Real Passive Aggressive

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Today was one of those super productive Maniacal Mandy kinds of days.  I started what will be my biggest summer project, doing something about the disgusting floor in our sunroom.  I worked on that until my body hurt too much to do it anymore (I have a big blood blister on my finger and am not sure I'll be in any shape to walk or squat tomorrow).  I also knocked off another item from my summer to-do list when I opened and filed all of the mail.  I hate filing the mail. What a tedious and miserable task!  (But it's amazing when the mail is filed and organized!)

While filing the mail, I came across about three different letters from my friends at Real Simple, reminding me to renew my subscription.  Here's the thing.  We subscribe to like seven magazines, and I never really know when I need to renew the subscriptions.  It's hard to know, too, when I actually need to renew because the magazine people are always trying to scare me into renewing like eleven months before I actually need to do so.  Most of the time, the letters from the magazines don't get opened until it's the semi-annual mail filing day (or until Matt has to suffer through a Friday without getting to read the newest issue of Entertainment Weekly). 

So today I opened a letter from the Real Simple folks.  Here's what it said (emphasis mine):

. . .Your subscription payment is 90 days PAST DUE, and we've had to suspend delivery.  This is one more reason you need REAL SIMPLE.  Each issue gives you time-saving solutions for everyday tasks, like how to pay your bills on time.  Please take a moment to return the top portion of this statement along with your payment. . .

Okay, Real Simple.  Fine.  Our credit card numbers changed and so you couldn't automatically charge me.  But why so condescending!?  Perhaps the next issue could have a feature about how you can catch more flies with honey.

(But I'll still renew, because I love that magazine, even if they can be bitchy.)

My Favorite Cookie

Now, this is kind of a Sophie's Choice kind of thing.  I mean, cookies?  How can I decide which one is my all-time favorite?  Can't I go with current favorite?  Favorite strawberry cookie?  Favorite chocolate chip cookie?  There need to be subdivisions.  But there aren't.  And this, my friends, is my favorite cookie.  (PS--my wedding dress almost didn't fit because of cookies.  That tidbit should surprise nobody.)

It's Real Simple's recipe for Peanut Butter Cup Cookies.  And it's. . .so good that you'll eat 15 of them and then not fit into your wedding dress.  (Not entirely true; the culprit in the wedding dress saga was the Pepperidge Farm White Chocolate Macademia Nut cookie--a close second.)

Back in the fall, Carly put these up on her Facebook (which is, apparently, my complete inspiration for this blog), and I was in love.  I was all, "Hey, I subscribe to Real Simple!  Why didn't I see that recipe?"  Oh yeah, that was because I had a bout of narcolepsy whilst reading that particular issue, and then the magazine rested on the floor by my side of the bed for three weeks.  Shoooooooooooooooot.

Thank the good lord for Carly!

And here's why this recipe is so perfect (beside the fact that it's, well, perfect): we always have miniature Reese's cups.  Matt has the self control of Jesus (at least when it comes to Reese's cups), and for some reason I can refrain from shoving them into my mouth.  So we can keep them on hand at all times.  Matt will say, "I'm going to have a dessert," and he'll stroll into the kitchen and come back with ONE mini Reese's.  (Yeah, I kind of hate him, too.) 

AND, in a class that I've been taking all year, one that I haven't blogged about because I, at times, subscribe to the "If you don't have anything nice to say. . ." addage.  (Also because it's about my job, and I try not to shit talk it too much.  If you want to hear those juicy stories you'll need to phone me.)  Anyway, in my COMPLETELY AWESOME and NOT AT ALL STUPID class on how to teach gifted students, we were learning about how to use rubrics to assess student work.  Our REALLY SMART teacher had us learn rubrics by making a rubric for the perfect cookie.  Although this may seem like an activity that I would enjoy, I found it annoying, and a complete waste of time. Fortunately, I was in the "making the rubric" group and not in the "making the cookies" group.  But I did recommend this recipe to someone who had to make the cookies, and these cookies won the Golden Spatula award.  (Perhaps you're beginning to understand why I am so EXCITED TO GO TO THIS CLASS FOR THREE HOURS EVERY MONDAY NIGHT.)  Point is, these cookies won. 

