Ain't No Thang But a Chicken Wing.

Matt's mom is from Buffalo, and every year on Thanksgiving they'd make the trip back north to visit family, and on the day after Thanksgiving they would order pizza and wings (mind you, this is BUFFALO) and Matt would eat approximately 789 wings.  Everyone would watch in awe.  When he got a little older, he went on a pilgrimage to the Anchor Bar, the home of the original Buffalo wing.  He cried a little, and proceeded to eat his weight in chicken wings.*

I can wax nostalgic about this topic, too, because for three years during college I worked at Buffalo Wild Wings, slinging beer and meat about.  I actually didn't eat wings when I started working there, but I've never really been one to turn down free food, so it wasn't too long before I was hiding in the back of the kitchen, gnawing on chicken bones with wing sauce all over my face.  Just like the lady I am.

You can imagine, then, how easy it was to woo Matt.  All I had to do was show up at his door with a bucket of 50 or 100 leftover wings from work at 2:30 a.m. (after he'd been playing beer pong all night), and immediately I rocketed up to super girlfriend status.  (But let's be honest--I was pretty much already as high as one could reach on the super girlfriend scale.)

And tonight Matt got to cross something off of his bucket list, because we made wings.  Really really really delicious wings.  What was extra cool was that they were easy, albeit time-consuming.

If you're a wing lover like we are, or if you're looking to wow people at a Super Bowl party in the near future, give these a try. 

Ingredients
Chicken wings, room temperature
Frank's Wing Sauce (or whatever wing sauce you prefer)
Vegetable Oil

Directions
1. Fill a deep pan (we used the dutch oven) with 2 inches of oil.  Heat oil on medium heat (don't get all impatient and turn it up to high or you'll end up burning your wings) until it reaches 350 degrees.

2.  With tongs, place--don't drop!--wings in the oil in a single layer.  (Be careful not to cook too many at once.)  Cook wings until they float.  We like our really crispy, so we let them cook for almost ten minutes after they began to float.

3.  Remove wings from oil and transfer to a large bowl.  Toss in sauce. 

4.  (optional)  Place sauced wings on a baking sheet and bake in the oven at 350 for about five minutes. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go wipe some sauce off my face.

*That was a lie.  Matt didn't cry.  I've never seen him cry because he's dead inside.

Random and Scattered and Weird

Life here at M Cubed has been crazy lately, resulting in a lack of posts.  What sucks is that the crazy is mostly either too boring to post, or far too juicy to post, and I can't share too much with you right now.  (I know that sucks, but all in due time, people.)

The good news is that I'm eating fresh pineapple and that I get to look at this cute face when I wake up in the morning.  Also good is that we're headed out to Matt's parents' lake house soon for some much needed relaxation.  Oh, and I completed my big "painting the floor to look like the ocean" project, and I'll do a big reveal for you when we return, tanned and rejuvenated.

(Mitch, lying on my leg, being morningtime cuddle friend)

(hanging out and watching Friday Night Lights)

The bad news is that I think we have a woodpecker ghost outside, and it's driving me crazy.  Also, so many things in our lives are up in the air right now that it's hard to focus on my phone Scrabble (but I'm still averaging over 300 points per game, so that's good). 

One more thing.  One of my teacher friends from school has started a new blog where she provides reviews of Savannah restaurants and discusses other food-related oddities.  Today she and I went to my favorite place in Savannah, Back in the Day Bakery, and, as usual, it did not disappoint.  I had some sort of fancy grilled cheese sandwich with chicken on fancy bread.  I could have eaten five of those sandwiches, they were so good. (Check out her blog for more pictures of the bakery itself.)

And what's a trip to Back in the Day without an old-fashioned cupcake?

Expect posting to slow a bit in the next week or so.  Right now I'm off to finish packing and laundry and dishes and everything else I have to do to be on the road by 7:00.  Eek!

Green Velvet Cupcakes

It's St. Patrick's Day.  I don't care.  I might have cared more if the day fell on a Friday or Saturday, but since I have to work tomorrow, and since I have no interest in running into my students downtown while drunk off my ass, I've opted instead to sleep, shop, and bake.

