Where are the Oompa Loompas when you need them?

I feel like this is a case of life imitating art, tragic though it is.

I prefer to think of it like this, even though Willy Wonka gives me bad dreams.

Delilah, Love Someone Tonight

Recently the antenna on the Volvo broke, so I've struggled to find a radio station that gets reception. I normally just listen to NPR, but my NPR station is often fuzzy now, especially at night for some reason. I don't have many CDs, and I've tired of the American Idol CD I made.

So I've returned to an old favorite, on the Savannah station 98.7 (The River!). It's Delilah. It's horrible and I hate it, but really I love it. I hate her but really I might love her. I hate the people who call in and who email her, and I really do hate them.

In case you haven't had the pleasure of listening to Delilah, let me educate you. Her show is kind of a cross between Dear Abby and the worst dedication show you've ever heard. She has a voice like butter, she's deeply compassionate, and she plays horrible soft rock hits that I love. Like so many things in my life, her show is simultaneously the best and the worst thing that's ever existed (please excuse my love of hyperbole).


The greatest part of Delilah's show is the strange and lonely people who call her. So many times I've heard them say that they listen to her every night in their living room. WHAT? Is this the 1930s? Don't these people have TV? Computers? I just picture these callers, surrounded by cats, with some old-fashioned radio, sitting in a torn up recliner in a dark and dingy living room.

What I can't seem to understand is why these people turn to Delilah to talk to when they want to share their joys and their sorrows. Why her? Don't they have friends, family, or therapists? I think they need to find some. And just to be clear, Delilah can give some terrible advice. She's no Dear Prudence.

When I first moved to Savannah I listened to Delilah more than I would care to admit (but always in the car--never at home!). Her show runs from 8 p.m. to midnight, and I would listen when I was returning home from work or on my way to visit Matt. Most of the time I just mocked the callers and Delilah, but occasionally the show and the stories shared would touch my heart. On more than one occasion I arrived home sobbing about whatever sad story I had just heard.

My friend Tori and I used to play a game where we would listen to the caller's story and try to predict what song Delilah would play. Often these songs are highly inappropriate (like people who play that John Mayer "Daughters" song at their wedding), but the title seems to fit. Usually the winning songs were by Whitney Houston or Boyz 2 Men, and they had to be at least 10 years old.

Last night Matt listened to Delilah with me. This girl called in and was talking about how her father just died and how she was getting married in a month. Delilah suggested that she move the wedding date, but the girl said it wasn't a possibility. They continued to talk; the girl was on the verge of tears the whole time, and Delilah offered her sympathy. Matt and I talked about how depressing this show was, but quickly tried to guess the song Delilah would play. My guess: "Butterfly Kisses." Matt's guess: "Stairway to Heaven." He doesn't really understand Delilah just yet.

Delilah played Madonna's "This Used to Be My Playground." We were both wrong.

Bad Day (a post by Mitch)

It's pretty much been a terrible week for a dog. I hate the Fourth of July. What kind of stupid human holiday is this? All they do is set off loud booms all night and freak me out. I hate it. My mom says those are called fireworks, and she really likes them, but I hate them. People are so stupid sometimes.

I had just recovered from the stupid holiday of America when my evil, deceptive mother asked me if I wanted to go for a ride in the car. I mean, of course I want to ride in the car. "To the bank! To the post office! To the park!" I was thinking. But no. I should have known. She'd been saying stuff about how Tuesday would be a bad day for a dog, but I ignored her (she says dumb stuff a lot of the time).

I should have known when the car ride was taking a lot longer than usual. And then we arrived there. Had my horrible mother taken me to the park? No. The bank (to get a treat from the teller)? No. The post office? No. The Cupcake Emporium? No.

That bitch took me to the vet. I'm so mad at her right now I could just bite her.

It was the worst vet appointment ever! (Well, second worst. That time I broke my foot when I was a small pup was pretty terrible.) They violated me and poked me and even cut my nails. I was trying to go for a Guinness World Record with my nails. AND, I'm fatter now. I've gained a pound. This weight gain is not good for my dog self-image. Then they put me on the table that goes up and I freaked out some more.

The vet is actually a pretty nice guy, but I hate what he and his evil assistants do to me. I shake and get so nervous, and I don't even have time to talk or hang out with the other dogs.

I used to poop on the floor when I went to the vet, but now that I'm 5 I can't do that anymore. I've matured.

Anyway, I think I'm going to spend the rest of the day on the couch watching reruns of the Westminster Dog Show and looking out the window.

Red Pepper Chicken

For most of the meals we cook, Matt and I look for simple, quick recipes that use very few dishes and require ingredients we can find at the grocery store.

