Love. An Occasion for Every Day?

Valentines Day.  The most hated of holidays in my opinion.  Keep in mind, I’m not a bitter Betty about love and romance and all of the things that most people should keep to themselves, but instead seem to talk about over coffee and end up on Jerry Springer.  I just am not of the opinion that a day is needed to number one, remind someone to say I love you, number two, a shameless commercial holiday to boost jewelry sales, and last, but most assuredly, not least, make every woman and man out there that is single feel like a worthless, ugly pile of shit.  I apologize for the harsh language, but, really, there’s no other word for it.
It’s really a holiday for women I think.  Not to celebrate love, and families, but to rub it in to other women.  In my experience, the women who receive jewelry and roses from their beau, or multiple admirers, need some help anyway.  Number one, if your relationship is insecure enough that you must be bought once a year, it stands to reason that if you are accepting of this scenario, you are a women that is bought, and who will most likely go to the highest bidder.  Aka, people, a whore.  I’m not saying that all of these women sleep around, I just think that it’s a bit selfish to demand high dollar presents.  Now, they’re all shallow whores.  Christmas and birthdays are for jewelry my friends, not Valentines Day.  Reason being, those are reciprocating holidays, when it is socially acceptable to give and receive gifts.  When was the last time you heard of a woman buying her beau a new car for Valentines Day?  That’s right.  Never.  Because women don’t think to give on this so called holiday, they only think, oh, what can I get out of it.

Which brings me to the afore mentioned point, of women snubbing other women.  When one receives lavish gifts, she must then, rub it in the faces of every woman she sees over the course of the day.  Even ones she doesn’t know.  Making me, as an example think ‘wow, what an idiot’, but, thankfully, not very many women are like me.  Most women think ‘wow… I wish…  why… am I ugly?  And… and… FAT! Why don’t I have a guy like that?…why, why, why’.  When really, men only buy women things on Valentines Day so that they don’t get nagged to death for the rest of their lives. Jeesh.  Maybe if they’re lucky though, they’ll get to see a good cat fight, because my, women are viscous. 

So, on the 14^th of February this year, I think that I will stay in my house, cook a nice meal, and make a note to plant a tree on Arbor Day.  I’m not quite sure when it is, but it seems a bit more worthwhile.

Tricks are for Kids?

I was thinking today, about breakfast cereal.  I was thinking about how Trix was so much better when it was shaped in hollow multi-colored puffs, and not in the fruit shapes.  Which, of course led me to think about how much I hated that stupid rabbit, but still felt bad for him when kids would dangle the box of Trix at him, and then eat it in front of him in the commercials.  He should have taken lessons from the Hamburgler.

I like to daydream about the Hamburgler and devising clever schemes for hamburgling success, but I felt I was on the verge of epiphany with the whole thought on Trix, so I didn’t let myself.  I figured that I was just being daft, but I thought about how much I liked my Trix, Fruity Pebbles, and Honeycomb cereal when I was little.  Lets face it, when you’re five, you’re basically a willing prisoner.  Five year olds use pixie sticks to trade, prisoners use cigarettes.  I think my main point here, is that kids love sugar, and parents give it to them. 

I’m almost there I promise.  This whole thought took me quite awhile this morning while the coffee was brewing.  So anyway, kids and sugary breakfast cereals.  I think it’s kind of ok, if per say, your kid is running around outside, burning off breakfast, and eats healthy the rest of the day.  Not so ok, if they hang out all day, are lazy, and only eat Trix.  Which, also, unfortunately, some parents let them do.  It’s like saying to your kid ‘It’s ok that you’re a fat slob, you’re only 200lbs and have type two diabetes at age five, and you’ve only had one kidney transplant’.  Again, with the dramatics, I can’t seem to stay away.  But really, that’s a hell of a punishment for teasing a rabbit.

The Almost-Crash That Would Have Been Famous

(Not Sasquatch or his snow-plow)

I nearly ran over Sasquatch today. Seriously.

Mother Nature decided to be blustery again today, in other words, blizzards are not just for January anymore. So, that being said, of course, I drove into town in my rear wheel drive SUV. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one dumb enough to have purchased a two-wheel drive SUV. It’s things like these that prove I’m a natural blonde. Anyway, I digress. It’s not the going into town that was momentous, it was coming home. On the home stretch, I tend to go a bit faster, I’ll admit, I like to spin out a bit, do a little skid action. Really, the worst that can happen is I hit a snow bank. And get towed out by my more intelligent better half, who bought a real four-wheel drive car. Or, so I thought. Today happened to be the day, at the exact time I was coming home, that Sasquatch was cleaning the snowplow attachment on his station wagon. With his girlfriend.

