Wordless Wednesday: Stranger in a Strange Land

Just take the Lactaid and move on.

October is coming.

I know, I can hear you. But it's barely September! It isn't even officially Labor Day yet! And I understand your reticence to usher in fall.

But. 

October means crunchy leaves. October means warm sprinkle rain. October is the smell of wet asphalt, hot from a reluctant summer. It's cooler days, and a light sweater or two. It's Halloween. 

I love Halloween. 

As a kid, I loved getting dressed up and filling my pillowcase with candy until the seams stretched and groaned under the weight of hundreds of tiny, individually wrapped morsels. After going to all the houses I could, (minus the one that required you to march through a haunted house section before they'd give you candy, because those people were sadists and who wants to go through a haunted house anyway? They're stupid and not even scary and I'm not scared, I just heard they give out Almond Joy and no one likes coconut, so I'm just going to stand over here, no you go ahead, I've got a thread on my costume that needs looking at.) 

I would sit on the living room floor and pour out my bag. I'd sit there in pre-diabetic glee, staring at all the shiny wrappers, calculating which one would be the first, wondering if this would be the year I got the razor in my candy. Then my parents would bring the hammer down. My candy got split into two. One bowl I had access to, and the other was put away for "when the first bowl was finished". I could have one piece of candy a day. That's it. By the time I finished my first bowl of candy, I had forgotten about the second bowl and it was usually almost Easter, so who cares about stale Necco wafers when you've got Cadbury Creme eggs coming your way?

It was years before I realized my parents were thieves. Candy eating, chocolate stealing, smarties snacking magpies. There was never a second bowl for safekeeping. They counted on my childish forgetfulness. Oh my poor naive child-self. I trusted them to watch my candy for me. And candy trust is the most sacred. Candy is child gold. And of course, the idea was genius. 

You don't have to share these Reese's brownies with anyone. You can make them and keep them in one container. You can eat them all in one day, because you're an adult. Just make sure you have a big glass of milk. And, maybe share some with your parents. After all, your mom made that costume and they had to endure that tantrum you threw over the wrong color Pippi Longstocking shoes. They deserve a brownie or two.

Wordless Wednesday: Kickoff in 3 days.

I Would Title This, But Jack and I Are Busy.

Bacon. The only thing wrong with bacon is that there isn't more of it, all the time.

I have a bacon problem. I add it to almost every recipe. Any time I think it needs a little more flavor, I'll just slap some bacon on it and call it dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast. Turkey sandwich? Turkey bacon sandwich. Scrambled eggs? Scrambled bacon eggs. BLT? BBlt. Yeah. I said it. More bacon.

Last Wednesday's dinner was no exception. Using a recipe from The Pioneer Woman, I made Apricot Whiskey BBQ chicken. With bacon.

All bacon wants to do is make you happy.

If you like sweet/savory BBQ, this recipe is a winner. The chicken falls to pieces the moment you breathe on it, and it is like little bits of summer heaven.

Oh, and there's Jack Daniel's involved.

Jack Daniel's also wants to make you happy. And your neighbors. And your twitter feed. 

Make this and enjoy the last of the sweaty August heat. Share it with friends. Or don't share and have chicken for a week. I won't tell. It's that good.

Wordless Wednesday: Good Morning Mr. Elephant! May I squish you?

I Hope That Old Guy Was Running Too Fast To Hear My Fergalicous

     When I run (or more realistically, sweat while moving at a pace only slightly faster than standing), I like to listen to music. Loud. Music that makes me forget I'm in the hot sun and that my legs hurt and my toes are dragging and that a 60 year old man just lapped me on the running trail. I set the bar low for running music. Anything I can dance to, I'll run to. My taste in music is broad, but when it comes to something that will keep me moving, I'm not going to get any exercise in if I'm jamming to Neko. So I usually run to Fergie or Justin Timberlake. Like I said, low.

      This past weekend however, a new songbird earned her place on my running playlist. Eliza Doolittle.  What's even better? She's not crappy! Catchy and fun and talented. And English, so there's a bonus accent! I mean, this music isn't going to change any lives. It's just fun. Like a bit of chocolate. Really catchy chocolate. By George, she's got it.

Do Colleges Take Pie as Tuition Payment?

I have a dirty secret.

I've spent hours online looking at certain pictures. Scouring the internet, constantly searching for just the right one, just the one I want. Lusting after what I don't have, knowing that what's at home isn't satisfying me. I just don't feel fulfilled. I need something bigger. Something with more power. A little more oomph.

Something that will get my egg whites fluffier and my meat more tender.

I mean kitchen supplies, of course.

Specifically, I have two big kitchen mistresses. The Kitchenaid Artisan stand mixer in Majestic Yellow:

Image from amazon.com. Isn't she pretty?

And the 7 1/4 Quart Le Creuset French Oven, in Cherry Red:

Image from amazon.com. Can't you just smell the pot roast?

I want these things. I want them so much. It's too bad the combined cost of both is over $600 and my son would probably be mad if I bought fancy kitchenware instead of putting him through college. But son! Remember those really good birthday cakes? And those pulled pork sandwiches? That's why you can't go to Berkeley without crippling student loans. Totally worth it! Up top! And then in my fantasy world, we high five and he thanks me for being the best mom ever.

