Back in the olden days, when I had a real job and traveled nearly 50% of the time for work, I found myself urgently needing a new suitcase – the day before I was scheduled to leave on a 2-week trip to Japan, the zipper ripped out of my trusty old soft-sided suitcase. So, in a fit of desperation, I headed to the local mall.
In one of the big department stores, I saw it. The perfect suitcase. Large. Hard-sided. A nice understated black. Samsonite. On sale (!!!). Two side latches and a main latch with a combination lock. Yes! Just what I wanted. I pulled it down off the shelf, undid the side latches (which have a nice little slide lock that keeps them coming open accidentally), flipped the main lock… nothing. Locked. Locked?!? I made sure the combo was set to “0-0-0”, tried it again… nothing. Locked. Crap.
Okay, they must have another one. I looked around. Errr. None were in sight. I finally flagged down a saleslady. Nope, no more in the back either. I asked her if she knew the combination. Ha! That is why it was on sale.
But I wanted this suitcase. I needed this suitcase. So I started to think to myself “what would someone who would do something so juvenile as resetting the combo lock on a suitcase that was not their own set it to?” A-ha! I entered three numbers, flicked the latch and, ta-dum!, it opened. What where those numbers? 6-6-6.
I took the suitcase over to the saleslady, who told me again it was locked. I told her I wanted to buy it anyway. Got it home, reset the combination (I’m not terribly superstitious, but really wouldn’t you?), packed the suitcase full of clothes and shoes, and went off on my trip.
It has been nearly 10 years since I bought that suitcase and it is still going strong. RWT just took it on a trip around the world. It followed him home by a week, but I knew in my heart that it would eventually find its way back to me. My devil suitcase.
29 August 2006
17 August 2006
Salt or No Salt?
Of course, I am not talking about margaritas from a mix or those that come in a "Just Add Tequila" tub. Blech-blech-blech. I use freshly-squeezed lime juice, Triple Sec (for some reason I prefer it to Grand Marnier in this application) and decent tequila (but not fine tequila because it would be a waste to use it in a mixed drink). Whir it all together with ice and some sugar (amount needed is very dependent on the limes and requires lots of taste-testing) in the trusty blender and pop it in the freezer.
When the mood strikes for margaritas, I pull the pitcher from the freezer, let it sit ~30 minutes (if I can wait that long, I have been known to nuke it and/or hack away at it with a large metal spoon) and then have at it with the how-did-I-live-without-it-for-so-long stick blender to break up any large ice crystals that may have formed.
I was running low on tequila and the freezer is currently devoid of any and all pitchers, so I stopped by the package store today while on my way to commissary. (Note to non-military folks – although the name suggests otherwise, the package store is not where you go to mail the very, very late birthday present to your sister, but where you buy cheap, tax-free liquor.) I was standing at the checkout counter paying for my large (1.75L) bottle of tequila when the two young solders behind me decided to comment...
BabyArmyGuy1 (with a good ‘ol boy accent): Boy! That is a big bottle of tequila.
Me: Yup. I need to make some margaritas.
(I decided not to tell them how it is my freezer that needs them.)
BabyArmyGuy1: When I drink get tequila, I get mean.
Me: Hmmm.
BabyArmyGuy1: The first time I drank tequila, I left the club and ended up punching a Colonel.
Me: Really?!?
BabyArmyGuy2 (who is much cuter than BabyArmyGuy1 and is obviously feeling left out): I'm a sweet drunk…
Me: That's good.
BabyArmyGuy1: When it happened, I had no idea she was a Colonel.
Me: (Laughing)
BabyArmyGuy2: (Cannot think of a thing to top his buddy's comment and looking quite chagrined)
At that point, the two soldiers started discussing the how much that particular female Colonel can bench-press and I exited the package store still laughing. It is nice to see that, in addition to learning how to kill in all sorts of sundry ways, some young soldiers are apparently also working on excellent comic timing.
Now off to make those margaritas...
11 August 2006
Snail and E
I was looking for an old photo to show a friend of mine and I thought it was in my cedar chest in a box with a bunch of college memorabilia. Well, I could not find that particular photograph, but I did find all sorts of old letters.
Most was correspondence from guys who, even after reading their letters, I cannot recall. Nothing. Nada. Zip. The letters were silly, dopey, funny and a more than a few totally stupid, but nearly all long forgotten.
