Thanks, Hugh and Cassie, for showing us this gem.
(Not suitable for work or for small children, or for you, Chloe.)
I wanna eat!
13 April 2010
Strawberry Shortcake Cookies
I'm a huge strawberry shortcake fan (like, huge like fat and also huge like enthusiastic). It's been one of my favorite desserts for as long as I can remember, and it's reminiscent of summer time and no school.
As a child, I was also a big Strawberry Shortcake fan. This one, the girl with the frumpy clothes who smelled like artificial strawberries. I loved that smell.
Now, my mom always made her strawberry shortcake with Bisquick. I've heard rumors of moms who used pound cake (which is also probably delicious). But, I'm partial to the Bisquick. Something about the sweet and savory gets me every time. (Mitch, too. You should see him go apeshit for yogurt-covered pretzels.)
The last two times I've been to Publix, quarts of strawberries have been on sale for $1.25 each. Since I have trouble resisting a good sale, and since I love strawberries, and since I can convince myself that they'll be a healthy after-school snack (Yeah, right. Not so healthy when I'm dipping them in cream cheese icing, now, are they?), I've been buying strawberries by the gallon.
To be completely honest, though, these haven't been the best strawberries of my life. They're big and pretty, but not bursting with flavor.
But I think I may have found a solution. I was on my friend Martha's website and saw that she had an entire collection of recipes that used strawberries, and that's where I found these babies: strawberry shortcake cookies. Oh, that Martha!
Strawberry Shortcake Cookies (Adapted from Martha Stewart's recipe)
Ingredients
Makes about 3 dozen
12 ounces strawberries, hulled and cut into 1/4-inch dice (2 cups)
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon coarse salt
3 ounces (6 tablespoons) cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
2/3 cup buttermilk
Sanding sugar, for sprinkling
Directions
1.Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Combine strawberries, lemon juice, and 2 tablespoons granulated sugar. Whisk together flour, baking powder, salt, and remaining 7 tablespoons granulated sugar in a large bowl. Cut in the butter with a pastry cutter, or rub in with your fingers, until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Stir in cream until dough starts to come together, then stir in strawberry mixture.
2.Using a 1 1/2-inch ice cream scoop or a tablespoon, drop dough onto baking sheets lined with parchment, spacing evenly apart. Sprinkle with sanding sugar, and bake until golden brown, 24 to 25 minutes. Transfer to a wire rack, and let cool. Cookies are best served immediately, but can be stored in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 1 day.
These have a texture more like muffin tops than cookies, but they're crazy good.
Happy Hump Day!
Hookin'
Since today was a furlough day, I was bound and determined not to do anything school-related*. Instead, I slept until 11:30, did some productive household stuff, went to the post office to see my post office boyfriend Byron (and also to mail a couple of packages), lunched with Matt, napped in the sun at Forsyth, read Cook's Illustrated, met up with Collin, got some gelato, and relaxed in the new and improved Ellis Square.
It was just one of those perfect days (if only the day hadn't cost me a couple of hundred dollars!). The azaleas were out of control beautiful. There were tourists and kids and parents and old people. There were old tourists. Everyone was happy, smiling, enjoying the glory that is Savannah in the springtime.
And there were prostitutes. Whaaaaaaaaaaa?
Yeah, as I inhaled my gelato on a waffle cone, I looked over to see this:
Good thing I had my camera.
And she wasn't done. (Unfortunately, I was laughing too hard to get the ones where she completely arched her back, in what may have been the sexiest, uh, I mean, trashiest, pose of all time.)
Bitch had some guy taking pervy pictures of her in the middle of the square on a Monday afternoon! I can hear the carriage tour guides now: "To the left you'll see Ellis Square. Just a few short years ago this was a parking lot. . .and that. . .well, that's a vagina." Real classy, prostitute girl.
But a few of the tourists didn't seem to mind.
How was your Monday? Do any modeling?
*Also, I'm crazy efficient when I'm at school, and turned my grades in on Friday afternoon when they weren't even due until Tuesday morning.
