Labor Day Pictures

Friends, food, pups, babies, and booze.

Young Fletcher has stolen my heart.

But it'll take a little more doing to win over the Mitch.

How was your Labor Day weekend?

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.

. . .and the insides are filled with my blood!

Back to school = major readjustment period.


It means having to go to bed early. It means having to wake up early. It means seeing Matt less. It means listening to ninth graders chattering for hours a day. These readjustments can be painful for me. The most painful one, though, is getting used to wearing shoes again.


I bought these shoes at the beginning of the summer, and I hadn't really had a chance to wear them until today. Aren't they cute?


Tiny little heel. . .

Pretty bow, rounded toe, nice details.

I wore them for the first time today, partly to provide some relief from yesterday's hours of walking around in heels. Plus, I knew that I'd be spending a chunk of my day today hauling textbooks across the school, so I thought the flats would be more practical than my other footwear choices.

I was wrong.

What I didn't realize (because Nine West must have forgotten to add this to the description) is that as soon as my foot would enter the shoe, the shoe would contract, and tiny razor blades would emerge. I believe that these shoes were actually intended for the prisoners at Gitmo, although forcing prisoners to wear them is likely a violation of the Geneva Conventions.

I walked about two miles in these shoes of death today, applied many a bandaid to my raw heel, and suffered several broken toes from trying to favor the heel.

I couldn't help but to think of my friend Monica and the time she bought an overpriced pair of boots.

Monica: The guy who made these hates feet and wants to see them die!
Rachel: Well-well you can give them to me! I haven’t felt my feet in years!
Monica: I can’t! I spent so much money on them and I told Chandler that I’d wear them all the time, I just can’t give them away!
Phoebe: Well then get your money back and return them!
Monica: I can’t do that either! The soles are already a little scuffed up and the insides are filled with my blood!

Happy Birthday, Mrs. Mean!

I'm not one of those people who has lots of friends. No no no. Instead, I'm one of those people who finds a handful of amazing friends and never lets them go.

Friends like Caitie. Caitie, who lived diagonally across the hall from me freshman year of college, who was my roommate at our beloved Grattan Street home my senior year, who was my maid of honor, who is loyal, who is kind, who is passionate and compassionate, who is a dedicated teacher, who is wildly creative, who is honest, who is in so many ways the kind of person I want to be. She's hilarious, she's a fan of New England sports teams (and was even when they sucked), and she oozes charisma.

Oh yeah, and she does a hell of a velociraptor impression.

Today Caitie celebrates her 28th birthday, and I'm sad that I won't be there to share in the birthday fun, but I'll be there in spirit. And next time we see each other, I'm making her these.

Caitie was, after all, the other participant in our Fattest of the Fat contests.

Happy birthday, old friend.

Summer Consequence

Oh dear God.

If you've been keeping up with the blog, then you know that I've spent the last two months of my life drinking massive amounts of boxed wine, baking and eating dozens of cupcakes, napping with the dog, and completely abandoning any semblance of a healthy lifestyle.

And it's all caught up with me. School starts tomorrow.

Tonight I went to the closet to pick out something to wear for the big first day of school. You know, something modest but nice, something that says, "I'm your bitchy teacher; fear me." (I haven't so much as looked at my school clothes since June 12.)

So I grabbed one of my 5 pairs of black pants, and put them on--barely. Uh oh. And then I tried on the other 4, and it wasn't pretty.

"But, you know, I just washed them and I just ate dinner and I'm pretty sure I'm retaining water."

Yeah, right.

I can't, in good conscience, even pretend that those are the reasons for this, shall we say, "growth." The real reason is that I've been in an eating contest with myself for the last two months, and the consequence is a body that's spilling out of my teacher clothes.

I know what I have to do, and it's not a pill or a binge diet or some other "get thin fast" kind of gimmick. Tomorrow I'm going to have to reconcile with Jillian Michaels and the elliptical machine and the Wii Fit balance board.

And I have to get back to daily plate (amazing online calorie counter!) and stop eating like it's my last day to live or like I'm in a hurry to have my leg amputated.

But, still I face the immediate question about what to wear for my first day of school, and the Snuggie may be the only thing that fits me right now.

At least they come in a variety of colors and patterns. And at least I have cute shoes!

Summer Goals

It happened. My summer came to a screeching halt. I knew that it would happen, but kept myself in denial. Still, I am thankful that the career I chose comes with lots of days off; most people only get a couple of weeks, if that. My official position is grateful yet whiny.

At the beginning of the summer, I set some goals. Let's see how that went. . .