In fact, it was last year's St. Patrick's Day when I first attempted to make a cake from scratch.  The cake wasn't so good, too vanilla-y, but it was enough to get me interested in baking from scratch, a hobby that's been great fun, but that's kept me hugely fat.  Oh well.  What can you do?

For today's baking adventure, I decided to make green velvet cupcakes, with some kind of cooked delicious icing. 

This is actually my first attempt at red velvet (green for today) cupcakes, for several reasons.

1. I'm not a huge chocolate eater.
2. I'm intimidated by chocolate desserts.
3. When I was a teenager one of my aunts became obsessed with red velvet cake for a few months, and told me that she'd eaten so much red velvet cake that she pooped red.  I thought that was gross, even though I'd experienced a similar fate when I ate an entire package of tongue splashers bubble gum.

So I'd left it alone, even though it seems to be a favorite of everyone on earth.  But Bakerella's little green velvet cakes were pretty, and I had all of the ingredients on hand, so I went for it.

Mine were not as pretty, but they tasted pretty good, which was a relief to me because the recipe calls for a combination of oil and vinegar instead of butter, and I find any baking recipe that neglects to use butter, well, suspect. 

If this combination of liquid ingredients doesn't make you salivate, I don't know what will.

I also found some cute cupcake liners that seemed appropriate for the occasion while sheet shopping today at HomeGoods. 

My cupcakes were not nearly as pretty as Bakerella's (that bitch!), but at least they tasted good.

The icing was really good, but I did something wrong with it.  I messed it up by either using buttermilk instead of milk (need to get through my thick head that they are not interchangeable) or by mixing it too much in the mixer.  Tasted great, looked weird.  Not poisonous, I swear.

Then I talked to both Grandmas on the phone, and took a nap on the couch, which seems to be one of my body's only defense mechanisms against the uterine rebellion that's currently taking place.  Stupid womanhood, ruining my life.

Oh, and I went onto the Book of Faces and unfriended almost every single person I'm related to, with a few exceptions.  It seems that the mood swings brought on by the uterine rebellion gave me just enough nerve to do it.  At least there's a silver lining, right?

Father of the Decade[s]

Storytime!

So, my Grandpa Bill, my mom's dad, is a loser. He was brilliant when he was younger, but too arrogant to do anything with his brains (brains that have now, it seems, completely deteriorated), he was lazy, he was a philanderer, and he was and remains a terrible father. A deadbeat. Grandpa Bill, the deadbeat.

I'm not really a member of the Grandpa Bill Fan Club.

And I would put a picture of him up here, but I haven't seen him since digital cameras were invented, and I don't have a scanner.

The other day, while on Facebook (which is where I find out all information about my family), I learned something new about Grandpa Bill.

While living in Delaware and working at the local Wal-Mart, Grandpa Bill met the newest "love of his life," a woman who is 24 years old. Grandpa Bill will be turning 69 next month. And let's be clear: Grandpa's not got a Paul Newman quality. He's not one of those men who age gracefully or who were ever that handsome to begin with. And he's not charismatic or charming. But apparently he's charming enough to earn the love of his 24-year old lady friend, a woman whose hideaousness I can only imagine.

And as if knowledge of this relationship wasn't disturbing enough, I learned (on Facebook, as did the rest of my family), that Grandpa Bill recently became a daddy again, to Verity Jade, born February 13.

Grandpa now has children who are 47, 45, 42, 34, 33, 26, and one month old. Matt says he's trying to have a child of every generation. I want to puke all over myself. Jordan says it says something about the genes, and he's going to start wearing tighty whities and drinking Mountain Dew.

But, anyway, happy belated birthday to my new aunt, Verity. Poor kid.

JJ Has No Fingernails Because Of. . .

Yep. Inbreeding. Disgusting, more-gross-than-I-imagined inbreeding. The good news is, I was right. That bad news is I'll be haunted by the events of Big Love's season finale for months and months.