It was just one of those perfect days (if only the day hadn't cost me a couple of hundred dollars!). The azaleas were out of control beautiful. There were tourists and kids and parents and old people. There were old tourists. Everyone was happy, smiling, enjoying the glory that is Savannah in the springtime.
And there were prostitutes. Whaaaaaaaaaaa?
Yeah, as I inhaled my gelato on a waffle cone, I looked over to see this:
Good thing I had my camera.
And she wasn't done. (Unfortunately, I was laughing too hard to get the ones where she completely arched her back, in what may have been the sexiest, uh, I mean, trashiest, pose of all time.)
But a few of the tourists didn't seem to mind.
How was your Monday? Do any modeling?
*Also, I'm crazy efficient when I'm at school, and turned my grades in on Friday afternoon when they weren't even due until Tuesday morning.
12 April 2010
Taco Seasoning and Flat Learning Curves
So, last night was taco night at our house. Mmmmmmmmmmmm. . .taco night. Here's our basic taco spread (you may note the absence of tomatoes; neither Matt nor I are big fans of them. The hatred that we share for tomatoes is one of the reasons that we decided to marry.) You may notice that there's a bag of frozen strawberries on the table. No, these aren't special fruit tacos. We're not hippies.
Nothing special, right? No, not really, except that we made and were using Homemade Taco Seasoning (part of my effort to reduce the amount of sodium in our diets), and we were using the newest addition to our family, the All Clad chef's pan that Matt's mom gave me for my birthday.
What's so frustrating about this little episode is that it's about the one millionth time I've touched something that I know is hot, just to see how hot it is.
Matt just shakes his head and wonders if he really should have married someone just because she also didn't like tomatoes.
Nothing special, right? No, not really, except that we made and were using Homemade Taco Seasoning (part of my effort to reduce the amount of sodium in our diets), and we were using the newest addition to our family, the All Clad chef's pan that Matt's mom gave me for my birthday.
I'll forever be impressed by this pan and the way it heats evenly. It's basically a magic pan. So, while Matt was cooking up our taco meat (and had been at it already for 10-15 minutes), I decided to swoon over the pan a little, and to test out how the pan heats, so I just grabbed the side of it, burning the crap out of my fingers. (Thus the bag of frozen strawberries.) There was some swearing that happened.
Matt just shakes his head and wonders if he really should have married someone just because she also didn't like tomatoes.
She & Him
I heard the NPR pledge drive was fast approaching, so I bought a new CD. This probably won't come as any surprise.
Who's your celebrity dream look-a-like?
I'm a tiny bit obessed. I've listened to it about 7 times already, and I think it's going to be a good companion during the pledge drive.
Plus, She & Him take some pretty cute pictures.
I told Matt the other day that if I could choose what I looked like, I would look like Zooey Deschanel. He made a disgusted face, and said that she was too waif-ish. I think that was Matt's nice way of saying, "Oh, Mandy, I like you plump."
Other celebrities I would like to look like, say, if someone allowed me to just point to a picture and make it happen: Elizabeth Hurley, Jenna Elfman, Michelle Obama, Connie Britton.
Who's your celebrity dream look-a-like?
Blueberry Pancake
On our journey toward financial solvency, Matt and I had to take a serious look at what was causing our money to evaporate. The biggest offender was eating out. So we eliminated that for the most part, and started cooking at home and planning our meals. Cha-ching! But then there was my greatest offense: buying unnecessary and ridiculous shit.
I've gotten better about that. Better. Not perfect.
I still buy kind of stupid and/or unnecessary stuff on occasion. And I'm pretty good at rationalizing why something is important, or why it will make me $20 happy, etc.
Sometimes people will ask me why I have a second job. I have a second job so that I can shop guilt-free. Basically, five hours of waiting tables each week afford me the opportunity to spend five hours shopping each week.
My go-to purchase on days when I'm feeling sorry for myself is pajama pants. (I have about 25 pairs of pajama pants. Now, that's over the course of like eight years, and 4-5 times per year of feeling sorry for myself doesn't seem so bad. Is it?)