This is one of our favorites: red pepper chicken with parmesan cheese. We used to stuff the chicken breasts with the pepper and parmesan mixture, but we decided that was too much work, it was mostly for show, and it was harder to cook the chicken evenly. This food is so tasty that it doesn't need the theatrics.

Ingredients:

Boneless skinless chicken breasts
Red bell peppers
Parmesan cheese
Kosher salt
Black Pepper
Olive oil
Pasta (optional)

First, dice up one or two large red bell peppers. Click here for fun facts about peppers.


And cut up some chicken. Pound it if you'd like. Throw on some salt and pepper.

Grate up some parmesan cheese.

(Matt loves to grate parmesan. Mitch loves it when we sprinkle some over his dog food.)

Heat up a cast iron skillet to medium-high. Add some olive oil, the peppers, and some salt and pepper. Cook until they're get a tiny bit black around the edges.

Remove the pepper from the skillet and fold in about 1/2-1 cup of grated parmesan.

Put the chicken in the skillet (not lotion in the basket). You may need to add a little bit more olive oil. Cook it. Don't eat undercooked chicken. If you do, you will die.

When the chicken is cooked, cut it up into bite-sized pieces. Toss the peppers and cheese and chicken together so that the flavors all blend together.

Toss the mixture on top of some pasta (we prefer angel hair) and voila, a tasty and easy meal.

Seriously, it doesn't disappoint.

Time to teach this turkey how to jive!

Remember that time that I boasted about how I would beat Matt at the new Punch Out for the Wii? I didn't realize what I was getting myself into with that claim. I forgot that my husband was once a video game-obsessed adolescent.

I forgot that during that time he spent hours upon hours playing this game, memorizing every secret and trick, perfecting his form and rhythm.

I must've been playing with Barbies or fighting with my friends or talking on the phone. My brother and I did spend many hours playing the original Mike Tyson's Punch Out, but I didn't sear every part of the game into my memory, and I'm not sure that I ever cared as much as Matt did. I think it's a gender thing. Plus, my memory's getting kind of crappy these days.

Matt kicked my ass. He owns me in this game, and I don't know that I'll ever have the coordination, drive, or tolerance to get to the point where I'll beat him. But I'm up for the challenge.

Here to provide a quick review of the game is Matt, boxing extraordinaire:

This game is way more fun than it should be. I think the reason is that it may be the perfect juxtaposition of technology and nostalgia. I honestly believe that if some time traveler had walked into my house and given me this game when I was 9 and playing the original Punch Out I would have passed out. It is a lot harder than the original Punch Out, both because of the changes they have made in the competition and because pushing a and b is simpler than punching with two hands while pressing like six different buttons. I would never actually recommend anyone buy this game because I think its appeal is probably limited to me and a handful of people like me. Anyone can have some amount of fun with it, but for me and those of my specific age and gender group, it actually evokes powerful memories that cause me to stay up way too late fake punching people on my TV.

Mitch has a new cousin!

Hugh and Cassie got their new son yesterday. Meet Fletcher. (I stole these pictures from Cassie's web album.)

I'm obsessed. And I want to hold him and smell his puppy breath and snuggle with him.

There are some pictures from Fletcher's day one with the family. Here's one from Mitch's day one, when he still had his "Chico" collar on from the pound.

I'm pretty sure that the feelings I have about Fletcher and Baby Mitch are the same feelings other women feel about babies. I do not have those feelings about babies. I'm going to have my uterus implanted with puppy embryos when my biological clock starts ticking. Come on, science, throw me a bone!

Cupcake Excitement!

Ever since my old college friend, Matt (not husband Matt, though this Matt and I did have a scheme to get married to get better financial aid while in college) started a cupcakery in Richmond, VA, I've been craving cupcakes.

And then Husband Matt's godfather's partner, my soulmate, gave me a Kitchen Aid mixer.

The two formed a deadly (and fat!) combination: I gained back 14 of the 18 pounds I lost last year. Dammit (but they were so good!).

Yesterday I took the pup downtown to walk around and I stumbled across this.


Cupcake Emporium! I'm so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so. . .scared.

Carport Bistro and Killer Bees

I've been reading lots of stuff lately about having an outdoor eating area, which is really appealing to me (probably in the way that camping is appealing to me--I want to like it, but I don't). Anyway, I have attempted to transform our dirty little carport into something more.

The carport, unglamorous though it is, has been where Matt and I have had many a late night conversation. It wasn't a bad space before, but I love it now.

Before:


And $35 later. May I show you around the Carport Bistro? (Matt thought I was joking when I said that I was going to make a sign. Ha!)

First, we stole a table from the neighbor who has moved away. Nobody was using it.