And they won because they're f'ing delicious.

Are you ready for this tasty madness?

Also, you should know that this is some of the most delicious cookie batter on the planet.

Peanut Butter Cup Cookies (from Real Simple)
.Makes 48 cookies (or 16 if you're Mandy.  I like 'em bigger.)
Hands-On Time: 15m
Total Time: 40m


Ingredients
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup dark brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 12-ounce package small peanut butter cups, coarsely chopped


Directions
1.Heat oven to 375° F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt.
2.Using an electric mixer, beat the butter and sugars until creamy. Add the egg and vanilla and beat to combine. Gradually add the flour mixture, mixing until just incorporated. Fold in the peanut butter cups.
3.Drop tablespoon-size mounds of dough 2 inches apart onto the prepared baking sheets. Bake until light brown around the edges, 12 to 15 minutes. Transfer to a baking rack to cool.

It's Wednesday!  Woop-woop!  (And somebody I know only has 22 more days of school. . .)

Love and Same-side Booth Sitting

After a looooong day at work yesterday, I was thrilled to come home, and even more excited to see that my new Real Simple had arrived. I love me some Real Simple--love the recipes, love the road tests, love the tips and the articles. I even love the "Thoughts" feature, the feel-good quote and picture that start off each issue.

When Matt, Mitch, and I settled in for our Friday family snuggle nap (you can puke now if you'd like, because we really do call it that. In fact, we usually scream it in a high-pitched voice--"FAMILY SNUGGLE NAP!"--and then retreat to the bed, our favorite place.) I took my new, crisp magazine. I read this month's quote, and it made me smile, so I then read it to Matt:

"Love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking

outward together in the same direction"

~ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPERY, WIND, SAND AND STARS

And while I was picturing something sweet like this. . .

. . .Matt responded: I think that Real Simple is advocating same-side booth sitting.

(You know, the couples who go out to eat by themselves but insist on sitting on the same side of the booth. Often they start making out in the middle of the restaurant. We are anti same-side booth sitters.)

It was like the time I said I would want to name a boy child George, and he asked me if I really wanted to name my kid after George Bush. My solution: George Clinton. Or maybe George Barack.

Sometimes I think I might hate Matt, but then he calls on a Friday afternoon and suggests a family snuggle nap, and I fall in love all over again.

A Host of Fears (a post from Mitch)

It's not easy being a dog. (Supposedly, it's not easy being cheesy, either. But I think it would be pretty fun to be cheesy. Fun, and delicious.)

Here's why it's hard to be a dog: you get really scared of stuff.

See, when I was a young pup, I wasn't afraid of anything. And then, gradually, I began to have bad experiences.

First it was the handle on that stupid white reclining chair. I got my puppy foot stuck in it and broke my foot. That sucked soooooo bad. You know how much you have to go to the vet when you have a broken foot?

Then it was bicycles. I don't have a good reason to hate bicycles, I just do.

And I hate bags of golf clubs, too.

Then came my fear of thunderstorms. I wasn't afraid of thunderstorms until a couple of years ago when my great aunt Doo Doo Brown told me about how scary they are. She said that she'd been hit with the booms, and that it stung.

And now any loud noise makes me think of a thunderstorm and I get really scared--so scared I put my tail between my legs!

In the same vein of the loud noises comes being around my dad while he's watching football. He claps and yells and I hate it. I usually run to my mom for protection.

And now I'm afraid of my yard. More specifically, I'm afraid of the squirrels in my yard. They throw acorns at me and taunt me, and the other day there were two of them going completely crazy. It was like a bicycle and a thunderstorm and Daddy watching football all rolled into one. Oh, and they attacked me. It's a good thing that I have my rabies shot.

So now I am afraid to go into the back yard. This really sucks because that's where I go to get away from my dad while he's watching football. It's a real catch 22.

