Irony is not the best sauce

Last night I faced a dilemma. When I got home from work, there was no food in the house. So, I ran through the potential solutions:

1. Get takeout. No, we had takeout the two previous nights. Not even I can stomach takeout three nights in a row.
2. Have Dan pick something up on the way home. Well, I would’ve done, but he sounded really beat on the phone after work. Also, he would have had to come home first to pick up money, which made no sense.
3. Go to the store myself, which is all of one mile away. Two reasons I couldn’t do this. One: since I had just come home and fed the dogs, they would have gone apeshit if I turned around and left again, with possible major chewing damage to ensue. Two: I am a lazy, lazy person.

So, having burned through all of the other conceivable options, I did what any red-blooded, hungry, American wife with an overdeveloped appreciation for ironic food would do: I made a hot dish. Mmmm, hot dish.

I am, of course, using the Midwestern name because it is funnier than the East coast moniker of “casserole made from leftovers”. I am very proud of my first ever hot dish, which consisted of the following:

• Frozen homemade turkey soup. See, I defrosted the soup, took out all of the big chunks of turkey and vegetables for the base of the hot dish, and retained the broth.
• Frozen “Frenched” green beans. Because a successful hot dish needs a vegetal component. Bonus: the French cut makes it fancy.
• Canned Cream of mushroom soup. Duh. Can’t make a hot dish without some good old condensed soup. I thinned it with some of the broth and added a few shakes of spices chosen randomly from the cabinet: garlic powder, cumin, and poultry seasoning. Luckily, I didn’t pull out cinnamon or something.
• Stovetop Stuffing. See, I used the broth from the soup to make the topping! Pretty crafty, eh?
• Bacon. Did I say I was American? And plus, why the hell not?

It was okay. A bit gross, really, but it was hot. Also, because I am all about Commitment to the Bit, if nothing else, I was honor bound to eat it. You know, I think I should’ve added some cheese to the topping. I’ll just chalk that omission up to hot dish naivete.

Potpourri

You know what I am getting damn sick of? I am getting sick of our damn friends leaving town. Dammit.

All right, mild obscenities aside, it is pretty annoying. Guys, I am way too lazy to make new friends. I had to go to another good friend going-away party this weekend. Great party, but jeez, what a bummer. Seriously everyone, stop leaving town. I command it.

I made chocolate truffles for this party and observed a surprising phenomenon. The truffles coated in chocolate disappeared first (no surprise). People didn’t eat truffles rolled in cocoa powder, which is the traditional truffle coating, or the ones coated in nuts. But they did eat the ones rolled in toasted coconut. Huh.

Also, Dan finally wised up that he always has to drive for parties, so I was the designated driver. Luckily, there were other DD’s there and many pregnant women, so I had lots of sober folks to talk to. Not that it’s unsatisfying in any way to talk to drunk people when you are sober. I love explaining subtle jokes several times. It’s fun. Doesn’t ruin the humor at all.

Anyway, when the party moved downtown, I got pulled over for making a left through a red light. I swear*, the light turned red over my head. It was yellow when I started turning. Apparently I had the utter confidence of one who is stone-cold sober, because I didn’t get a ticket, despite also having an inaccurate address on my license. Woo! Sobriety rocks!

* A lot. I swear a lot. Like a pirate. I try to clean it up though, for you, my faithful reader.

Do what you gotta do

This year, my darling husband and I, bolstered by our recent success in making our house look less like a Home for Indigent Fratboys and more like a place where adults live, decided to forego big Christmas presents for each other and instead spend our resources updating our kitchen.

Not a big update, mind you. Maybe put some new vinyl tile on the floor, maybe get rid of the preexisting, bad-DIY, puke-yellow Formica countertops and backsplashes and replace them with ceramic tile. Plus let’s not forget the new old stove.

We’re understandably excited by the prospect. Except for one thing: we won’t have a working kitchen for Christmas itself. Which means that, once again, I am thwarted in my attempt to cook a British Christmas meal: roast goose, brussel sprouts, chestnut dressing, chipolata, roast potatoes. And what’s for pud? Christmas Pudding of course!

But of course, there’s no way I’ll get to do that this year. (dammit!) So, instead, this weekend I’ll be making about ten gazillion chocolate truffles* to bring to all of the parties and houses we’ll be visiting. I’m hoping to get an assist from my Mom and Aunt Nancy in this misguided attempt to fit a season’s worth of holiday cooking mojo into one afternoon.

I figure Mom can cover the important tasks of Breaking Into Song at Random Intervals, as well as Getting the Dogs Overly Excited, and me and Aunt Nancy can actually roll the ganache in the coatings and decorate them. I think that covers everything.