Were you able to stomach the finale? What do you think about the turns the season has taken? (I'm trying not to spoil too much, for those of you who are behind in your Big Love viewing.)

Obama in the SAV

As you know already, my man Obam' was here in Savannah on Tuesday. Matt and I both took the day off work to go on a stalking adventure, or, at the very least, to enjoy a day off together in the middle of the week.

We stood along the road outside Savannah Tech, where Obam' would be giving a speech, where we waited for half an hour or so for the man to show up. It was pretty cool. Matt and I are somewhat politically active (Though if you asked my family they'd tell you that I am a maniacal Democrat who has been brainwashed, who is naive and young and on some wild "democratic streak." Or they might tell you that my disdain for many of them is because of my politics, and not because of, well, them. But that's a story for another time now, isn't it?), but we're not big protestors or anything. So we were signless, and we didn't do any chanting.

The crowd was mostly supportive, but there was a hippie dressed in a pig costume protesting "nuclear pork" (to which Matt says, "Nuclear Pork, that sounds delicious. A spicy pork dish of some kind.") and there a few folks holding their "Stop Obamacare" signs and such. But nothing too juicy.

The crowd chanted a few chants, among them "Fired up! Ready to go!" and "What do we want? Healthcare! When do we want it? Now!" The chanting was cute at first, but got annoying pretty quickly. I mean, I was escaping a classroom full of screaming children only to join a group of screaming adults? Oh, hell.

Even Wanda Sykes (left) came out. I can't really figure out why she felt the need to disguise herself, though.
And then. . .

Motorcycles. . .

And Obama's limousine!

It was at this point that I completely lost my shit and started screaming myself, therefore precluding me from taking good pictures. Oops!

But I gained my composure a little bit after he drove by.

The SUV with the back window open always freaks me out. One wrong move and you're dead!
And around this time some crazy lady jumped the line and ran toward the motorcade. She was quickly caught, and arrested, and is currently undergoing psychological evaluations.
So we saw the motorcade, and knew Obam' would be giving his speech for a bit. We headed downtown for lunch at Saigon, walked around and talked, and then went to Back in the Day Bakery for some dessert (also to open the door for all of my wildest dreams to come true).

Back in the Day was a hit. I got an Old Fashioned cupcake:

A Hanna, some lavender-flavored cookie sandwich awesomeness:
And a chocolate chip cookie for Matt that was the size of his head:

Meanwhile, Obam' went to Mrs. Wilke's, southern cookin' family style restaurant, for lunch. (Foiled!) But at least he rejected Paula Deen.

We missed it. Damn.

But we knew that was likely. We went home, took a long family snuggle nap, and then went to Mexican for dinner. (Three restaurants in one day! That's a Mandy and Matt record!)

So, to sum up: slept in, skipped work, saw Obama's motorcade, hung out with Matt all day, ate way too much, took a nap, and then ate way too much again. Does it get any better than that?

Young Skanks

A couple of weeks ago, a 13-year old cousin of mine friended me on MySpace. So I accepted, if only out of curiosity to see what little, let's call her Belle, is up to. It seems that little Belle is up to skanking, if I can be so frank. On her page was an album titled "sorry daddy this is my life" in which Belle and three of her equally skanky friends posed for obscene webcam photos. I showed one of the pictures to Matt, who insisted that I close out the window for fear that he'd be arrested for child pornography.

It was horrifying.

I mean, I changed her diapers! I babysat her! She's even younger than Chloe! So now I feel like some old prudish woman who just can't believe "kids these days." And I remember what it's like to be 13--the puberty, the bad decision making, the bitchy friends--and in some ways I feel bad for these kids. I'm thankful that I didn't have a medium to broadcast my crazy to the entire world during those years.

Which brings me to poor little Noah Cyrus, Miley's kid sister.

Although I fancy myself socially liberal, I couldn't help but to be horrified today when I read that Miley Cyrus's 9-year old sister is designing her own line of lingerie. No joke.