My first solution to overcome fears: BARKING.

I barked at the power lines at the park to tell those park squirrels to tell my yard squirrels who's boss.

But it didn't really take away the fear. When my mom opens the door for me to go out, I just stand there.

And ask her if I can please just get a litter box. But then I remember that only cats have litter boxes, and I hate cats, so that's a no go.

I pretend that I can't go outside because I have an itch on my face.

And I try to scare my mom by telling her that there's a murderer outside, and that we should both just go lie on the couch. But she's too shrewd, and she doesn't fall for it.

And she keeps hasslin' me. And I don't want to. (I'm actually her elder now, if we count in dog years. I think she should do what I say.)

I try to charm her with my smiles.

And I do some handsome poses. But to no avail.

But then I smell something that smells like it might be delicious. What is that? Grilled squirrel kebabs? The Real Simple recipe? With an Asian flavor profile?

You had me at grilled squirrel kebabs. So I make my way down, slowly.

And as soon as I get off the steps I know I've made a horrible mistake.

I'm a dog, and I can sense fear, and I can sense evil. (That's why I always bark at the mailman; he's both afraid and evil.)

But, with Mom's encouragement (even though I suspect that she is playing some horrible joke on me), I inch my way to the yard of fear. I want these kebabs.

It's a scary, scary world, filled with bicycles and golf club bags, thunderstorms and dads who watch football.

But I'm Mitch, and Mama didn't raise no fool. Mama did, however, raise a dog with a discerning palate, and that dog is wanting squirrel kebabs.

I'm doing it. I'm going to the yard, squirrels or no squirrels. And my legs are shaking, my knees are weak, and I can't seem to stand on my own four feet. I'm all shook up, but I think I'll make it. Wish me luck!

Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Week

This has been a terrible horrible no good very bad week. It's just sucked. I've been swamped at work, swamped at home, tired, grumpy, and intolerant. Listening to 14-year olds whine for hours and hours hasn't helped, and neither has my never-ending mountain of laundry that, for some reason, refuses to fold itself and put itself away.

What really sucks is that I'm actually having a better week than some of my friends, and I'm being a big whiny baby about mine.

The sulking needs to stop, and I need to crawl out of my grump slump. But how?

It starts with a glass of wine, continues with a good cry and venting on paper (I wrote a two-page list of things I hate), then another glass of wine, then an episode of Friday Night Lights, then a delicious dinner of fajitas! with Matt. That was last night. Today I bribed myself (I allowed myself $30 in unnecessary purchases from Target) so that I would be productive, took the pup for a walk on a gorgeous day, and laid in the grass at the park.

How can I ever be a grump when I look at this face every day?

So many smells!

And never underestimate the effectiveness of retail therapy. I bought these pajama pants at Target. (Don't tell Matt; I already own approximately 894 pairs of pajama pants.)

And I made these cookies that I've been dreaming of since the weekend (thanks, Carly).

Tomorrow's Friday, and I'll be happy to bid farewell to this shitfest of a week. Goodbye, shitfest week. And leave me alone! I've got cookies, new pajamas, and a snugglin' dog. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, week of October 5-9!

White Wine Chicken and Potatoes

A couple of years ago, Cassie gave us this cookbook for Christmas. Before that time, I was basically clueless in the kitchen, although I aspired to be better. And this cookbook, along with my subsequent obsession with Real Simple recipes, helped to make that possible.

One of the things that's so great about Real Simple's approach is that, well, it's really simple. The ingredients are all things that the average grocery store stocks, and many of the recipes call for the same basic ingredients. Go buy this book, and while you're at it, some olive oil, parmesan cheese, kosher salt, yukon gold potatoes, onions, garlic, and dry white wine.

Matt and I drooled over the pictures of the food, put post-its on the pages of the recipes we wanted to try. The first recipe that we made from the cookbook was this one: Chicken Cutlets with Herb Sauce, or, as we like to call it, White Wine Chicken and Potatoes. It's fast, easy, and delicious. (I really want to make a "your mom" joke right here.)