One guy I do faintly remember (the picture I found of him helped) was a summer “romance” (I was all of 13 or 14, so, other than a few chaste kisses behind the church, nothing much that could be considered in the least bit romantic actually happened between us). There are at least a half-dozen letters from him, but I have no recollection of writing from my side. I wonder if he wrote me for weeks after he went home without my reciprocating or if I just wrote him unmemorable (to me, at least) drivel. I suspect the former.
I’ve never been much of a letter writer. While I can type nearly as fast as I can compose the words in my head, my actual handwriting at that speed is completely illegible. I tended to woefully neglect my written correspondence before email came along. But, as much of a godsend email has been, it suddenly hit me today how fleeting it is. I am not an electronic pack-rat and twenty years from now I highly doubt I’ll be able to read my current letters to and from friends. Heck, I can’t even reread those from just last week.
Then I start thinking about going through that box this morning. I read the first four or five letters, had some laughs, but quickly tired of reading twenty-year-old words that no longer had any emotional resonance. If they had not been there physically in front of me, I never would have given them another thought again in my life. I can’t miss what I can’t remember.
And the truly memorable letters, such as my ex-fiance’s heart-torn missive (written on Garfield notepaper, no less) that accompanied the engagement ring he gave back to me after I returned it to him when I broke-off our engagement, I can recall every word without even having to look at it.
So I hope it is that way with the email -- the important letters will be etched in my mind forever and the others are not really worth remembering.
Most was correspondence from guys who, even after reading their letters, I cannot recall. Nothing. Nada. Zip. The letters were silly, dopey, funny and a more than a few totally stupid, but nearly all long forgotten.
One guy I do faintly remember (the picture I found of him helped) was a summer “romance” (I was all of 13 or 14, so, other than a few chaste kisses behind the church, nothing much that could be considered in the least bit romantic actually happened between us). There are at least a half-dozen letters from him, but I have no recollection of writing from my side. I wonder if he wrote me for weeks after he went home without my reciprocating or if I just wrote him unmemorable (to me, at least) drivel. I suspect the former.
I’ve never been much of a letter writer. While I can type nearly as fast as I can compose the words in my head, my actual handwriting at that speed is completely illegible. I tended to woefully neglect my written correspondence before email came along. But, as much of a godsend email has been, it suddenly hit me today how fleeting it is. I am not an electronic pack-rat and twenty years from now I highly doubt I’ll be able to read my current letters to and from friends. Heck, I can’t even reread those from just last week.
Then I start thinking about going through that box this morning. I read the first four or five letters, had some laughs, but quickly tired of reading twenty-year-old words that no longer had any emotional resonance. If they had not been there physically in front of me, I never would have given them another thought again in my life. I can’t miss what I can’t remember.
And the truly memorable letters, such as my ex-fiance’s heart-torn missive (written on Garfield notepaper, no less) that accompanied the engagement ring he gave back to me after I returned it to him when I broke-off our engagement, I can recall every word without even having to look at it.
So I hope it is that way with the email -- the important letters will be etched in my mind forever and the others are not really worth remembering.
10 August 2006
Pet Names
My family has a tradition of giving our pets rather sensible names…
Morgan (an alligator lizard who ate mealy worms – what a nightmare)
Myrtle (one of numerous Myrtles – all were turtles)
Corkey (also one of many – all parakeets)
Cindy (short for Cinderella – my sister’s guinea pig that I dropped and I will never, ever be forgiven for doing so)
Butterscotch (my hamster – that I did not drop)
Lewis & Clark (experimental goldfish – Lewis was kept in constant light and Clark in the dark)
The cats –
Kiki (yes, I now know what that is slang for in more than one language)
Bobbie (who had seven toes on each foot)
And, in order of age, the dogs –
Jeremiah
Beau (actually Beauregard Zachariah)
Tasha (named after my mother's favorite childhood toy – a rather large, felt-stuffed, chartreuse dog name Natasha who currently resides in my cedar chest)
Sammie
Jessie
Scooter (he was constantly underfoot as a puppy – "Scoot!")