I'll also buy ridiculous shit for the house. I try to buy things that are functional (even if that function happens to be "makes Mandy smile").
Lately, I've bought curtains for the guest room. . .
. . .and colorful lanterns to add the the Carport Bistro.
I have really made an effort to keep myself from buying stuff that is completely unnecessary or useless. (Such was not the case in college, when I apparently had some hidden desire to spend ALL of my money on the stupidest things possible. Roller skates for all my friends? Every Gap favorite tee that's been made?) But there's an exception.
See, my second job is waiting tables. It can be pretty lucrative, but it can also be pretty shitty. Nothing has contributed more to my being a misanthrope than my experience working in the restaurant business (which is really saying something because the rest of the time I'm working in a high school). When I have a shift that's REALLY shitty--and by REALLY shitty I mean the kind of shift that makes you think you'll have to quit in the middle, the kind where you're fantasizing about the customers choking on their overpriced chain food, the kind where you have a massive hangover, the kind where you think you may cry mid-shift--then I have a rule. That rule is that I am allowed to take all of the money that I made that shift and spend it frivolously. The more frivolous the better. (Note: I understand that this is not the smartest of plans. I know that if I had kids or bills that were going unpaid that this plan would not be an option. But I understand, too, that it brings me enough happiness to forget about the misery of the day, and it's worth it to me.)
Saturday was pretty horrible.
So I bought myself a pair of jeans (they looked pretty great and were only $20, so even though I'm not supposed to be buying clothes unless I'm buying them in a smaller size because of all of the weight that I've been losing--ha!--I decided that it was a good buy), and a candle:
Quick reminder: this candle smells amazing, but it does not taste nearly as good as it smells. In fact, it tastes like wax. Shit. Also, I burn this candle at all times in my classroom. It's aromatherapy. Kids walk in and smell cake, and they're instantly more happy and better behaved. That's what I've found, at least.
And some nail polish:
(PS--this nail polish is pretty great. There are lots of colors and the polish itself is even better than the OPI stuff I have. But this particular color, Thinking of Blue, reminds me of blueberries.)
And some flowers:
And this, the most ridiculous purchase of them all, Pet Head brand (by the makers of Bed Head products, the ones that smelled so good when Paxton and Becky had them that I tried to eat them--note: they do not taste as good as they smell) dry shampoo that smells like blueberry muffins. Yes, please!
(Also, I'd be a damned withholder if I didn't admit that I immediately went home and tried to use the Pet Head dry shampoo on my own greasy locks, but that it didn't turn out as planned. Shit.)
But I used this stuff on old Mitchell Pancake, and it was pretty cool. Now he smells like blueberries. Blueberry Pancake.
The blueberry-scented dog is much better smelling than the dog who smells like, well, wet dog because we spent half an hour today doing this:
Hope you're enjoying your Monday. I'm furloughed today, which sucks. But in my effort to look at the bright side of life (thanks for the tip, Brian!), I'm going to be happy about it. I'll sleep in, spend the day at the park with the husband, and eat too much.
What are you up to? What do you waste your money on?
I've gotten better about that. Better. Not perfect.
I still buy kind of stupid and/or unnecessary stuff on occasion. And I'm pretty good at rationalizing why something is important, or why it will make me $20 happy, etc.
Sometimes people will ask me why I have a second job. I have a second job so that I can shop guilt-free. Basically, five hours of waiting tables each week afford me the opportunity to spend five hours shopping each week.
My go-to purchase on days when I'm feeling sorry for myself is pajama pants. (I have about 25 pairs of pajama pants. Now, that's over the course of like eight years, and 4-5 times per year of feeling sorry for myself doesn't seem so bad. Is it?)
I'll also buy ridiculous shit for the house. I try to buy things that are functional (even if that function happens to be "makes Mandy smile").
Lately, I've bought curtains for the guest room. . .
. . .and colorful lanterns to add the the Carport Bistro.