Here she is posing with some of her friends and a stripper pole, and here she is with her friend Grace, who will be designing the line with her.

Did you just vomit all over your computer? If not, check these out.

ARE YOU F'ING KIDDING ME? Prude or no prude, I'm standing strong in my beliefs here: nine year-old girls should not be wearing lingerie (ahem, sex clothes), nor should they be designing lingerie. Call me old-fashioned.

Oh, and Miley's kid sister has got to be the creepiest looking thing since Swan in HBO's America Undercover documentary, Living Dolls.

Grandad in Trappe

Today my family lost its patriarch.

Grandad in Trappe was my Grandma Gail's dad, my mom's grandfather, my great-grandfather. He was kind and loving, proud of his family, generous, and had been hard of hearing for as long as I can remember. He was a veteran of WWII, a father to six, grandfather to about 75, great grandfather to about 1000, and a great great grandfather to even more.

He liked to tell goofy jokes. He carved wooden ducks. He painted. He lived his entire life on his family's farm in Trappe, Maryland. He would complain about my great grandmother's cooking to make the kids think the food was gross, just so that he could have more.

[five generations picture from my wedding]

Grandad in Trappe (in our family we identify grandparents by where they live) married my great grandmother Jean when she was 14, because she had lied to him and told him she was 18. They were married for over fifty years. Almost everyone in my family was at her bedside when she died. She'd had lung cancer and had been suffering, and Grandad had left the house to go to the store. She started to breathe heavily and it seemed that she didn't have long, but Grandad still wasn't there. Grandmom held on until he returned home, and gave her a kiss. And then she let go, and was gone. Theirs was a powerful display of love.

Several years after Grandmom's death, after he'd learned to cook and clean and do laundry on his own, Grandad reunited with a friend from childhood, Doris. He and Doris had both married and raised large families, but then lost their spouses. They reconnected, fell in love, and got married. It was the cutest wedding, until my crazy Aunt Donna gave him Viagra samples as a gift. Grandad laughed and laughed, making us all believe the pills wouldn't go to waste.

Grandad was 87 years old. He lived a full life and made others happier when he was around. He made it a point to talk to or see every member of his family before he died, and it's comforting to know that he's no longer in pain.

Ours is a large, loud, obnoxious family of shit-talkers. We gripe about each other and fight and gossip and aren't afraid to say when we don't like someone or something. But I don't think I've ever heard anyone speak badly about Grandad. He was just that sweet a man.

We will miss him.

Grandpa B.

One of the greatest parts of Thanksgiving was that I got to spend time with my grandparents. In Grandpa B., I found my second-favorite picture subject, too. (Mitch is my favorite.)

Grandpa B. has always been one of my favorites. He is kind and gentle and has the patience of a saint. (He married my grandma when she already had 5 very bad children.)

Grandpa B. is childlike, is curious and fascinated by the world around him. He is the reason I love the smell of someone smoking a pipe.

He's also frank. Grandpa's not afraid to tell you when he's unhappy with something. Often, his facial expressions say everything.

When I was a kid, Grandpa B. was the best. He balanced perfectly my grandma's disdain for children. I remember visiting them when I was about eight. They lived in an apartment building that wasn't very kid-friendly, but Grandpa made sure that Jordan and I were entertained. He had Tinker Toys, and would build elaborate structures with them and then hook them up to a steam engine. The one I remember best was a ferris wheel. Then he helped us build our own structures and put them in motion.

And even after all these years, Grandpa is willing to try new things. On Saturday, he ate oysters for the first time. (I won't go near an oyster. I think they look like snot.)

And you know what? He loved them.

Grandpa is the sweetest man. On Saturday night, he and I were looking at the pictures we'd taken that day. We got to this one of Grandma Carol. . .

. . .and Grandpa turned to me and said, "You know, even after all these years, I still think she's just the prettiest lady. . .She's got the best hair."

Does it get any better than that?

Giving Thanks Like the Publix Pilgrims

Horray for a two-day week!