Anna (registered name “Diamond Anna”)
Most of the names of the early pets stuck. But, once my sisters and I were older, did we call our pets by their names? Of course not. My beloved calico, Kiki, more commonly went by Keeker-Weeker-Eeker-Squeeker. Or Eeker. Or Squeeker. Bobbie was Tube-Cat (she was very long and lean) or Bobbie-Wobbie-Obbie-Squobbie. Are you seeing the pattern yet?
And it was worse with the dogs (after all, how often do you really bother calling a cat’s name?). Tasha was Tasha-Squasha. Then Squash for short. Then Squash-a-lump for long.
Jessie is also known by Jesse-a-lump, while Sammie’s queenly nature is reflected by Sammirella (Sammie belongs to the same sister as the long-departed guinea pig that I dropped, and, for the record, I have never, ever picked up Sammie, let alone, dropped her).
Scooter (my father’s dog) is Scooter-Wooter-Ooter (that variation is somehow always tied to the pet residing in our parent’s house) or, my favorite, Ooter-Brauten.
However, the one who gets it the worst is my current dog, Anna. The fact that her name just begs for it does not help the situation. The most obvious: Anna-Banana. That quickly morphed into Banana-Boat then Banana-Nut then Peanut then Sweet Pea. But there is another branch originating from Banana-Nut… Banana-Nut Muffin then shortened to Muffin (which, coincidentally, was the given name of the cat that Kiki was named after – a very long story). And now Anna is currently going by Muffin-Head.
Odd? Yes. But it could be worse. RWT grew up with a half-sister named Emily and a pet Doberman named Emily. His parents both loved the name and, after they divorced, they each utilized it during their second marriages. Perhaps nonsensical pet names are a good idea after all.
Morgan (an alligator lizard who ate mealy worms – what a nightmare)
Myrtle (one of numerous Myrtles – all were turtles)
Corkey (also one of many – all parakeets)
Cindy (short for Cinderella – my sister’s guinea pig that I dropped and I will never, ever be forgiven for doing so)
Butterscotch (my hamster – that I did not drop)
Lewis & Clark (experimental goldfish – Lewis was kept in constant light and Clark in the dark)
The cats –
Kiki (yes, I now know what that is slang for in more than one language)
Bobbie (who had seven toes on each foot)
And, in order of age, the dogs –
Jeremiah
Beau (actually Beauregard Zachariah)
Tasha (named after my mother's favorite childhood toy – a rather large, felt-stuffed, chartreuse dog name Natasha who currently resides in my cedar chest)
Sammie
Jessie
Scooter (he was constantly underfoot as a puppy – "Scoot!")
Anna (registered name “Diamond Anna”)
Most of the names of the early pets stuck. But, once my sisters and I were older, did we call our pets by their names? Of course not. My beloved calico, Kiki, more commonly went by Keeker-Weeker-Eeker-Squeeker. Or Eeker. Or Squeeker. Bobbie was Tube-Cat (she was very long and lean) or Bobbie-Wobbie-Obbie-Squobbie. Are you seeing the pattern yet?
And it was worse with the dogs (after all, how often do you really bother calling a cat’s name?). Tasha was Tasha-Squasha. Then Squash for short. Then Squash-a-lump for long.
Jessie is also known by Jesse-a-lump, while Sammie’s queenly nature is reflected by Sammirella (Sammie belongs to the same sister as the long-departed guinea pig that I dropped, and, for the record, I have never, ever picked up Sammie, let alone, dropped her).
Scooter (my father’s dog) is Scooter-Wooter-Ooter (that variation is somehow always tied to the pet residing in our parent’s house) or, my favorite, Ooter-Brauten.
However, the one who gets it the worst is my current dog, Anna. The fact that her name just begs for it does not help the situation. The most obvious: Anna-Banana. That quickly morphed into Banana-Boat then Banana-Nut then Peanut then Sweet Pea. But there is another branch originating from Banana-Nut… Banana-Nut Muffin then shortened to Muffin (which, coincidentally, was the given name of the cat that Kiki was named after – a very long story). And now Anna is currently going by Muffin-Head.
Odd? Yes. But it could be worse. RWT grew up with a half-sister named Emily and a pet Doberman named Emily. His parents both loved the name and, after they divorced, they each utilized it during their second marriages. Perhaps nonsensical pet names are a good idea after all.