See, my second job is waiting tables. It can be pretty lucrative, but it can also be pretty shitty. Nothing has contributed more to my being a misanthrope than my experience working in the restaurant business (which is really saying something because the rest of the time I'm working in a high school). When I have a shift that's REALLY shitty--and by REALLY shitty I mean the kind of shift that makes you think you'll have to quit in the middle, the kind where you're fantasizing about the customers choking on their overpriced chain food, the kind where you have a massive hangover, the kind where you think you may cry mid-shift--then I have a rule. That rule is that I am allowed to take all of the money that I made that shift and spend it frivolously. The more frivolous the better. (Note: I understand that this is not the smartest of plans. I know that if I had kids or bills that were going unpaid that this plan would not be an option. But I understand, too, that it brings me enough happiness to forget about the misery of the day, and it's worth it to me.)
Saturday was pretty horrible.
So I bought myself a pair of jeans (they looked pretty great and were only $20, so even though I'm not supposed to be buying clothes unless I'm buying them in a smaller size because of all of the weight that I've been losing--ha!--I decided that it was a good buy), and a candle:
Quick reminder: this candle smells amazing, but it does not taste nearly as good as it smells. In fact, it tastes like wax. Shit. Also, I burn this candle at all times in my classroom. It's aromatherapy. Kids walk in and smell cake, and they're instantly more happy and better behaved. That's what I've found, at least.
And some flowers:
But I used this stuff on old Mitchell Pancake, and it was pretty cool. Now he smells like blueberries. Blueberry Pancake.
The blueberry-scented dog is much better smelling than the dog who smells like, well, wet dog because we spent half an hour today doing this:
What are you up to? What do you waste your money on?
10 April 2010
And all over again. . .
Here's why I love Tanya.
After catching up on the blog this week, she sent me this video. I've been playing it over and over again for the last few days.
Yay for Elf and singing!
After catching up on the blog this week, she sent me this video. I've been playing it over and over again for the last few days.
Yay for Elf and singing!
08 April 2010
Danielle!
Happy birthday to Danielle, who is also turning twenty-nine, but for the fourth time.
Not a month goes by that I don't have a dream that I'm back in Harrisonburg, working at BW3. I really don't have a good explanation for my creepy recurring dream, except that the three years that I worked there were so formative. When I started there, I was a nineteen-year-old kid who didn't drink, and was pretty wholesome by most accounts. By the time I left three years later, such was not the case. Not to mention, that job could be really stressful. We got out at two a.m. at the earliest, and our shifts began at five. Sure, it wasn't the hardest job of all time, and sure, we made buckets of money slinging wings and beer and Alabama Slammer shooters, but it was tough.
The people who worked with me during that time were really influential, in part because I was the baby of the group, and I always felt like they were looking after me, and in part because they taught me so much about coming of age in Harrisonburg, Virginia.
Danielle was the second person I met at BW3. (The first was her then-boyfriend-now-husband Scott, who probably deserves a post all his own.) She trained me, and I didn't like her that much. I thought she was a bitch. I couldn't have been more wrong. Well, kind of. She can be a bitch when needed, but it's the good kind of bitch. Let's just say she's assertive.
It didn't take long for me to realize that Danielle was actually quite cool. She was an English major like me, she had an awesomely-raspy voice (I'd pay $200 to be able to trade voices with her), and she held a really great outlook on life. And she's smart. I love it when my friends are smart.
As the years progressed, Danielle and I became closer, and I always looked forward to shifts when I'd be working with her. She even gave me a reason to hate karaoke less (We had karaoke 1-2 times a week, and it was excruciating, especially because our manager would play a game called "Kamikaze Karaoke," which basically meant that he would put our names in for songs that he chose, and then when our name was called he would force us to go up and sing the surprise song. Fun for the customers, awful for the employees.) For some reason, Danielle and I decided that our favorite song was "Copacobana," and when we would step up to the mike to sing we knew it was our chance to get back at the karaoke regulars (a.k.a., high school chorus rejects) with our own ridiculous antics.
But my favorite Danielle memories are of enjoying the simple life outside of work: watching O Brother Where Art Thou? over and over again (he done R-U-N-N-O-F-T!), planning our future careers as backup whistlers (we're both REALLY good at whistling), trying to refine our handwriting with nice pens, and planning how we would be soccer moms together years later. (Sorry, Danielle. I really dropped the ball on that one.)
