Serve and Protect, My Ass

Our dryer broke again, which meant that I had to call a guy to repair it.  The repair guy happened to be African American, which sent my racist dog into a 2-hour long frenzy.  The dryer guy laughed and said "serve and protect, huh?" to which I just uncomfortably giggled, completely embarrassed by my bigot of a dog.

He is a Tea Party republican, after all.

Later that night, while Mitch was outside lying in his dirt spot, an evil murdering tree frog broke into our house.  I saw it on the door frame and thought that it was a leaf or something, so I tried to rub it off with my toe.  And then when the frog jumped on my foot, into the kitchen, and began to crawl up my refrigerator with its long murderin' poison legs, I screamed like I'd just seen the Trinity killer in my bathroom.  I screamed and screamed some more as the frog decided to stalk me from between the refrigerator and freezer doors.  It even whispered "You're gonna die, lady" in a scary Southern accent.

What did the dog do?  Did he hear his mother, the woman who birthed him from her body, screaming hysterically and facing death and then run to her rescue?  Did he kill the frog?  Did he call the police?  Did he even bother to get up out of his dirt spot?

No.

Serve and protect, my ass.

Matt: Singer/Songwriter

Man, you know how you know when you're bored and determined to be a waste of space?  Well, it happens when you start Googling yourself.  And that's what I was just doing, because apparently I want to become a pile of gelatinous ooze.  Or because I'm just psyching myself up to make the best ice cream that's ever been made.  I'd go with the former if I were you.*

So, anyway, back to the Googling.  Well, I Googled "matt mandy mitch" to see what that would turn up.**

And among a few other things (one of which was a Mitch Hedberg joke-a-day list), this video came up.



I said that it was some kind of children's church.  Matt said that, no, it wasn't.  He said that, instead, it was some kind of Children of the Corn cult.***  Then he broke out into his own verse:

". . .then we kill our parents with knives--IN THE BACK YARD!"

Isn't Matt the best?


*It doesn't matter anyway, because I was productive enough at school in the last two days to make up for seven weeks of doing nothing.


**Yes, I am a narcissistic dork, but you are, too.  Don't even try to act like you've never done it.

***I haven't actually seen that movie because I don't watch scary movies because they scare me.

Chocolate Ice Cream!

Did you know that I'm not really into chocolate?  I like it and all, but I'm not one of those people who goes ga ga for chocolate, or who craves chocolate regularly.  Usually I prefer to eat chocolate in conjunction with other stuff (looking at you, peanut butter), and I like the chocolate to take a back seat to the other flavors.

I'm also afraid of making chocolate stuff, because I'm not terribly good at it.  I've had Back in the Day Bakery Cheryl's chocolate cake recipe for a few months now, and am still too afraid of it to make it.  (Also afraid that in the event that I successfully make it, I would eat the whole thing, despite my ambivalence about chocolate.  I need to have a time to share it with others.)  I don't know what's so scary about chocolate.  Mainly I'm just a big sissy.

I absolutely must overcome this fear*, because what kind of baker/ice creamer/fat girl can I be without knowing how to make awesome chocolate stuff?

This week I got one step closer, because I made David Lebovitz's Chocolate Ice Cream.  Plain ol' chocolate.  Also, David Lebovitz is a god.  The god of ice cream.

Now, Matt's mom, who is a chocoholic, doesn't like chocolate ice cream, because apparently true chocolate lovers prefer vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup. But I think this one could convert her--that's how good it is.

The flavor is intense without being overpowering, and the texture is silky smooth.  It's sweet without being too sweet.  This is the chocolate ice cream recipe that I will use for the rest of my life, because I just can't believe that it can get better.  (And I know that I have a penchant for hyperbole, but seriously, I'm telling the truth.)

Get this book. 

And make this ice cream.

And look at a picture of this dog.

And you'll be happy.  (At least until the ice cream's gone and the dog starts whining for treats.)

David Lebovitz's Chocolate Ice Cream

2 cups heavy cream

3 tablespoons unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder
5 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped
1 cup whole milk
¾ cup granulated sugar
Pinch of salt
5 large egg yolks
½ teaspoon vanilla extract

Warm 1 cup of the cream with the cocoa powder in a medium saucepan, whisking to thoroughly blend the cocoa. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer at a very low boil for 30 seconds, whisking constantly. Remove from the heat and add the chopped chocolate, stirring until smooth. Then stir in the remaining 1 cup cream. Pour the mixture into a large bowl, scraping the saucepan as thoroughly as possible, and set a mesh strainer on top of the bowl.

Warm the milk, sugar, and salt in the same saucepan. In a separate medium bowl, whisk together the egg yolk. Slowly pour the warm milk into the egg yolks, whisking constantly, then scrape the warmed egg yolks back into the saucepan.

Stir the mixture constantly over the medium heat with a heatproof spatula, scraping the bottom as you stir, until the mixture thickens and coats the spatula (170°F on an instant-read thermometer). Pour the custard through the strainer and stir it into the chocolate mixture until smooth, then stir in the vanilla. Stir until cool over an ice bath.


Chill the mixture thoroughly in the refrigerator, then freeze it in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s instructions. (If the cold mixture is too thick to pour into your machine, whisk it vigorously to thin it out.)


*Shoot.  That would've been a good New Year's resolution, huh?  Instead I'm left with learning to like tomatoes and to eat at least one egg with a runny yolk.  Also afraid of that, but we'll have to discuss it at a later date.

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!