The self-improvement plan has taken a hiatus until November 30. In the meantime, I shall be consuming mass quantities of meat, butter, pie, and wine. I shall be unproductive. I shall take naps at ten to the hour every hour. I shall neither sweep the floor nor put the clothes away. But that's what Thanksgiving's all about, right? That, and, of course, giving thanks.

I am thankful for:

• My little family, Matt and Mitch. Those boys sure do make me happy.
• My wonderful, smart, funny friends. I am especially grateful for those friends who will give me an honest answer when I start a conversation with, "Now, tell me if I'm being a bitch here. . ." or "Tell me if you think I'm wrong." A truly good friend is more than just a member of the cheering section.
• All of my great kitchen equipment
• Having a wonderful mother and father in-law. I've heard many a horror story, and I'm happy that I don't have to worry about having a crazy mother-in-law or a creepy father-in-law. Truthfully, the ones I got couldn't be much better.
• Having a job, however frustrating it may be at times.
• Facebook. How else would I spend hours per day stalking people, many of whom I don't even like?
• Our health. Let's keep it that way. (Maybe I should get back to that self-improvement plan?)
• My bigger (extended, not fat) family: they're loud and crazy, but full of love. And all of the annoying things about them are going to be useful when I write my tell-all book.
• Cupcakes
• Boxes of wine
• Turkeys
• Naps
• My down comforter
• Having a president with a brain (even if Congress can't seem to grow one)
• Martha Stewart and Real Simple
• My camera
• Dogs in general
• TV shows on DVD
• Pajama pants
• Parks
• The internet
• Publix
• Season-specific salt and pepper shakers. For example, the Publix pilgrims, Paul and Polly. I love breaking these guys out. Their arrival means turkey and naps and love.

I want to use them to season mashed potatoes.

T minus thirty hours until the family arrives. Uh oh.

Christmas and Clueless and Mitch

This week has been crazy busy and tiring. Next week will be even crazier, so don't be suprised if you don't hear too much from us in the next ten days or so. BUT, there will be fun stories and pictures to share afterward. Perhaps Aunt Darcey will bust her ass again whilst performing the "Single Ladies" dance? One can only hope.

Quickly, though, let me fill you in on on the happenings around these parts. First, frivolous purchases.

Oh, Target, why dost thou possess such wondrous gifts for the holiday season? I spent $15 on five rolls of this stuff. I think it's supposed to be ribbon. I'll be using it as, hmmmmmmmm, I'm not sure. But it was beautiful and shiny.

Yeah, I'm judging me, too.

But I am thinking that once I pull out my boxes of Christmas goodies, I'll figure out how to use this stuff. Or maybe I'll just stare at it with my eyes crossed. Either one sounds fun to me.

Second, Mitch has been searching for critters in the back yard. To date, he's found nothing (which is a win for me), but he's persistant, and I fear that sooner or later there will be a mole or an opossum or a baby or some shit. Mitch, if you're reading this, please do not bring a baby into this household. If you do, no more treats or bones, and it'll thunderstorm all the time.

(These photos should also serve as a lesson to us about why we don't buy camera lenses off ebay for the low price of $30/each. I might as well have just set sixty big ones on fire.)

I guess it's kind of neat. But not "wide angle lens" neat. Stupid ebay, stupid Mandy.

And we've got friends in town this weekend, we're dogsitting Mitch's bud Reilly, we've got family in town Wednesday morning, then turkey day, then more family in town, and then hopefully a recovery.

Forgive us if posting is a bit sporadic. Percent chance I know the meaning of sporadic because of Clueless? 96%.

TAI

Cher, I don't wanna do this any more, and my buns, they don't feel nothin' like steel.

CHER

OK, it will get easier, I promise. Just as long as we do it every day. Not just sporadically.

TAI

How do you know if we're doing it sporadically?

CHER

That's another thing, Tai. We've got to work on your accent and vocabulary. See, sporadic means once in a while. Try and use it in a sentence today.

(Later on. . )

JOSH

Be seein' ya.

TAI

Yeah, I hope not sporadically.