I threw on a citronella candle, a gardenia bush from Publix, a cute tablecloth and some placemats.

And bought some beauteous white paper lantern lights. Paper lantern lights--particularly the white ones--make me really, really happy.

One thing that doesn't make me happy: BEES! As soon as it was dark and I had the lantern lights on, a swarm of bees entered the Carport Bistro. Perhaps they were excited about the grand opening?

Dammit. Anybody know how to get rid of bees? F it. We're having dinner out here tomorrow night, bees or no bees. I'll just channel the spirit of Idgie Threadgoode from Fried Green Tomatoes. It'll be fine.

Center Stage

During my mostly unproductive day today, I have managed to catch the critically-acclaimed film Center Stage on HBO not just once--but twice!

Like The Hills and Sloppy Firsts, this movie is a guilty pleasure. It is simultaneously the best and worst movie ever made. The acting is atrocious, the plot sucks, the characters aren't even likable. Somehow, though, it is incredible. I can't peel my eyes away. And, in contrast to when I watch, say, The Hills, which I watch to fuel my inner hatred, I watch Center Stage to fuel my LOVE OF DANCE!

Brief synopsis: Jodi Sawyer loves to dance, and foregoes the opportunity to attend a proper university to pursue her dream of becoming a ballerina. She attends the American Ballet Academy, where she meets many an unlikable girl and guy, and she doesn't fit in. She's too fat and has bad feet. She sleeps with one of the instructors, thinks immediately that they're on their way to the altar, and acts like a complete idiot for 90 minutes. Along the way, said dance instructor breaks her heart but rekindles her love for dance with his unconventional style. Like I said, amazing.

When I watch any kind of dance movie, it makes me want to jump around the house and show off my moves, which is unfortunate because my moves are terrible. Picture a mentally handicapped robot made of lead. I blame it on the years my parents forced me to attend Southern Baptist school (basically Footloose). Here's a game. Can you tell which picture is of characters from Center Stage and which picture is of me?

See that food in the background on the TV? That's stuff dancers aren't allowed to eat. Center Stage does have an eating disorder subplot.

It's hard to go through life being a terrible dancer, but at least I get to eat pizza.

F you, clothes!

I'm pretty tidy. I'm not the cleanest person on the planet, but I'm nowhere close to the dirtiest. I'd say that I'm in the 78th percentile of tidiness. If I didn't have a big furry dog who insisted on building new dogs with the fur he sheds, I'd be in the 85th percentile of tidiness.

I actually like cleaning, for the most part. I'll wipe baseboards, my ceiling fans are usually pretty clean, I dust, we sweep almost daily, etc. There are a couple of household chores, though, that I absolutely loathe. One is mopping the floors. The other is putting away the clothes.

I don't even mind doing the laundry, but for some reason I can never seem to muster up the drive to put clothes away. They just sit there on the loveseat in our bedroom (formerly the couch of bad dreams, the one I put in our room thinking to myself, "Oh, wouldn't it be nice to have a sitting area in my bedroom. . .I'll just relax and read." Yeah, right.) mocking me. They laugh at me. I hear them heckling and cackling like the characters on Lost hear voices in the jungle.

They've been like this for, oh, three weeks or so. When people have come over I've closed the door to our bedroom to avoid having them see my embarrassing clothes-splosion.

This guy isn't a fan of the task, either. Here he's saying, "Hey, mama. Can't we go to the park or the bank instead of putting clothes away? I'm bored."

Another reason that the clothes never get put away is that there always seems to be more laundry to do. If I let it go just two days, then there is at least another load. And, shucks, I shouldn't put the clothes away if I'm just going to be adding to them.

"Boring!"

Last night I told Matt that if I didn't put the clothes away, I wasn't allowed the eat cookies. So today, even though I have an echo in my ear and have other things to do (like perfect my outdoor eating area, the Carport Bistro), I DID IT! I PUT THE CLOTHES AWAY!

It's pathetic how proud I am of myself at this moment. I should lay down and read. Yeah, right. Lay down and eat cookies, maybe.

Tomorrow I will mop that dirty, dirty kitchen floor.

Mexican Mondays!

Matt and I have added a new tradition to our Monday Fundays at the beach--margaritas. Margarita Mondays with Matt and Mandy. . . Mmmmmmmmm.

Yesterday we wanted a dinner that would complement our beverages, so I searched ole Martha's website for a fajita recipe. We ended up using a modified version of this fajita recipe, and it was both fun to make and fun to eat.

First, we needed lime juice. If you regularly juice limes, I highly recommend one of these little juicers. I'm not usually a fan of kitchen gadgets that have only one purpose, but this one is great, saves your hands, and doesn't take up that much space. It's definitely worth the $5-10 you'll spend on it. (And get a metal one instead of a plastic one--way better.)

