I resort to feeding my children whatever's available, like a bag of Cheetos. Unfortunately, for all involved, my last batch of Shepherd's Pie was an unmitigated disaster. The gravy turned out tasting weird and the whole mess was runny and unappetizing, leaving one family member to ask, "Is it soup or shepherd's pie?" Yeah, it was that bad. But I had an extra tray of it and was determined not to waste, so I froze it, along with another tray filled with BBQ pulled pork. I sat the tray atop the BBQ pork in the freezer. I think subconsciously I was hoping the BBQ Pork would become the David Blaine of Emergency Back-Up dinners and infuse the shepherd's pie with deliciousness using Freezer Magic. Pork can do that.
I had no intention of using the Pork, but at around 4 pm, it had become clear that there was no way I was going to be able to cook dinner. (What is with those crazy clients wanting their orders finished? What?) so I trotted out to the freezer in the garage and pulled out my glorious BBQ pork. I admit-it made me a little sad to remove it. BBQ pork sitting in the freezer is like a pair of warm socks in your underwear drawer-it just makes you happy to know it's there. I popped the disposable tray filled with pulled pork into the oven and continued working. The pork was frozen solid, so it took a couple of hours before the aroma of dinner began wafting through the house.
And it took another hour before the smoke detectors went off.
Yes, at around 7pm, the smoke detectors started wailing like a banshee, propelling me from my seat at my desk. Something had spilled out of that tray and onto the floor of the oven, causing it to smoke like a train, and as I ran to the kitchen, I sensed that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
I opened the oven door, waved away the smoke, pulled back the foil lid on the tray and found not my glorious BBQ pork, succulent and juicy, but a watery, crappy Shepherd's Pie that had bubbled up over the sides of the tray. I had pulled from the freezer the wrong tray.
Words were said in my kitchen last night. Bad words. VERY bad words. I don't think a Shepherd's Pie can actually do what I do told it to do to itself, but that didn't stop me. I didn't know what upset me more: the mess in the oven or the fact that I was NOT having BBQ pork for dinner.
I let the Shepherd's Pie cool down and then I chucked it in the garbage. I stood for a moment at the garbage can, thinking about how I'd been done wrong by a Shepherd's Pie and then I went inside...
and ordered pizza.
I had intended my very first "Here-n-There" blog post to be nothing other than the original faux Latin that the website puts in as placement text. You know, this kind of stuff:
Unfortunately, someone whose name rhymes with Wadden decided to delete it, leaving me with the need to actually put fingers on keyboard and submit my first entry...which is what I'm doing right now.
Consider blog entry number 1 completed! I promise I shall be a good girl and write often. I make no guarantees as to where I'll go...much like our podcast.