I Forked Up.

Oh man, I'm sorry we haven't been blogging too much.  I'm sure that your life has felt empty and sad without your [almost] daily dose of M Cubed.  Sorry about that.

The good news is that I have lots of stuff to share with you in the coming weeks.  The bad news is that I don't feel like doing it right now.  But while Matt and his mom read their books and I watch some HGTV while breathing in fresh lake air (which is known to have healing properties), I need to share something with you right quick.

First you need to know that Matt's mom's best friend Kim (mother of Audrey) loaded me up with lots of exciting gifts a few days ago.  One of the things was a lot of fancypants silver.  You know, like the kind of silver where there is a separate fork for everything (a.k.a., silver that I love but don't really understand), the kind where you hold your pinky finger out while using each individual piece.*

And one of the pieces is this, the shrimp fork (or at least that's what I'm told).

And I love love LOVE this fork.

But there's a slight problem.  I hate hate HATE shrimp.

So I've been trying to think of ways to use my fork without having to eat shrimp or reveal to the rest of the world that I completely lack sophistication.

Head scratcher?  Kid stabber?  Gardening tool?  Hmmmmmmm.  Nah.

Oh, wait!  I've got it!

Hair holder-upper/self-defense device.

This way, I still don't have to eat any shrimp.  And, no, it's not going to trick people into believing that I am sophisticated, but I wasn't going to have much luck in that department anyhow.

But it doesn't matter.

Because I'll tell you one thing right now: should an attacker try to attack me, he (or she, I suppose) better get used to the feeling of a shrimp fork in the eye.


*Also the kind of silver that reminds Matt of royalty, which then gets him talking about the royal wedding.  He's all, "it's magical" this and "a real-life fairytale" that.  

Grilled Chicken Wings

Look!  I just got another tool to ward off murderers!

And now I kind of want to be a butcher.

Or a landscaper?*

Anyway, I got this new meat cleaver because we wanted to make grilled chicken wings for dinner.  Truth be told, I wasn't all that jazzed about making grilled chicken wings, but they were going to be the healthier alternative to our fried wings, you know, since I'm on a quest to be less fat.  When we started, I was rather unenthusiastic about the wings (but not the chopping part where I got to use my meat cleaver and make crazy eyes), so much so that I didn't document the process at all.  Fortunately, there wasn't much to document.  Oh, and they're out of control delicious.

So here's what you do.

1.  Chop wings like a psychopath.  Be sure to cut off the tips.  I don't know why, but you're supposed to.
2.  Toss the wings in a large bowl with 1 tablespoon of olive oil, some salt, pepper, and cajun seasoning.
3.  Grill the wings.
4.  Toss them again in a large bowl with sauce. (We used Frank's Buffalo Wing Sauce, but you could use whatever you want.)
5.  Eat.  You will get sauce all over your face and hands, so these are not to be eaten around polite company.

They're easier to make than they are to eat, and I think they taste better than the fried ones.


*I've always secretly wanted to be a landscaper, even though I don't know anything at all about plants.
**Oh, and for those of you who have joined Operation: Skinny Unicorn, it's 10 WW points for 8 wings.

Brrr! Time for Pasta Stew!

Well, I didn't get murdered by the Craigslist dryer repairman.  Turns out he was actually a dryer repairman, which is good for us because not only did I not get murdered, but we also have a working dryer again.  Phew!

But today is just a gloomy day of crap so far!  It's really frustrating when it seems that everyone else in the world is off of school and/or work, and you're not.  The brightest spot in my day so far has been this bean and pasta stew (or pasta e fagioli if we want to get all fancypants).**  Yum!  (By the way, Matt says that this just looks like a bowl of slop.  I say that it looks like a bowl of delicious slop.)

If you're snowed in, or if you're not, and if you're a fan of beans and pasta and tastiness, then you might want to give it a try.  Not too bad for you, cheap to make, and pretty easy.

Bean and Pasta Stew  (adapted from this recipe)
serves 8-10


3 cans northern beans
5 slices bacon, diced (or substitute 1 tablespoon olive oil for vegetarian version)
2 large yellow onions, sliced thin
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 bay leaf
1/2 pound pasta
5 thyme sprigs
3 teaspoons salt
1-2 teaspoons crushed red pepper
10 ounces baby spinach
pine nuts (optional)


In a heavy stock pot or dutch oven, fry the bacon over medium heat. Once all the fat has rendered, remove the bacon with a slotted spoon and reserve. Pour off all put one tablespoon of bacon fat. Cook the onions slowly with 1/2 teaspoon of salt until they caramelize and turn golden brown, 20-30 minutes. Add the celery and cook just until the celery is softened, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds.

Remove half of the onion mixture and reserve with the bacon. Deglaze the pan with one cup of water, scraping up any brown residue that has formed on the bottom of the pan.

Drain the beans and pour them into the pot with the remaining onions. Add the bay leaf and enough water to cover the beans and onions by one inch. Simmer for 15 minutes.