25 June 2006
Cookie Collection Recipe 9
This recipe for Greek Toast is an old family recipe of my grandmother's. I've never seen anything like it in any Greek cookbook, but have seen similar recipes in Italian cookbooks. Perhaps it is the addition anise seeds that make it "Greek". It is an easy method of making biscotti because it is a batter that is poured into a loaf pan for the first baking rather than being shaped into a free-form loaf.
My grandfather always dipped these cookies in his coffee before eating them, but since I don’t drink coffee, I like them plain.
This recipe is easily doubled or tripled or quadrupled and the cookies can be stored for a very long time before there is any loss of quality.
Greek Toast
16 biscotti-like cookies
2 large eggs
⅔ cup sugar
1 teaspoon anise seed
1 cup bleached, all-purpose flour
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and grease and flour a 4½”x8½” loaf pan.
In a medium bowl or the bowl of a stand mixer, combine the eggs and sugar and beat well until thick and pale in color. Mix in the anise seeds and gradually add in the flour. Mix the batter until well combined and pour into the prepared loaf pan.
Bake 20-30 minutes until the top is lightly browned and springs back when lightly touched. Remove the loaf from the pan and cool on a rack for 10 minutes.
Cut the loaf into 16 slices and place the slices on a half-sheet pan and bake 5 to 7 minutes until toasted, turn the slices over and bake an additional 4 to 5 minutes or until desired crispness. (Keep in mind that they will become more crisp as they cool.)
Allow the toasts to cool on a rack and store in an airtight container.
My grandfather always dipped these cookies in his coffee before eating them, but since I don’t drink coffee, I like them plain.
This recipe is easily doubled or tripled or quadrupled and the cookies can be stored for a very long time before there is any loss of quality.
Greek Toast
16 biscotti-like cookies
⅔ cup sugar
1 teaspoon anise seed
1 cup bleached, all-purpose flour
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees and grease and flour a 4½”x8½” loaf pan.
In a medium bowl or the bowl of a stand mixer, combine the eggs and sugar and beat well until thick and pale in color. Mix in the anise seeds and gradually add in the flour. Mix the batter until well combined and pour into the prepared loaf pan.
Bake 20-30 minutes until the top is lightly browned and springs back when lightly touched. Remove the loaf from the pan and cool on a rack for 10 minutes.
Cut the loaf into 16 slices and place the slices on a half-sheet pan and bake 5 to 7 minutes until toasted, turn the slices over and bake an additional 4 to 5 minutes or until desired crispness. (Keep in mind that they will become more crisp as they cool.)
Allow the toasts to cool on a rack and store in an airtight container.
24 June 2006
Cookie Collection Recipe 8
“Butches” is a RWT-ism for Snickerdoodles. They are one of his favorite cookies, but he absolutely refuses to say such a silly word as “Snickerdoodles”. Hence, the term “Butches” was born. My niece immediately questioned her uncle’s authority to unilaterally change the name of a cookie, but she could not sway him in his conviction. So call them whatever you’d like, but this is the best recipe for this type of cookie that I’ve found.
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cream of tartar
¼ teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
1⅓ cups sugar
1½ teaspoons vanilla
2 large eggs
¼ cup sugar
¾ teaspoon ground cinnamon
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
In a small bowl, mix together the flour, baking soda, salt, cream of tartar and nutmeg. Set aside. In a medium bowl or the bowl of a stand mixer, cream together the butter, the 1⅓ cups sugar and vanilla until light and fluffy, 1 to 2 minutes. Scrape down the bowl and add the eggs, one at a time, Scrape down the bowl and add the flour mixture. Mix on low speed until thoroughly mixed.
Mix the ¼ cup sugar with the cinnamon in a small bowl. Form tablespoon-sized pieces of the dough into balls and roll them in the cinnamon-sugar to coat. Place each ball 2” apart on a lightly-oiled or parchment-lined half-sheet pan. Bake for 12 to 14 minutes or until the cookies are very lightly browned and firm. Remove the cookies from the pan, cool on a rack and store in an airtight container.