What makes this particular recipe special is what Martha calls the "mojo de ajo". Apparently that's Spanish for "garlic sauce." The sauce was delicious and I want to try it over pasta next time.

You'll need some olive oil and fresh minced garlic. Let them simmer together. Mmmmm, smells so good. . .

After about 8 minutes of simmering, add red pepper, lime juice, and salt. Remove from heat. I want to drink that with a straw.

Here's where our modification came in. We wanted to grill the chicken and onions, but the recipe instructed to cook it all together in one pan. I used half of the mojo de ajo to marinate the chicken, and saved the other half for eatin' time.

I let the chicken marinate for about 30 minutes. Meanwhile, I cooked up the fatty parts for a dog named Mitch. There are starving dogs in Africa, you know.

Matt "The Master of the Grill" whipped up his famous grilled onions. (Toss them in olive oil, kosher salt, and cracked pepper--then grill with fancy grill wok.)

And then, when the time had come, he started to grill our chicken.

Last, heat up some fajita skillets, toss chicken and onions in remaining mojo de ajo, and go to town.

We served ours with sour cream, guacamole, cheddar cheese, and warm tortillas. Oh, and frozen margaritas. Maybe you didn't know this, but frozen margaritas are a remedy for sunburn.

Farewell, Friends!

Above: New Year's 2008

Our good friends Cassie and Hugh moved away yesterday, and I'm even more sad about it than I thought I would be. Even though they're only moving 2.5 hours away, and Cassie will be in town once a week for work, I am really bummed.

For the last two+ years, Cassie and Hugh have been our closest friends in Savannah. They lived only five streets away, and we spent almost every Friday night (and many a Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday night as well) hanging out with them, talking, eating, and boozin'.

I think that what's making me so sad is the knowledge that they're no longer right here, that I won't be able to pick up the phone and have instant company at Mexican or at Blowin' Smoke, and that the spontaneity of our friendship is gone. (Or so they think: I'll be showing up at their new house randomly for wine and chili cheese dogs.)

One thing that I love about Cassie and Hugh is that they are really in love. They have mutual adoration for each other, but not in an annoying way. Whether it is a glance, or just the way they talk about each other, or a handwritten note on the refrigerator, it is always clear that they love each other and that they feel like they're better when they're with each other.

I first met Hugh at school, on my very first day of teaching. Hugh and I slowly became friends, and after a few months I knew that he was super cool--even friend-quality cool. Hugh (along with many others) helped to guide me through the hell that was my first year of teaching.

Hugh is one of the smartest people I know. He is currently leaving a career of being a kickass English teacher to go to medical school. He's seems to be good at everything, from painting a room to giving advice to running. (Occasionally Mitch and I would see Hugh at the park when we were on a walk/jog. While we got around the perimeter of the park just once, Hugh would lap us approximately 12 times.)

During those months when I only knew Hugh, he would often mention Cassie. I learned several things about her: she likes Bert's Bees, she wouldn't let him pick out his clothes for the first day of school by himself, she is an amazing cook, she wanted a dog. Even though he always spoke positively about her, I had no idea how cool she'd turn out to be.

The first time I met Cassie was at the Shipley's Superbowl party. What I didn't know was that Cassie was more nervous than she had let on and had consumed an entire bottle of wine in about 40 minutes. I didn't know she was drunk. So when she made a comment about something called a "hanging uterus," I didn't know that it was out of character. It was at that "hanging uterus" (an odd remedy for gastrointestinal issues) moment that I decided that Cassie was cool. Months later when I brought it up, she was horrified to learned that she had shared such embarrassing information.

Cassie is a great friend. She's loyal, she's funny, she's just the right amount of bitchy. She's thoughtful, she gives great advice, and she's the best cook I know in real life.

She's also threatened to steal my son and rename him Smitch.

Many of my Savannah friends have moved on in the six years that Matt and I have lived here. This time is especially painful because I'm losing not one but two friends. Cassie and Hugh will be sorely missed, and our Savannah family will not be the same without them. Sad face.

My Muffin Tops

My blueberry muffin baking endeavor started off fine this morning. I had my fresh blueberries. . .


And I started to reduce them to make some jam. . . (This is a Cook's Illustrated recipe, so it's involved.)



And then I don't know what happened. Maybe it was because I shouldn't bake when I'm tired, or maybe I shouldn't bake when I'm sad. Maybe it was the tiny bit of water on the fresh blueberries I added, or maybe I need to replace my baking powder. One thing is for sure: I took the instruction "batter should completely fill cups and mound slightly" to the extreme.

This is what I got.


Siamese-twin looking blueberry muffins.

At least they're delicious.