Return the pot to the stove top and set over medium-high heat. Add the bacon, reserved onions, whole thyme sprigs, remaining salt, crushed red pepper, and pasta. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the pasta is al dente. Add more water if necessary.

Add the spinach to the pot and stir until it is wilted. Remove the bay leaf and the thyme stems. Taste and add more salt and pepper if desired. Add pine nuts if desired.


This stew will keep for one week refrigerated.

Get cozy.  And stay that way.

**UPDATE.  Today took a huge turn for the better when we took a family snuggle nap that I didn't wake up from until 8:30.  When I finally peeled my body from the bed, I had a message on my phone announcing that tomorrow we will have a two-hour delay at school!  In the five and a half years that I've worked in this school system, we've never once gotten a delay or a day off for wintery weather.  I am currently beside myself with joy.**

A Boring Account of My Day, and Potential Last Words

This week has been tough. And not even tough because anything bad happened or because of illness or misfortune. It's just been tough because I'm a spoiled little baby, and after having 17 days off of work, I found it very hard to transition back into real life--which includes getting up in the morning, wearing pants that don't have an elastic waist, and actually having real responsibilities again, both at home and at school. What! You mean my entire life can't be devoted to watching Mad Men and making waffle cones?! That's rubbish!

So from Monday through Wednesday I was a complete worthless blob. I would go to school and try to muster up energy to be good while there, and then I'd come home and take a coma nap. The coma naps were getting progressively longer, and by the time I woke up from Wednesday's 4-hour one, I knew I had to make a change. But then I didn't want to, and I instead talked to Matt and ate burgers (from the new grill) and watched tv and laughed and tried my hardest to ignore the messy house and the fact that I would have to get up again in the morning. I hate getting up in the morning. I prefer to exit slumber in the early afternoon. (True fact. If I had my druthers, I'd stay up until 4 a.m. and sleep until noon every day.)

So yesterday was my day to be active. And, boy, was I! I went shopping and bought these, the perfect trouser pants from Gap that I'd had my eye on since September. (Shoot yeah, 50% off clearance prices!)

 and here I am wearing them

And I got this shirt, which is kind of like a fancy robe.

I also went to the grocery store and accidentally broke the bag and dropped my loaf of sourdough French bread in the middle of the parking lot. And I ate it anyway. And it was delicious.

And I took down Christmas. That took what felt like eight days, except that it was really like two or three hours. I think Christmas decorations are kind of like having family visit--you're so happy to put them out, and then you're just as happy to put them away.

While listening to to a few podcasts.

And I cleaned. And vacuumed (three times). And I ellipted. And I took a shower. And I did laundry.

And then the dryer went kaput. And I was mad. So I made Matt put on an episode of Mad Men, thinking that the dashing Don Draper would help me to forget about the inconvenient death of the dryer, but then I fell asleep during the episode.

This morning I found a guy on Craigslist who says that he has 30 years of experience fixing dryers and that he'll fix it for $40 plus the cost of parts. Hopefully that's not code for "30 years of experience murdering silly women," because I called him and he's coming to the house soon. Anyway, if I get murdered, you'll know it was "George" the "dryer repairman."*

*Don't worry, the dryer is out in the shed, so I don't even have to let him into the house.**

**Also, I'm going to hide a cast-iron skillet in my jacket, just in case. That's my weapon of choice to use against potential murderers.

Bonus!

You know what I love?

I love it when you make a to-do list, and when you accidentally write something on it twice--say, "wrap presents."  And then, when you're finished with that task, you get to cross off two things!  Horray!  It's like you wrapped presents twice when really you just did it once.*

Less fun is when you break your wine glass in the sink** after maybe accidentally dropping it because maybe--just maybe--you had a few glasses of wine (plus a few more glasses of wine) while chatting away on the phone to old friends and little sisters.

Oh well.  There's a lesson to be learned here: buy more sturdy wine glasses.

*Also, sometimes I will write things on my to-do list that I've already done just so that I can have the satisfaction of crossing them off.  Or sometimes I will put the most ridiculous task on a to-do list, such as "eat a salad for lunch and not fast food" or "take a nap."  It's extra fun to cross those babies off.

**Save the remaining danger glass, just in case a murderer should approach your house, in which case you can grab the glass and tell the murderer, in your scariest voice, "I will cut you."  If they scoff, cut them--until they're dead***, because they are (were?) a murderer and they were trying to kill you dead first.

***Or just run.  This may be smarter.  Don't listen to me.  I can't even keep a wine glass alive.

Scaredy Cat

Okay, so first of all, let me tell you that I'm not a big scaredy cat when I'm at the house by myself.  Sure, that time I was in the shower and Mitch came in and licked my leg I screamed a little.  Sure, I occasionally think that a ghost is messing with my hair or swiping cupcakes.  I exercise caution when I'm home alone--you know, by locking the doors and refraining from dancing naked in front of the windows--but I usually feel pretty safe. (And I sometimes daydream about how I would defend myself against a would-be murderer.  Three words: cast iron skillet.)