*I can't make cookies, because that task is ably covered by Juan. By "ably" I of course mean "the best freaking cookies ever to emerge from a home oven", so there's no point in making any of my own. So I'll make some candy, which I prefer to pronounce "caaannny".

Oh. Well. Ha ha. Wait - what?

I like some pretty weird crap. I find that’s pretty normal for my demographic. And I enjoy having bizarre interests. I bet a lot of people do – it makes you feel fun, interesting, and unique to have a pastime that not a lot of people share. Why else do people spend so much time on these blogs and MySpace pages? We want to show the world how one-of-a-kind we are. Even though we totally aren’t.

That’s why, when you find out that someone else shares your totally unique interest in something, like, say, Harry Nilsson, it can be both validating and a little disappointing. This disappointment is magnified when it turns out that the other person, say, maybe doesn’t have a reputation for being really cool. Like maybe, oh, the guy who played Booger in Revenge of the Nerds*. Finding out that he is the country’s foremost expert on Harry Nilsson could be a little off-putting. I’m just sayin’.


*Don’t get me wrong. I am fully convinced that Curtis Armstrong is a great guy (how can he not be – he likes Nilsson), not to mention a talented actor who deserves credit for doing more than picking his nose.

I have no shame

Nothing would please me more than to be able to truthfully say “I don’t really watch those reality TV shows.”

I mean, I could say it, but it wouldn’t exactly be true.

With the exception of Project Runway, there are no reality TV shows that I will faithfully tune in to watch week after week. Ooh, except for that BBC America one where Gordon Ramsay goes into failing restaurants. The one where he changes his shirt a lot on camera. I love that one. But that’s not on very often, so it doesn’t count.

However, I am a sucker for the “Reality TV Marathon” phenomenon.

This is a diabolical programming strategy, as far as I’m concerned. Although I would never purposely plan to watch even one episode of House of Tiny Terrors, I will gladly watch four hours of it if the episodes are shown in order. Assuming nothing else is on. And Dan is not home.

It’s very strange. I mean, if you asked me, “Kate, will you please watch four hours of boring families trapped in an ugly postmodern house, where their every move is captured on film, including the kids’ drippy-snot temper tantrums, and a calm British lady who claims to be a clinical psychologist tells the parents what to do,” I would consider punching you in the face.

Yet that is almost precisely what I did yesterday. Although it was more like two hours. And I flipped around a lot. But still.

Sometimes change is good. This is not one of those times.

I decorated our Christmas tree this past Sunday. Normally, tree-trimming is a ritual involving several highly specific actions that must be completed in order. There are certain foods and drinks that must be present (holiday wine has a big role here), and the decorations must be put on in a certain order (star, lights, garland, then the oldest ornaments, newer ornaments, and finally expendable glass ball ornaments).

Also highly important is the music. I always insist on listening to a certain album: A Very Merry Christmas, Volume 1. You know, one of those holiday albums that retail stores put out in the 60’s. Except it was kind of an early stab at multiculturalism. It features such classics as:

1. Jingle Bells, as performed by Jimmy Dean. Yes, the sausage man. The song also features his very young son, who can barely remember the words. The big payoff comes at the end, when Jimmy ends the tune with a hearty “Ya did it”.


2. Santa Natale, sung by Patti Page. Unlike Feliz Navidad, this effort to bring the Spanish language into the American holiday canon did not catch on. Maybe because it’s a super-slow torch-burner ballad which features backup singers that sound like female muppets. Just a theory.


3. The Star Carol, sung by Simon and Garfunkel. Truly, a beautiful beautiful Christmas song, sung with as much heartfelt passion as you would expect from a couple of Jewish guys from New York. And speaking of Jewish Christmas songs…


4. Sweetest Dreams be Thine, by Theodore Bikel* and the Pennywhistlers. Otherwise known as the Loo Loo Song, after the lyrics in the chorus, which go like this:
   Loo loo loo loo loo loo loo, Loo loo loo loo loo loo loo,
   Loo loo loo loo loo loooooooo loo, loo loo loo loo. (repeat)
   Also known as the “Amhad Rashad” song, because of the incomprehensible lyrics. Well, incomprehensible if you don’t understand Yiddish, anyway. Obviously, this is not technically a song about Christmas, but because I was two when I started listening to the album, it never occurred to me that it wasn’t. Also, because they sing about a baby; I guess I always assumed it was about the lil’ baby Jesus. I know, very small-minded of me.

Anyway, I didn’t get to do the ritual this year. Mainly because I don’t have a record player, and I was too lazy to drive down to my folks and borrow theirs. I had to make do with calling mom (who is always game to break into song, no matter the occasion) and sing the Loo loo song on the phone. Also, I drank some eggnog and watched a marathon of America’s Next Top Model.

* You may also know him as Sergei, Worf’s adopted father on Star Trek TNG. Seriously, no joke.