1. Learn to sew. Make some curtains. Nope. But I have thought about doing this a lot, figured out what I want to do, and looked many times for the perfect fabric.
2. Make the back yard less of a jungle. Check. This was more because of our property manager than it was because of me. And don't even get me started on how they chopped the hydrangea bush.
3. Eat healthy and lose some weight. Ha ha ha ha ha! No. But I did take many a long nap on the couch with the dog. That counts, right?
4. Shred, elipt, and walk/jog. Not only did I not exercise daily, but my tennis shoes have been in the trunk of my car since July 9 and haven't escaped.
5. Relax. Check. Check, check, check, check. . .
6. Cook. One hundred checks.
7. Re-tool my 12th grade class. No, but it's fine because I'm not teaching 12th grade this year. In fact, it's good that I didn't do this one because I probably would've been pissed.
8. Get caught up with my correspondance. Facebook counts for this, right? Then check.
9. Go to the beach every Monday. Half check. We did go many Mondays, not as many as I would have liked, though.
10. Steal my sister. We had her for a couple of weeks. A lovely and happy couple of weeks. (This one remains a big goal of mine.)
11. Buy Punch Out for the Wii. Beat Matt at the game. Check and no. Refer to previous post about my glimpse into the world of adolescent Matt.
12. Celebrate our 2nd wedding anniversary in style. Done and done.
13. Sleep in every day. Ten million checks.

All in all, I had a great summer vacation. Only 37 more weeks of work until I get to enjoy another!

Key Lime Cupcakes!

Lately, I've been craving key-lime something. I think this particular craving comes from season 3 of Dexter, which may imply that I didn't fully understand what I was watching. (I don't want to spoil it for any of you. Also, if you don't already watch Dexter, you should probably check it out--like, today.)

Imagine my delight, then, when yesterday, whilst perusing my favorite cupcake blog, Cupcakes Take the Cake, I discovered a recipe for key lime cupcakes. And what's even more exciting is that I already had all of the ingredients in the house.

Cupcake time has arrived [again]. Here goes it.

The shield for the mixer was in the dishwasher, so I had to be resourceful when I added the flour.

Key Lime Cupcakes

Cupcakes

• 1 cup all-purpose flour


• 3/4 cup self-rising flour


• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature


• 1 1/4 cup sugar


• 2 large eggs


• 2 1/2 tablespoons fresh lime juice


• 1 tablespoon finely grated lime peel (I used the food processor to make this happen)


• 9 drops neon green food coloring


• 3/4 cup buttermilk

Frosting

• 1 8-ounce package cream cheese


• 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar


• 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, room temperature


• 1 tablespoon finely grated lime peel


• 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preparation for cupcakes

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Line standard muffin pan with 12 paper liners.
3. Whisk both flours in medium bowl.
4. Beat butter in large bowl until smooth.
5. Add sugar; beat to blend.
6. Beat in eggs one at a time, then next three ingredients (batter may look curdled, but mine didn't).
7. Beat in flour mixture in three additions alternately with buttermilk in two additions.
8. Spoon 1/3 cup batter into each liner.
9. Bake cupcakes until tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 20-25 minutes.
10. Cool 10 minutes; remove from pan and cool.

To prepare the frosting simply beat all ingredients in bowl until smooth.

I topped mine with graham cracker crumbs, but you could also use toasted coconut or small lime wedges.

Enjoy!

Mega Loser!

Ugh, I am so bad at the lottery!

Sigh. I guess I'll just go to work on Monday.

There's always a next time, always room for improvement.

Will You Buy Me This?

I think it'd look great in the kitchen. Here's the link.

Sentimental Schmuck

August 26 is one of my favorite little anniversaries that I don't actually celebrate.

Ten years ago today I left for college. I moved into Hillside Hall at James Madison University, embarking on a new life, one that would become more interesting and fun with each passing year. See that chimney in the middle of the picture? See the window directly to the left of the chimney? That was my window.


It was at Hillside that I became friends with some of my favorite people on the planet, and it was because of those friends that I met Matt.

Matt and I met because my friends--the friends from Hillside Hall--lived downstairs from him in their apartment building. I met Matt my junior year, but he didn't say much (like young Forrest Gump!) and I didn't think too much of him. My friends would talk about how funny and cool he was, but I didn't see that side. I wasn't impressed. I didn't see the highly intelligent yet ridiculously goofy side for months and months.

And then came Becky's birthday party. Becky had lived directly across the hall from me in Hillside Hall. We threw Becky a Heaven and Hell party, complete with a fake crow hooked to a ceiling fan (Becky was deathly afraid of birds) and an ice luge aglow with blue light. One of her gifts, as was our tradition, was a trashy romance novel.