But here's the thing.  In the last two days, Matt and I watched all of season 4 of Dexter.  I won't spoil anything for you, but season 4 features, I believe, the creepiest, most disturbing killer of all time, and he's played by John Lithgow. 

Creepfest.

Horrible creepfest.

3rd Rock from the Sun will never be the same again.

Since we started the season I've not only been having bad dreams about being murdered in a bathtub, but I've also been scared to be at home by myself.  It's been years since I've been afraid to walk into a dark room, but I find myself rushing to get a light turned on, releasing a sigh of relief when I don't see a murderer in the bedroom, and then checking around to make extra sure that there's no murderer.  I've refused to close the shower curtain (something I nag Matt to do) because I'm afraid of the murderer hiding in the bathroom.

I tried to watch the Real Housewives of D.C. to wash the Dexter out of my brain, but it didn't work. (In fact, it just made me wish John Lithgow's character would head to D.C. to keep on keepin' on.) I listened to music, but that just made me more afraid that the murderer would be able to enter the house unnoticed. 

Guess I'll just be sleeping with a cast iron skillet under my pillow for the next few nights.  That sounds comfy.  (But it beats the hell out of being murdered in a bathtub.)

Poof!

There's just something about summertime that pits me against nature.  (Or pins me against nature, if you're like stupid Olivia on The City.  I hate her with every ounce of my being.)  If it's not mosquitoes or nearly dead moles or jumpy frogs or slugs or snakes, then it's something else. 

As I was driving down the parkway this morning, groggy because I'd had to peel myself out of bed at 7:45 (so early for summer!) and because I failed to eat a healthy breakfast, I became a murderer.  The incident happened shortly after I merged, when I was going between 45-55 mph, and some very intelligent bird was  hovering about four feet off the ground, directly in front of me.  I tried to brake, and I couldn't swerve without getting into an accident, so I hit it. 

Thump!

Horrified by my murderous act, I looked in the rearview mirror.

Poof!

There was a poof of feathers at the scene of the crime, almost cartoonish.  It was like a pillow fight on a sitcom.  Actually, it was like the end of this Pixar short (around 2:30). 



Or this disturbing few seconds that Matt recommended of Randy Johnson hitting a bird with a fastball.



Gross!

Anyway, I'm still driving around with souveniers of my kill.

Ugh.

Anyone have some rubber gloves?

R.I.P., bird.  Sorry you're dead.  Maybe as a ghost bird you can go to all of the other birds and instruct them to maintian a high altitude when flying around such busy roads?

What's in a Name?

Is this really that surprising? I mean, they are called Killer whales.

If I was named Mandy the Murderer, and then I murdered someone, would it really be newsworthy?

Sorry, SeaWorld person. That sucks. Another thing that sucks is that now I can't get that Michael Jackson Free Willy song out of my head.

Oh, and while we're at it: Michael Jackson is still dead. I'm pretty sure a whale did it.

A story about yeast, but not a gross one.

Last week I decided that I had to get back to weight-loss mode, something I should have been doing all summer. (But really because Matt and I have a wedding to attend in a little over a month, and I don't want to arrive there as a complete disgusting fatbody.) And I was doing pretty well, eating salads and grilled chicken, avoiding cupcakes and cutting back on boxed wine.


And then I bought my friend a wedding gift, a pretty dutch oven (I already told her that was what I was getting her; I'm awful with surprises), and I decided that I should find some good dutch oven recipes. In the process of searching for recipes, I became very hungry. Famished, even.


And then I came across this bread recipe, from Pioneer Woman. It looked so tasty, and I thought, for quality assurance purposes, I should try out the recipe before giving it to my friend.


I followed the instructions, for the most part. The only step I didn't really follow--and it must be a very important step--had to do with the kneading of the dough. Initially I followed that instruction, but after about 2 minutes I thought my Kitchen Aid was going to die. I had walked out of the kitchen while the mixer did its thang, and when I came back the mixer had slowly inched itself toward the edge of the counter. Kitchen disaster averted!


So I tried to knead the bread by hand, but I didn't know what I was doing. After it sat for a couple of hours (during which time the dough was supposed to increase in size, but mine didn't), I haphazardly put it in the oven.

It looked pretty. (But not as pretty as Pioneer Woman's.)

And while it was hot it tasted pretty good. Not surprisingly, though, it was far too dense and heavy. In fact, the "bread" was so hard the next morning that I could have used it as a weapon to fend off any murderer trying to get into my house.

Fortunately, it wasn't a total loss. One of my friends gave me these super fun cookie cutters for my birthday, so that I could bake treats for Mitch.

So I made Mitch some bread treats.

He immediately took his treats and buried them around the house. Last night we discovered a dog-shaped piece of brick bread in our bed. Great. Do any of you know how to bake good bread from scratch? Any foolproof recipes? Or, do you have any great dutch oven recipes I should include with the wedding gift?