In many ways, I felt like Danielle was the big sister that I never had. Looking back, I can see just how much she influenced me, with her casual outlook on life, with her candid honesty, and with her approach to relationships. Danielle and Scott always impressed me with their relationship. They were never overly kissy or gross, but it was clear whenever I was around them that they were deeply committed to one another, and that they didn't have to be sitting on each other's laps to prove that to the world.
She has even fulfilled our long-term goal of being a soccer mom!
Even though I don't get to talk to her that often, when we do talk we're able to pick up right where we left off. It seems that we can't talk for any less than two hours. I've known Danielle for a decade, and I admire her and appreciate her more with each passing year.
Happy birthday, Danielle! If I was up there, I'd make you these:
(I stole all of the pictures from Danielle's Facebook, because I do not have a scanner. It's probably for the best.)
Puppies Are Exhausting: A Post from Mitch
Hey you guys, it's me, Mitch. Oh man, I'm so exhausted right now. Let me tell you why.
First of all, I'm six. That's like forty three in dog years, which means that I'm middle-aged (immortal if you ask my mom). So I'm no young pup. Sure, when people stop me at the park to remark about how beautiful I am and to and ask about my breeding (American Dingo, natural selection all the way!), they are always so surprised to find out how old I am because I project such youth and vitality. But, I mean, that's just when I'm out for walks mostly. Because when I'm at home, I'm either sleeping on the bed, sleeping on the couch, sleeping under the bed, sleeping beside the couch, or sitting on the couch watching out for kids or mailmen (so that I can scare them with my loud and vicious-sounding bark.) Point is, when I'm on walks, I'm all about being Energy Dog, but when I'm at home, that's time for Mitch to relax.
When my mom and dad kept talking about this "spring break," I thought I might get to forget about some of my stresses, you know, like cats and bicycles and kids bouncing basketballs.
But apparently "break" is more like "stress," because I had a really stressful "break."
First there was Fletcher. I mean, we've talked about Fletcher. I kind of like him; I just wish that he would chill out. Come on, Fletcher. You don't have to be punching me in my face every waking minute of our visit together. We can just relax in a dirt spot. And wipe that grin off your face. Okay, and like, when I first met Fletcher, he wasn't that much bigger than Reilly, but now he's as big as I am! What the hell is that? I'll tell you one thing, Mitch is not okay with Fletcher getting bigger and bigger.
Basically, with Fletcher I just growl and growl and maybe snap. Sometimes I can get him on the ground and start "dancing" with his face, but not too often. Fletcher is so strong! But he sure is handsome--so handsome that it's hard to overcome my desire to "dance" with his face.
So, anyway, Fletcher came, and he was only here for a day, and I was all, "Thank goodness! I'm so tired!" So I had a day of rest. Only a day. One day. That's it.
Because the next day we had another visitor, Phebe. Phebe is even younger than Fletcher, but she's not quite as big, which was nice. And you know what she did? She ate my bones! Sure, I had my own bone the whole time, but she'd just saunter over to MY bed and start chewing on a bone that came from MY bone jar. So you know what I'd do? I'd drop the bone I was chewing on, march my dog butt over to Phebe, and take that bone back from her. Why? Because I'm Mitch, and sometimes I'm an asshole.
Phebe was here for a couple days, and she did get better. I even decided to give up on being so jealous about bones. She liked to run, so I would chase her around the house trying to wear her out, but you know what? You pretty much can't wear out a puppy. They have so much energy! What the hell, you guys?
Then Phebe left, and so did my mom and dad (Thanks a lot, Mom and Dad. It's not like I wanted to go to the lake or anything. I hate the lake. Oh yeah, that's right. I LOVE the lake. And now I hate you guys.) I thought that with everyone gone I would finally get some solace, but I was again mistaken, because Reilly came over. Now, Reilly time is like really exhausting but also really fun (kind of like a trip to Mexico, except that I didn't get to go to Mexico, either. That was just another example of Mitch being left behind. I seriously would bite my parents if they didn't sprinkle parmesan cheese over my food), and he's getting older and more into naps, so we had a great time. We even rented some of the old Air Bud movies and popped popcorn. Maybe you didn't know this, but dogs LOVE popcorn. And also steak.