That could be a whole segment in itself. Dating Sasquatch: The Insider Story. Maybe I’ll interview her. At any rate, I’m driving up the road, fishtailing and singing Brad Paisley tunes about whiskey and mud, when all I can really see is the engulfing mass of Sasquatch ass. Bending over his snowplow. I, expert snow driver that I am, swerve to slow down and stop before I run over him. Good thing he’s deaf, because he could have really been not to pleased with me for destroying Brad Paisley tunes like that. If there’s one thing I am, it’s pretty tone deaf.

I think this should be an inspirational story though. I’m pretty sure the moral is definitely not, no fishtailing in your vehicle for fun. I think the real point here, is, guys, come on, Sasquatch has a girlfriend, it can’t be that difficult.

New Site!

Are you getting tired about reading all of this crazy cooking stuff? Want to hear more about house building in Montana, or crazy neighbors in said state?

Or maybe you wish you could read odd recipes about banana bread French toast and the virtues of baking from scratch 24/7….

Either way, your dream is about to come true. Please check back soon for links to a new (but not necessarily improved) site devoted solely to cooking (and related subjects-not Montana).  The new cooking site will free up valuable internet space here for more posts on your favorite Sasquatchy-neighbor and the virtues of living in the non-non-burnable areas of Montana.

Do You Dare?

I most certainly do. But then again, I know what the dare is.

It all started one day, when I decided that I was obsessive about French toast. The fact that I do not in fact, own a griddle, kind of sealed the deal of pancakes vs. French toast because really, they’re griddle cakes people, not frying pan cakes. French toast on the other hand, can most certainly be cooked in a frying pan. If you cook it on medium low. If the pan gets too hot, it will sear the outsides before the bread is warmed through. Other important things to note, to become a true French toast connoisseur, is make sure your egg and milk mixture is thoroughly beaten before soaking bread in it. It helps to minimize the ‘fried egg hooked to bread’ scenario. I prefer to also bathe mine in cinnamon, because well, it’s just better that way.

It’s true that French toast can be made out of any sort of bread you have on hand. But, unfortunately, not good French toast. I prefer a light, airy, homemade sort of bread, thick sliced of course for mine. Until now. This is where the dare part comes in. Are you willing to risk your thighs becoming thunderous? Your rock hard six pack abs become not so rock hard? I’ll admit, I’m exaggerating, but anything this good should at least have a bit of foreboding attached to it. In actuality it’s not that unhealthy. It has fruit in it after all. What I’m alluding to, is your favorite banana bread made into French toast. Gasp. I’ve said it. I’m addicted to it. Now, I will say, I even go so far as to put walnuts… AND chocolate chips in it. It makes me feel a bit mischievous, like I’m cheating or something. It’s dessert, it’s a breakfast… it’s a …brunch? All in one. It is a bit sweet with maple syrup (real of course, no Mrs. Butterworth for me) on it, it nearly takes it over the ‘I’m so rich and ooey gooey sweet I want to roll in you all day’ feeling. But, it depends on what mood you’re in I guess. I like to have one slice with syrup, and one with sprinkled powdered sugar on it.

There you have it. My diabolical plan to thwart dieters everywhere. As long as you’re at it, fry up some bacon to go with it. Live a little. Unless you have silly high cholesterol and will blame me for having a heat attack. Only in that case, skip the bacon.