Sort of free stuff

One of the benefits of living close to my family is the Mooch Factor. Case in point: my parents are in the process of remodeling their kitchen. As a result, I get to replace my electric stove with the much newer stove my parents would have otherwise thrown out.

Although we benefit from this largesse, the free appliances do come at a price. That price: convincing my mom the eternal optimist that we do, in fact, want her old stove. For some reason, whenever my mom gives me something used, she does her best to convince me that I don’t want it, even if it is leaps and bounds better than what I currently have. I don’t think she realizes that she does this. Well, she will now. (Hi, Mom!)

Anyway, this involves phone conversations like the following*:

Me: Thanks again for giving us your old stove. That’s really great.

Mom: You don’t want our stove.

Me: What? Why not? Yes we do.

Mom: No, it’s old. It’s older than your stove I think.

Me: Mom, come on. Our stove is so old the clock has flip analog numbers. It’s at least thirty-five years old.

Mom: No, it’s not.

Me: Okay, let me remind you that I actually live in this house, and I am staring at the stove at this very moment, and I can say in no uncertain terms that this stove is at least as old as me.

Mom: Well, ours is old too. Look, look, I have the manual right here. See, it says it was made in 1996.

Me: (pause)

Mom: Okay, it’s newer, but I’m not going to have a chance to clean it before you come get it.

Me: It’s called Easy-off, mom. I’ll do it in our driveway before we bring it into the house.

Mom: But how are you going to get it into your kitchen? You’ll have to move your fridge.

Me: You’re right, mom, moving my fridge is too high a price to pay to get a much newer, more efficient stove.

Mom (getting desperate now): But it’s yellow.

You get the idea.

Anyway, last night, after yet another conversation where my mother tried to convince me I didn’t want a free stove, I got the last laugh. Because minutes after hanging up, I went to broil a piece of bread, and an explosion of sparks and Frankenstein/Jacob’s Ladder-type noises came from the heating coil when I opened the door. This development has considerably speeded up the process. I figure I’ll be cooking on our new used stove by Friday. Woo-hoo! Digital timer, here I come! In your face, flip-clock!

*I would like to stress that although this is not a verbatim transcript, these are all arguments actually made in the case of Mom vs. 1973 EZ Self-Cleaning Hotpoint.

It's the most wonderful time of the year. It is. Don't argue with me.

You know what? I love Christmas. I love it a lot.

For those of you too lazy to read the above linked post, here’s a partial list of things I love about this time of year, in a nice, condensed, bulleted list:

• Christmas decorations. I love decorating Christmas trees. I have often considered getting a fire- and flood-proof safe for my older decorations, because they are among my most highly prized possessions. Seriously, it just wouldn’t be Christmas without the small felt bear that the Mumpers gave us when I was four year old. I love that thing. Or the wooden snowman with the broken leg, who is supposed to jump when you pull a cord, but instead he just does a modified jumping-jack. Ooh, or the crocheted ones Aunt Nancy made. Bet you didn’t know I still had a few of those, did you Aunt Nancy?


• Egg nog. Mmmm… it’s like a melted milkshake, only made with nutmeg. Growing up, I thought it was the perfect holiday beverage. Then, in my early twenties, I learned that you could add booze. Will the goodness never end?


• Hot spiced wine. My second-favorite holiday drink. Although I do make it from scratch on occasion, I always buy a bottle or two of the Brotherhood brand. For those of you not from the Hudson Valley of New York, you may not have sampled this wine, which is made in the Catskills. In addition to being sweet and sticky to the point of resembling cough syrup, it is also cheap. And let’s not forget the convenience of a screw-top bottle! I love it.


• Proper Old-fashioned Christmas music. You would think that, what with listening to holiday tunes all day, every day for two consecutive summers would sour me on ol’ Perry Como and Rosemary Clooney. Nope! In fact, I’m listening to it right now. I even have a special holiday playlist on my computer at work, which I listen to on headphones.


• Wrapping presents. I think I like wrapping them more than unwrapping them. I’m not really very good at it, at least compared to my parents. Mom always buys the high-quality paper and color-coordinates each person’s presents. Dad also buys his own, even higher-quality paper (seriously, I think it’s made out of unicorn-hide parchment or something). Then he disappears for a few hours to wrap the gifts with the utmost precision, often employing a t-square, slide rule, sextant, and a barometer to make sure that he has the proper tape for the current weather conditions. You wouldn’t want your package to come apart because of high humidity, would you? I didn’t think so.

Anyway, the point is, look for many, many more holiday-themed posts in the upcoming weeks, as I explore in greater detail my obsession with December.

Please, try to contain your excitement. And stop humming “Here Comes Santa Claus.” You’re an adult, for Christ sake.