And no sooner did Reilly leave than Mom and Dad returned. I mean, can't a dog relax? I really need my alone time!
Mom and Dad are back at work now, and whining about getting up early and needing rest, but I'm happy, because I needed to get some rest to make up for that "break."
First of all, I'm six. That's like forty three in dog years, which means that I'm middle-aged (immortal if you ask my mom). So I'm no young pup. Sure, when people stop me at the park to remark about how beautiful I am and to and ask about my breeding (American Dingo, natural selection all the way!), they are always so surprised to find out how old I am because I project such youth and vitality. But, I mean, that's just when I'm out for walks mostly. Because when I'm at home, I'm either sleeping on the bed, sleeping on the couch, sleeping under the bed, sleeping beside the couch, or sitting on the couch watching out for kids or mailmen (so that I can scare them with my loud and vicious-sounding bark.) Point is, when I'm on walks, I'm all about being Energy Dog, but when I'm at home, that's time for Mitch to relax.
When my mom and dad kept talking about this "spring break," I thought I might get to forget about some of my stresses, you know, like cats and bicycles and kids bouncing basketballs.
But apparently "break" is more like "stress," because I had a really stressful "break."
First there was Fletcher. I mean, we've talked about Fletcher. I kind of like him; I just wish that he would chill out. Come on, Fletcher. You don't have to be punching me in my face every waking minute of our visit together. We can just relax in a dirt spot. And wipe that grin off your face. Okay, and like, when I first met Fletcher, he wasn't that much bigger than Reilly, but now he's as big as I am! What the hell is that? I'll tell you one thing, Mitch is not okay with Fletcher getting bigger and bigger.
Basically, with Fletcher I just growl and growl and maybe snap. Sometimes I can get him on the ground and start "dancing" with his face, but not too often. Fletcher is so strong! But he sure is handsome--so handsome that it's hard to overcome my desire to "dance" with his face.
So, anyway, Fletcher came, and he was only here for a day, and I was all, "Thank goodness! I'm so tired!" So I had a day of rest. Only a day. One day. That's it.
Because the next day we had another visitor, Phebe. Phebe is even younger than Fletcher, but she's not quite as big, which was nice. And you know what she did? She ate my bones! Sure, I had my own bone the whole time, but she'd just saunter over to MY bed and start chewing on a bone that came from MY bone jar. So you know what I'd do? I'd drop the bone I was chewing on, march my dog butt over to Phebe, and take that bone back from her. Why? Because I'm Mitch, and sometimes I'm an asshole.
Phebe was here for a couple days, and she did get better. I even decided to give up on being so jealous about bones. She liked to run, so I would chase her around the house trying to wear her out, but you know what? You pretty much can't wear out a puppy. They have so much energy! What the hell, you guys?
Then Phebe left, and so did my mom and dad (Thanks a lot, Mom and Dad. It's not like I wanted to go to the lake or anything. I hate the lake. Oh yeah, that's right. I LOVE the lake. And now I hate you guys.) I thought that with everyone gone I would finally get some solace, but I was again mistaken, because Reilly came over. Now, Reilly time is like really exhausting but also really fun (kind of like a trip to Mexico, except that I didn't get to go to Mexico, either. That was just another example of Mitch being left behind. I seriously would bite my parents if they didn't sprinkle parmesan cheese over my food), and he's getting older and more into naps, so we had a great time. We even rented some of the old Air Bud movies and popped popcorn. Maybe you didn't know this, but dogs LOVE popcorn. And also steak.
And no sooner did Reilly leave than Mom and Dad returned. I mean, can't a dog relax? I really need my alone time!
Mom and Dad are back at work now, and whining about getting up early and needing rest, but I'm happy, because I needed to get some rest to make up for that "break."
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