Unprompted, Matt began to perform a dramatic reading of the novel. Under the influence of about three gallons of jungle juice (What was I thinking??), I began to act out the words he was reading on him. From what I remember of it, we put on quite a show.

(Yet another reason, by the way, that I fear having children. "How did you and Daddy meet?" "Well, Sweetie, we were acting out pornography." "What's pornography?" See? Bad idea.)

And the next day everyone but me went to lunch together. Apparently Matt kept talking about me, and Matt never talked about girls. All of my girlfriends returned from lunch, and began--in that way that silly girls do--to talk about the prospect of a Mandy and Matt relationship. Missy (above, in stripes) remarked, "You and Matt are gonna get married."

I thought about what she had said for a couple of seconds and responded: "Yeah, I'd marry Matt." And then Becky chimed in: "Nah, you're too annoying. He'd get sick of you." I agreed that was probably the case.

But we know that it wasn't. Because on August 26, seven years ago today, Matt and I shared our first kiss (after months of plotting on my part, and months of cluelessness on Matt's).

And then we started dating and then we moved to Savannah and then we almost broke up and then we liked each other again and then we got a dog and then we got engaged and then we got married. And Becky got ordained online so that she could be the minister.

And all of those friends from Hillside Hall were there to witness it. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Here's to a decade of friendship, and to many decades more!

In Memory

"The work begins anew. The hope rises again. And the dream lives on."

Rest in peace, Senator.

Nerd Post: Sloanism

Yesterday, Matt got a new phone. He'd had his old one for 3 years, and it finally kirked out. Matt's not generally a fan of change, and seemed to find himself in awe of the phone choices now available to him: keypads and touch screens and colors and slidey things and interwebs. It's so interesting how many choices there are now for something so simple as a phone.


And while we sat there at Best Buy I got all nerdy on Matt and starting going on about one of my favorite things: Sloanism. I learned about Sloanism when I was a junior in college and signed up for what I thought would be a bullshit history class, The Automobile in Twentieth Century America. I figured it'd be an easy A, and I would actually get to be in a class with boys (I was an English major at a school with a girl to guy ratio of 2:1). I was right about one part, I was one of two girls in a class of 30. What I'd been wrong about, however, was how much I would learn in the class. Hell, the teacher even introduced me to Car Talk on NPR! But back to Sloanism.


In short, Sloanism has to do with capitalism and what a company can do to prosper once its market becomes saturated. Alfred Sloan's principles originated when he tried to revamp the automobile market after the Great Depression. To sell more cars, the car companies provided more options to consumers; they introduced new body styles each year, provided new and impressive features and colors--a direct contrast to Henry Ford's well-known remark that "Any customer can have a car painted any colour he wants so long as it's black." (You can read about Sloanism in more detail here and here.) In many ways, Sloanism has helped to propel capitalism because people (particularly we Americans) are always buying more stuff, even if the stuff we already have is working fine. We want the newest and prettiest and coolest stuff to show off our individuality. This principle is how we went from these cell phones. . .


. . .to these cell phones.

Today I also came across this video about one of my favorite things, the KitchenAid stand mixer, and its color history. You know, how we go from this. . .

. . .to this.

Aren't they gorgeous? Although the KitchenAid mixer has introduced a host of new colors, its basic design and function has evolved very little over the years. I think that's part of the appeal. Also, even if you don't use it, you can buy a KitchenAid mixer and display it as though it is a piece of art.

I have an old white KitchenAid that Matt's godfather, my soulmate Bill, gave to me in January. It's amazing and beautiful and has kept me fat, and it's one of my favorite things. I was thinking about having my car painter of a brother paint it a pretty color for me, perhaps turquoise or lime green. What do you think? Should I leave it alone, or try to improve something that needs no real improvement?

Mitch > Margaritas

A few days ago, Matt and I had endured a terrible day at work, and decided it would be fun to decompress in Mexico. And by Mexico I mean our favorite Mexican restaurant. We would have a couple of margaritas (they're two for one!), eat some chips, and get the anger and resentment out of our systems.

We decided to go home and change first. On our drive home, though, we saw a huge thunderstorm fast approaching. And we have a certain dog son, Mitchell Pancake, Mitchard Doggins (dog athiest enthusiast), who HATES thunderstorms.

So instead of heading off to Mexico, Matt and I comforted our son. The three of us retreated to the bed, our favorite place in the house. Mitch nestled between us, and we pet him and tried to make him forget about what was happening.