Butches
Makes ~2½ dozen cookies
3 cups bleached, all-purpose1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cream of tartar
¼ teaspoon nutmeg
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
1⅓ cups sugar
1½ teaspoons vanilla
2 large eggs
¼ cup sugar
¾ teaspoon ground cinnamon
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
In a small bowl, mix together the flour, baking soda, salt, cream of tartar and nutmeg. Set aside. In a medium bowl or the bowl of a stand mixer, cream together the butter, the 1⅓ cups sugar and vanilla until light and fluffy, 1 to 2 minutes. Scrape down the bowl and add the eggs, one at a time, Scrape down the bowl and add the flour mixture. Mix on low speed until thoroughly mixed.
Mix the ¼ cup sugar with the cinnamon in a small bowl. Form tablespoon-sized pieces of the dough into balls and roll them in the cinnamon-sugar to coat. Place each ball 2” apart on a lightly-oiled or parchment-lined half-sheet pan. Bake for 12 to 14 minutes or until the cookies are very lightly browned and firm. Remove the cookies from the pan, cool on a rack and store in an airtight container.
Shiny Happy People
I was recently discussing with a single friend what qualities she looks for in a man and her response was: “an old soul”. I know what she means…
In college, I dated a guy who’d led a very sheltered life. He was born very premature and his family never got out of the habit of protecting him from even the smallest of hardships. He was sweet, he was thoughtful, he was sensitive (it was the only relationship I’ve ever been in where the guy cried more than I did), he was romantic, he was devoted, he was every girl's dream guy. And I found him mind-numbingly dull.
It was not the poor guy’s fault, but we looked at the world from totally different perspectives. He only saw the good and pleasant things, while I could not overlook the negatives and dangers. It was like the thestrals of the Harry Potter books – how only those who have seen death can see them and, to everyone else, they are invisible.
Over the years, I’ve found that the people I am closest to are those who have also gone through some misfortune and heartache in life. They understand how surviving the rough times forces you to use a different scale in defining when things are good (and bad). There is certainly nothing wrong with people who've lived charmed lives, but I simply do not relate well to them.
And what ever happened to that nice guy I dated in college? I dumped him and then dated his roommate. I guess he did finally experience a little bit of tribulation after all.
In college, I dated a guy who’d led a very sheltered life. He was born very premature and his family never got out of the habit of protecting him from even the smallest of hardships. He was sweet, he was thoughtful, he was sensitive (it was the only relationship I’ve ever been in where the guy cried more than I did), he was romantic, he was devoted, he was every girl's dream guy. And I found him mind-numbingly dull.
It was not the poor guy’s fault, but we looked at the world from totally different perspectives. He only saw the good and pleasant things, while I could not overlook the negatives and dangers. It was like the thestrals of the Harry Potter books – how only those who have seen death can see them and, to everyone else, they are invisible.
Over the years, I’ve found that the people I am closest to are those who have also gone through some misfortune and heartache in life. They understand how surviving the rough times forces you to use a different scale in defining when things are good (and bad). There is certainly nothing wrong with people who've lived charmed lives, but I simply do not relate well to them.
And what ever happened to that nice guy I dated in college? I dumped him and then dated his roommate. I guess he did finally experience a little bit of tribulation after all.
23 June 2006
More Guilt
Okay, this blog has become a total source of guilt for me. I feel bad when I don’t find the time to post things here, but I also feel bad spending all sorts of time writing things to post here.
Bad, bad, bad. But not bad enough to change anything.
It brings to mind my favorite passage from Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice”:
Mr. Bennet: Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.
Elizabeth: You must not be too severe on yourself.
Mr. Bennet: You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.
For those who have not already heard my tale of woe, the owners of the house we are renting are returning to the area in August, so we will have to move to a new house. We found a place only about eight blocks away and will take possession on the 29th of June. So for the immediate future, I will probably be too busy moving to even think about my blog and too tired to feel any guilt over it.
Bad, bad, bad. But not bad enough to change anything.
It brings to mind my favorite passage from Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice”:
Mr. Bennet: Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.
Elizabeth: You must not be too severe on yourself.
Mr. Bennet: You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.
For those who have not already heard my tale of woe, the owners of the house we are renting are returning to the area in August, so we will have to move to a new house. We found a place only about eight blocks away and will take possession on the 29th of June. So for the immediate future, I will probably be too busy moving to even think about my blog and too tired to feel any guilt over it.