Bad Dreams and Britney Spears

Britney Spears really is a bad dream all in herself.  She really should have stopped with the Mickey Mouse Club.  I’d really like to state the fact that, if the news stopped broadcasting her, she’d be long forgotten before anyone knew it.  No one really cares about it.  It’s not like she’s Jackie Kennedy. 
Enough about Britney.  Do you ever have those bad dreams that are so inane and stupid that you wonder if you were secretly force fed Spam before you went to sleep?  I know I do.  And I seriously hope I was never forced to eat Spam.  Just the thought of it kind of makes me want to drown myself in puff pastry to just forget it.  That’s really not a bad way to go though, drowning in puff pastry.  I can think of worse things.  Anyway, isn’t it weird that some things seem so scary in dreams, and then you wake up, still scared, and then think about it, and realize that you’re literally shaking in bed because you had a dream about the scariest teddy bear in history?  I once had a scary dream about an apple tree.  As it turns out, it wasn’t that scary.  It couldn’t even do all of those scary tree things, like move its branches and suffocate you, like in scary tree movies.  It was just standing there.  And it was frightening damnit. 
Personally, I think that stupid dreams that are so very frightening while they’re happening, are spawned from horrible movie trailers.  Like Lake Placid 2.  I saw that one yesterday, damn those gargantuan sized rabid alligators.  In the trailer, the killer alligator was roughly the size of Lake Placid itself.  And really, if you wanted to go out for a boat ride, or go swimming, would you really choose to go swimming in a lake that was actually a hungry alligator that thinks human is its favorite meal?  I hope not.  The most disturbing thing about it though… is that it’s the second one.  Which brings me to think about Fox and When Animals Attack parts 1-17,400.  I think they’ve had so many of them, that there’s now footage about an angry guinea pig that bit a kids finger. 

I guess my ultimate decision is… turn off the television, and then I won’t encounter any more scary apple trees. 

Bad Dreams and Britney Spears

My Spud Woes

I’ve found it quite odd the past couple of years, talking to many different people about food.  It seems I’ve missed some sort of potato revolution.  Potatoes, now, apparently, come from a box.  And are flaky.  This is one time, I just can’t say viva la revolution.  I’m sorry I found out about the whole ordeal.  It makes me sad really; to think that even one person, not to mention thousands, actually condone this behavior.  Potatoes! out of a box!  I’ve even seen recipes that call for ‘potato flakes’.  The inhumanity of it all. 
For those of you that do not in fact know, our lovable spuds come from the ground.  Potato trees do not exist.  Potatoes come from a plant and are dug from the earth in late summer and early fall.  Many varieties keep extremely well.  In fact, a person can survive on potatoes alone for quite some time.  This all may sound fairly patronizing, and I assure you, that it is meant to be.  You see, I have no way of knowing who is reading this post, therefore, it could be one of those potato flake box people, for all I know. 

Feel free to tell me that I should begin living in this twenty-first century of potato flakes and freeze dried fruit in cereal.  When spaghetti and meatballs come out of a can, and when I say “I’m making soup for lunch” I am met with replies of “what kind, Campbell’s or Progresso”? 
Before I get too incensed and bring up wonderbread (that is not wonderful) or iceberg lettuce (which isn’t really that healthy), I’ll leave you with part of my dinner plans.  That do not come from a box.

Scalloped Potatoes  
3 large russet potatoes

¾ c. butter

1 large onion

¼ c. flour

2 cloves garlic minced

1 teaspoon sage

1 teaspoon rosemary

fresh grated Parmesan cheese

milk (Whatever fat percentage you prefer)

salt

pepper

Skin the potatoes and cut them into thin rounds, about 1/8 inch.  Grease a casserole dish, grease it, and layer the bottom evenly with potato rounds.  I prefer to mince the onions, but you may, of course, chop them however you wish, and layer on top of the potatoes.  Cut butter into squares and layer on top of the onions.  Sprinkle flour and a pinch of salt and generous pepper atop what is already there.  Repeat layering until the casserole pan is nearly to the top with potato layers.  Mix the sage, rosemary, garlic, and Parmesan (how much depends on how much you like cheese) and sprinkle evenly on top of everything.  Pour milk into the pan until it reaches the top layer.  How much milk, depends on the dish size.  Bake at 350 degrees until the potatoes are tender and the top layer is nicely browned.

Blizzards!