(I would have taken pictures of the actual process of making the dish had I not been hitting the bottle a little too early that night.)

From Real Simple: Meals Made Easy (slightly modified because we double the sauce and bake the potatoes longer)

Ingredients
1 tbsp. olive oil
1 1/2 lbs. Yukon gold or new (red) potatoes, cut into 1/2-inch pieces (peel first if desired)
1 1/2 tsp. kosher salt
1 – 1 1/2 lbs. chicken cutlets
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/2 cup dry white wine (chicken stock will work if you don’t have wine)
4 tbsp. unsalted butter, chilled
2 tbsp. chopped fresh herbs, such as rosemary, chives, parslet, or tarragon

Directions
1. Heat oven to 425 degrees. Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the potatoes and cook, stirring occasionally, until golden, about 15 minutes. Transfer to baking dish and season with salt. Bake for 25-35 minutes, depending on how soft you like your potatoes (the recipe actually says to bake them for 10-15 minutes, but that wasn't nearly enough. Unless, of course, you like your potatoes to have the texture of an unripe apple.)

2. Meanwhile, rinse the chicken and pat dry. Season both sides with 1/4 tsp. salt and 1/8 tsp. pepper. Return skillet to medium-high heat. Add the chicken and cook until browned on each side and cooked through, 3-4 minutes per side. Transfer chicken to a platter.

3. Add the wine to the skillet, reduce heat, and simmer for 2 minutes, constantly scraping the bottom. Add 1 tbsp. of butter and stir or whisk until completely combined. Repeat with remaining butter. Remove skillet from heat. Add the herbs and the remaining salt and pepper and whisk to combine. (The butter emulsifies better if it is cold when you add it to the simmering wine.)

4. Add the potatoes to the platter with the chicken and spoon the sauce over the top.

Once you're finished, call over the dish pre-washer to do his job. He'll thank you for it.

A shoe search only reveals creepy baby dolls.

This month's issue of Real Simple features this photo of these shoes, and I cannot stop thinking about them. I want these to be the shoes that provide the evil teacher click, click, click as I walk around my classroom next school year. I even had a dream that I found them and wore them to school.

I've been looking all over the interwebs and the inside of the magazine to see who makes the shoes and where I might be able to buy them. (Truth be told, they're probably far too expensive and uncomfortable to make my shoe dream come true, but I WANT them. My desire for these shoes is a perfect example of a need vs. a want, and I'm not sure I'd have a husband anymore if I spent a small fortune on shoes I'd never wear.)

Refusing to listen to common sense, I continue to search for the designer of these shoes. I googled the photographer's name, Burcu Avsar, but it was a bit of a dead end. Only a bit, though, because I came across a really interesting project of hers where she photographs old toys. Avsar's beautiful explanation of the project will do little to keep me from having bad dreams about this creepfest below, probably because of my history with baby dolls.

Wow, are baby dolls creepy!

Back in college, my roommates and I would throw huge Halloween parties. My roommate Paxton would begin decorating the house about a month in advance. The decorations were always fantastic, and Paxton was definitely a details kind of guy. He constructed a tree from branches that he'd dragged home, he carved intricate details in pumpkins, he found beer pong ping pong balls that looked like eyeballs. The decorations were just incredible, but our least expensive decorations ended up being the scariest.

Paxton and I went to a thrift store and spent about $3 on old gross baby dolls. We took them home, tore them apart, threw on some fake blood, duct tape, and thumbtacks. Then we hung the dolls and doll limbs and doll heads from the ceiling.

Of all of the frightening decorations--even the fog machine in the grate that would hiss every few minutes and look amazing--those creepy babies were the most memorable. I can't look at Avsar's gorgeous pictures of old toys without having vivid memories of the baby doll whose mouth was duct taped, who later became our Christmas tree topper. That same baby doll did come to life and murder one of our roommates, which may further explain why I find baby dolls a bit on the scary side.

Oh, and if you can find out where I can find those pretty pretty turquoise shoes you win in life.