11 May 2006
Ouch
The Definition of Disheartening: When your writing is apparently so formulaic and unimaginative that your blog host’s automatic spam-detector decides your blog is merely computer-generated spam and makes you enter a garbled word every time you publish something as proof that it has actually been written by a human.
Postscript -- From the Blogger.com management on 5/12:
"Hello,
Your blog has been reviewed, verified, and cleared for regular use so that it will no longer appear as potential spam. If you sign out of Blogger and sign back in again, you should be able to post as normal. Thanks for your patience, and we apologize for any inconvenience this has caused.
Sincerely,
The Blogger Team"
Inconvenience?!? What about the damage to my frail ego?
Postscript -- From the Blogger.com management on 5/12:
"Hello,
Your blog has been reviewed, verified, and cleared for regular use so that it will no longer appear as potential spam. If you sign out of Blogger and sign back in again, you should be able to post as normal. Thanks for your patience, and we apologize for any inconvenience this has caused.
Sincerely,
The Blogger Team"
Inconvenience?!? What about the damage to my frail ego?
Bitch
I have a friend who says that it has not been a good week for him until at least one person has called him a “cocksucker”. Well, I don’t think I can go out for a good evening of dancing without having at least one guy think of me as a bitch.
For some reason, ballroom dancing places (“place” is not the best word, but “club” is far too hip to apply, “dancehall” is just too country and “venue” sounds like we are going to Disneyland) have their own strange set of social norms. The biggest one is that it is rude to turn down a dance when asked. I guess this little piece of etiquette is a holdover from the era of Jane Austen, although RWT wonders if it is really a modern “rule” made up by desperate, nerdy, ballroom-dancing guys.
Whatever the origin, if anyone asks you to dance and you are not already on your way to dance with someone else, you are supposed to accept (hmm, a fresh compound fracture or death may also be acceptable reasons to decline a dance, but only in some situations). Well, not me.
I took up ballroom dancing at RWT’s urging as something for us to do together while living around here (good hiking/rock scrambling is just to far away and limited by weather in this area and dancing is slightly safer). In my mind, the main purpose of ballroom dancing is to spend time with my husband. Not dancing with random guys that I don’t know -- I had enough of that to last me a lifetime way back when I was in college. So when we go out dancing, I dance with my husband and no one else.
Most of you know how I hate confrontation, but being bugged for dances by strange men who will not take "no" for an answer instantly throws me into some sort of time warp back to the 80’s when I spent far too much of my free time in meat-market clubs. My polite, appropriate, good-little-military-wife behavior is suddenly replaced by that cold, hard bitch of yesteryear (but without the desire to wear lace anklets with my high heels).
For example, an exchange that happened last Saturday while out dancing:
Guy (who I think is one of the dance instructors at the dance place and appeared to be a very nice man): “Would you like to dance?”
Me (smiling nicely): “No thank you”
Guy: “Ah, come on. You can merengue, it is easy.”
Me (still smiling, but said in tone with more icicles dangling from it than were probably necessary): “I do know how to merengue, but no thank you”.
Guy (thinking to himself as he walks away): Bitch.
Oh well, it was a nice night of dancing with my husband.
For some reason, ballroom dancing places (“place” is not the best word, but “club” is far too hip to apply, “dancehall” is just too country and “venue” sounds like we are going to Disneyland) have their own strange set of social norms. The biggest one is that it is rude to turn down a dance when asked. I guess this little piece of etiquette is a holdover from the era of Jane Austen, although RWT wonders if it is really a modern “rule” made up by desperate, nerdy, ballroom-dancing guys.
Whatever the origin, if anyone asks you to dance and you are not already on your way to dance with someone else, you are supposed to accept (hmm, a fresh compound fracture or death may also be acceptable reasons to decline a dance, but only in some situations). Well, not me.
I took up ballroom dancing at RWT’s urging as something for us to do together while living around here (good hiking/rock scrambling is just to far away and limited by weather in this area and dancing is slightly safer). In my mind, the main purpose of ballroom dancing is to spend time with my husband. Not dancing with random guys that I don’t know -- I had enough of that to last me a lifetime way back when I was in college. So when we go out dancing, I dance with my husband and no one else.