I’m pretty good at getting random injuries for no reason.  Some call it being accident-prone.  I call it painful.  I won’t go into grave detail, but I’ve been having dreams about having to have my toe amputated.  I stubbed it, and now it’s swollen and turning purple.  If I got it amputated, I think I would start a contest and call it  the ‘stupidest injuries with the gravest consequences’ contest.  I would, of course rig it so that I won.  So, I guess it wouldn’t be that great of a contest.  Second place would be a real achievement though.
It’s a real good thing it didn’t pick today to fall off though.  We’re having a blizzard!  I still think it’s funny how blizzards make me little-kid-excited and shake like a puppy with pleasure.  I’m really glad that the weather here isn’t fickle like it is in other places.  I mean, if it’s going to snow, it’s going to snow.  It’s not going to start snowing and then an hour later turn into a massive rainstorm that then turns into hail and a huge tornado.  You get my point.  I think the best thing about blizzards though, is it’s like a free day.  It’s the best excuse not to go to work, or to school, or even go to your mailbox if you don’t want to.  It is the best excuse to be lazy on the planet.  And oh, the sledding that can be done!  If I wanted to, I could even hide out and snipe Sasquatch with snowballs.  Just because it’s snowing.  And it makes me happy when it snows.  

King of the Birds?

 

I was thinking today, that a little over two hundred and thirty years ago, there were discussions, and debates over what the American National Bird would be.  The thought made me laugh in itself, because Benjamin Franklin wanted it to be a turkey.  I can’t imagine how anyone would take us seriously.  It’s like being afraid of a milk cow, I mean sure they’re important, but wouldn’t you pay more attention, to say, a lion?  A tiger? A renegade cow loving moose?  I digress.

The Bald Eagle.  A majestic choice really.  I think it helps that they’re rare enough that any time one is flying by, everyone stops and stares.  I’ve even seen people stop their cars to take photos.  For some reason, they inspire a kind of grace in you when you see them swooping through the air, and they really do seem like the king of birds. 

Except for today, when I was driving down the highway and saw three of them picking away at a road killed deer carcass.  They didn’t seem so regal then.  Squawking and picking through the crows and magpies to get their share.  Of road kill.  What kind of king do you know that eats road kill?  I sure don’t know any. 

I figure, maybe if I dressed up like a bird, I could be their king.  I mean, if the only requirement is not eating road kill, I think I could resist the urge, just to get the title.  Jessica: King of the Birds.  I guess I would have to be a Queen.  And have to care about birds.  Maybe I wouldn’t be such a good king after all.

It was overall a really weird bird day.  I was shoveling gravel for our new driveway.  (Such a fun task… sigh… the lumberjacking is over.  Time for the less fun manual labor) So, I’m shoveling, and I hear this rasping type of scream that kind of sounds like a choking hawk.  I never actually saw it, but it was defiantly a hawk.  I hope it wasn’t actually choking.  Hopefully, it just had a bird form of Alzheimer’s and forgot how to do it’s cool hawk scream. 

      

Snickerdoodles: The Forgotten Cookie

 

I decided I was in a cookie-baking mood today.  The mood strikes me often enough to have a whole kitchen drawer devoted to chocolate chips.  Isn’t that a bit sad?  I’ll admit, I’m a bit addicted.  I was thinking though, why always chocolate chip?  What happened to oatmeal, molasses, and dare I say it, snickerdoodles?

I like to think of the snickerdoodle as the French toast cookie.  They don’t taste anything like it, but when they’re baking, they smell like it.  I think it’s the cinnamon.  I’m really a sucker for anything with copious amounts of cinnamon.  I could go so far as to say it’s my favorite spice. [Gasp] I never thought I’d pick one. 

I really do think that the chocolate chip cookie has a monopoly-like grasp on the United States.  As monopolies are illegal here, I feel it’s my duty in life to promote all the other cookies out there.  They may never make it to cookie dough ice cream, but hey, I don’t sweat the small stuff. 

Enough about foolish things like governments and monopolies. Back to the snickerdoodles.  I’ve been thinking about them all day, and couldn’t help myself from making them.  I like to make the Betty Crocker recipe. 

1 c. butter or margarine

1 ½ c. sugar

2 eggs

2 ¾ c. flour

2 teaspoons cream of tartar

1 teaspoon baking soda

Mix it all together in a bowl.  (Doesn’t get much simpler than that huh?) In a separate bowl, mix ¼ c. sugar and as much cinnamon as you want.  Take the dough, roll it in the cinnamon and sugar mixture and bake for about 9 minutes at 400 degrees. 

I really can’t get enough of these cookies.  Which could perhaps be why in most American homes, they are forgotten.  As soon as you make them they disappear.  Could it really be that they are so popular, they aren’t made?  I’ll admit, it’s probably a pipe dream of mine.  In my house however, the snickerdoodle will never be forgotten, and always celebrated.

What’s your favorite cookie? (Store bought ones don’t count!)