I feel bad for coveting such expensive items, especially considering that my own hand mixer, Sir Mix-A-Lot, has been so faithful to me. He tries his best, whirring at about the same speed, no matter what setting he's on. With only one attachment left, the standard egg beater, he does his best to whisk air into my meringue and keep my cake batter smooth, and I truly appreciate the effort. However, Sir Mix-A-Lot is not a work horse. He's getting old and it'll soon be time to go to the great mixing bowl in the sky. I know he needs rest, but I can't replace him now. Like an old factory owner, I'm going to work him until he dies or loses a part in an accident. (Oooo! An accident! Maybe I can convince the husband that Sir died in a horrible accident and THAT'S why I need a $300 mixer. How do you fake an appliance death? It was awful! The dip just exploded! There was cheese and mixer parts everywhere! I'll never look at avocados the same way again!)

Look at him. So tired and old. You can practically hear him complain about Social Security.

Neither the stand mixer or the Le Creuset are in my immediate future, because my practical brain tells me that while having a fancy mixer and french oven are nice, they won't help my son become a doctorlawyersurgeonengineer. So for now, I'll hide from Sir Mix-A-Lot, and stare at pictures on Amazon.com, all day long, watching the price go up and down $5, thinking, Maybe now. Now? I'll buy it now. No. Not now. Now. No. Maybe. No. I'll just go check Facebook.

Anything you covet, kitchen or otherwise, that's just a touch too expensive? Tell me what it is!

Wordless Wednesday: Baby Ducks Love Semi-Circles.

I've Cultivated a Very Specific Tan

Almost every morning, when my husband goes off to work, the house is a little quieter. My son is entering his post-meal daze, and my dogs are snoozing heavily on their beds. It's early. The sun still a little sleepy. Everything is still.

In these moments I slowly, silently go just a little insane. 

I need to get out. I need to start my day accomplishing something other than dishes and obsessively refreshing and refreshing facebook during the baby's nap. I need to move. To say, "Hey there, limbs. Let's go do something with you."

So I walk. 

How can I not? I live in California! It's summer and the mornings are warm. Don't get me wrong, I am as lazy as they come. I will just as easily lay on my couch, marathoning episodes of Arrested Development while shoving cookies and fistfulls of salty food products into my mouth until my appendages fall off. And even then, I'd be like, "That's a bummer. I think I need those for something. Oh well. Can you stick that oreo into my mouth? Thanks, chief."

However, I have a baby who needs attention or an activity all of the time or he becomes an explode-y cry monster who just wants to chew the remote. Just this one time. Please oh please, those shiny buttons look so tasty. I don't understand what you're yelling about, I don't know what batteries are. But I bet they're tasty too, so you probably won't let me eat those, either. 

Fortunately for me, I have a beautiful and only slightly smelly park with a lake less than 5 minutes from my house. So I pack up the boy and his diaper bag and his boppy and his car seat and his stroller that only fits in my car if I take it apart and curse it with gypsy magic, and we go. To Starbucks. And then the park. 

                                                              Ice-cold motivate-y goodness. 

                                                                       See? Sunshine! Lake that only smells a little! 

                                       

The path around the lake is two miles, (but if you ask me on a hot day, it's 14 miles and can you please get me some water I can't feel my face) and I usually walk twice, unless my wonderful friend J is with me, then we sometimes do three times, congratulate ourselves on walking 52 miles, and bury ourselves in piles of sushi. I mean vegetables. Two stalks of celery and a grain of brown rice. Then we fly away on our unicorns. 

This morning was a solo walk, the customary 4 miles. It was an especially beautiful morning, so I slathered myself and my son with sunscreen that won't fill us with poison, (but costs so much it really should come with diamonds or a sunscreen applying butler who will put it on my son's face for me so I don't have to hear him scream like the lotion is stealing his soul through his face skin) and got to walking. 

I walk past other people getting out. Other moms, some couples, some older folk. Some super-fit runners who only eat air and slivers of lettuce, running along like their feet are made of clouds and they have no bones. They usually lap me. A few times. 

I pass quirky landmarks that tell me, You're almost halfway there. You're almost done. Or sometimes, You just started, why are you sweaty?

                                       I'm not usually fond of carving into trees like this, but this is the 

                                          only one at the lake that has this. Full of old and new love. And some swears.

I walk (quickly) past scary geese who want only to eat my flesh and murder my whole family. 

                                                                 This one stared into my soul while I took his picture. 

I walk. I put miles behind me. Sometimes I run and alarm the elderly people. Then, after 4 miles pass, and I've made my sacrificial offering to the geese, who demand it so I may live; I go back to my car. I pack up all the things, I finish the tiny little bead of iced coffee sitting at the bottom of my cup and I go. Home. Where the dogs are excited and there are books to be read out loud, ABC's to be sung, clothes to wash, and stuff to clean. I guess my walks are more about peace than anything else. A small section of the day I can carve out like a heart in a tree, just for me. I can listen to podcasts, talk to my friend, smile as my son falls asleep in the stroller. 

As long as I keep moving. Keep walking. I'll drink in the California sun for as long as my legs can carry me. 

I'll keep going. 

For miles. 

A blog!

Hello! How are you today, internet?

Welcome to my blog. It's a small place, not a lot of spare bedrooms, but it's cozy. Feel free to pull up a chair. Or an ottoman. Or the floor is fine. Get comfortable.

I'm going to tell you stories.

Some will be about me, some will be about food or crafts or things. You'll never know what's coming, because I'll never know. Until I write it. So sit down, be here, take off your shoes and scrunch your toes into the carpet. I'm excited to tell you stuff. And I want to hear stuff from you! Tell me your stories! I want to hear them. All of them.

Because I like you.

                                                           A little hair, a little beach, a little story. For another time.