We held him and talked to him and tried to make him feel better. And we knew that our margarita plan was out of the question. Each time a huge crack of thunder would sound, Mitch would moan a pitiful dog moan. We'd then hold him tight and talk to him and pet him and scratch him and give him a bone.

We tried to make him feel better (and even entertained the idea that perhaps Mitchard Doggins was manipulating us into giving him so much attention). Eventually, he buried his little dog head and body under the comforter, and we all fell asleep. We didn't wake up until 9:00. (PS--Have I mentioned that I love my life?) No happy hour for Matt and Mandy.

I adore this dog, and so does Matt. And obviously, the well-being of the dog trumps our desire to drink cheap tequila (delicious, cheap tequila). I'm not angry at the dog for being upset and anxious, but I must admit that I was a little bitter about missing out on two for one margaritas in Mexico.

First the rash, then the opossum, then the almost black eye (to be explained later), and now missing happy hour?? Come on, dog. Still, though, I am obsessed. I can't stop talking about how cute you are or kissing your head or feeding you cheese. That's love.

Tips for Dining Out: A Diatribe

Here's a depressing thought: I've been waiting tables for almost a decade. Ten years of serving the American public has left me a bit of a misanthrope.


I currently work at a popular casual dining restaurant. I work Saturdays and Sundays on weekends during the school year, and during the summer I've been working Thursdays through Sundays. The extra two shifts bring in enough cash for me not to feel guilty about spending so much on my days off during the summer. The cash is nice, but the extra time waiting tables has taken an irreparable toll on my opinion of the human race


The extra exposure to the patrons of said casual dining restaurant has not only made me support mandatory sterilization, but it's also made me wish that the fictional Obama death panels were real.


Let me give you an example. A couple of days ago I waited on a middle-aged couple. When they were ordering their meals, they made it clear to me that they do not eat pork and didn't want pork on their food. So, I made sure that their appetizer and the man's salad--both of which normally come with bacon on top--were made without bacon. I double checked with the table to ensure that the food had no bacon on it. After they'd had their entrees for about 10 minutes, the lady called me over, disgusted, to complain about her chicken quesadilla. She insisted to me that the meat looked, smelled, and tasted like pork.


Now, the best part of this story is that, with the exception of bacon, the restaurant does not even carry pork. No pork chops, no pork tenderloin. AND, if she doesn't eat pork, how does she know if something looks, smells, and tastes like pork? Both I and my manager informed the woman that the only form of pork in the restaurant is bacon, which only made her more angry. Because it's a conspiracy, you know. Because this huge corporation is out to get her, and in an attempt to play a sick joke has replaced all of the chicken with pork. And how dare we call her a liar? Really, woman? Really?

Another table in the restaurant (not my table), angry that they had been waiting too long for service, told the manager: "We got here at 1:45. It's 2:00 now and we've been waiting for a half an hour." AHHHHHHHH!!!!

I hate people. It's amazing how stupid, inconsiderate, and disgusting they can be. I know that the following list is not applicable to the readers of this blog, but please feel free to pass this list along to any person you know who may need it.


Tips for dining out (and each one of these comes from a personal experience):

1. If you can't afford to tip, you can't afford to eat out. Standard tip is 15% for average service, and 20% for great service. Get a calculator if you must.
2. If the server asks you if you are ready to order, and you are not ready to order, just say so. Under no circumstance is it appropriate to force your server to stand there, awkwardly watching you try to read a menu and make a decision. Also, learn to read.
3. Never whistle or snap your fingers to get the attention of your server. Doing so may result in a punch to the face.
4. If you plan to drink alcohol, bring your ID, particularly if you look like you're twelve.
5. Never give your baby sweet tea. (Again, sterilization.)
6. Do not interrupt your server's interaction with another guest to ask an inane question or to demand more ranch dressing.
7. Do not let your child shit all over the high chair.
8. If your baby begins to scream, remove the baby from the restaurant. Neither the employees nor the other guests want to hear your little darling screaming. Also, use birth control.
9. If your only way of communicating your meal choice is to point to a picture and grunt, please (PLEASE!) do not be surprised when your food comes out looking just like the picture. We really can't dumb it down any more for you.
10. Why must you sit in a booth? Also, chances are that you're too fat to fit in the booth.
11. Do not order hot tea or hot chocolate unless you want your server to immediately judge you as a douche bag.
12. Do not wait until the very end of your meal to bring up a problem you have. At that point, it's pretty hard to fix, idiot.
13. Don't be an asshole in general.

That's all I've got for now. Did you spend any time in the service industry? Did I leave anything out?