Most of you know how I hate confrontation, but being bugged for dances by strange men who will not take "no" for an answer instantly throws me into some sort of time warp back to the 80’s when I spent far too much of my free time in meat-market clubs. My polite, appropriate, good-little-military-wife behavior is suddenly replaced by that cold, hard bitch of yesteryear (but without the desire to wear lace anklets with my high heels).
For example, an exchange that happened last Saturday while out dancing:
Guy (who I think is one of the dance instructors at the dance place and appeared to be a very nice man): “Would you like to dance?”
Me (smiling nicely): “No thank you”
Guy: “Ah, come on. You can merengue, it is easy.”
Me (still smiling, but said in tone with more icicles dangling from it than were probably necessary): “I do know how to merengue, but no thank you”.
Guy (thinking to himself as he walks away): Bitch.
Oh well, it was a nice night of dancing with my husband.
07 May 2006
Cookie Collection Recipe 7
Okay, I won't lie to you, these cookies are really a bit pissy to make. Are they worth the effort? Yes -- especially if you are feeding them to those who like the flavor combination of chocolate and nuts. These cookies are also deceptively impressive. At first glance, they appear to be a plain chocolate sugar cookie, but break one in half and there is a layer of smooth, nutty filling inside. If you decide to take on this challenge, be sure to allow yourself plenty of time for forming the cookies since working with the dough and filling is definitely a fussy endeavor.
I've only found the patience to make these cookies once and that was for our last holiday cookie-fest. I used macadamia butter in the cookie dough and cashew butter in the filling (hmm, or was it the other way around?). The two things I would do differently the next time I make these cookies would be to make smaller cookies (halving the size of both the balls of dough and filling) and to chill the dough and filling before forming the cookies.
This recipe is based on one from "King Arthur Flour Cookie Companion" -- a very well-written book that is a fantastic resource for American cookies.
Surprise Cookies
Makes twenty-six 3"-wide cookies
Makes twenty-six 3"-wide cookies
Dough:
1½ cups (6¼ ounces) all-purpose flour
½ cup (1½ ounces) unsweetened natural cocoa powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup (3½ ounces) granulated sugar (and extra for dipping)
½ cup (4 ounces) brown sugar
½ cup (1 stick, 4 ounces) unsalted butter
¼ cup (2 and 3/8 ounces) smooth nut butter (peanut, almond, cashew, macadamia, etc.)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 large egg
Filling:
¾ cup (7 and 1/8 ounces) smooth nut butter (peanut, almond, cashew, macadamia, etc.)
¾ cup (3 ounces) confectioners’ sugar
Preheat the oven to 375 F. Line with parchment paper or lightly grease two half sheet pans or cookie sheets.
For the dough: Whisk together the flour, cocoa, baking soda and salt in a bowl. With a mixer, beat together the sugars, butter and the nut butter until light and fluffy. Add the vanilla and the egg, beating to combine, then stir in the dry ingredients, blending well.
For the filling: Stir together the nut butter and confectioners’ sugar until smooth. With floured hands, roll the filling into 26 one-inch balls.
To shape the cookies: Break off a ~1 tablespoon portion of the dough, make an indentation in the center with your finger, and press one of the balls of filling into the indentation. Bring the dough up and over the filling, pressing it closed; roll the cookie in the palms of your hand to smooth it out. Repeat with the remaining dough and filling.
Dip the top of each cookie in granulated sugar and place on the prepared sheet pans ~two inches apart. Grease the bottom of a drinking glass and use it to flatten each cookie to ~½-inch thick. Bake the cookies for 7 to 9 minutes, until they are set. Remove the cookies from the oven and cool on a rack.
23 April 2006
Cookie Collection Recipe 6
I gladly gave her the recipe and she immediately made up a batch, wrapped them up and shipped them to her husband (who was on deployment at the time). He was thrilled, she was thrilled, but I suspect the mother-in-law was not very thrilled. So here they are... cream cheese brownies, just like mom makes...
Cream Cheese Brownies
Makes sixteen 2”-square browniesŽŽŽ
Makes sixteen 2”-square browniesŽŽŽ
⅔ cup bleached, all-purpose flour
¼ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon baking powder
2 ounces unsweetened chocolate
4 ounces bittersweet or semisweet chocolate
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter
1 cup sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla
3 large eggs
8 ounces cream cheese, room temperature
¼ cup sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla
1 large egg yolk
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees and lightly grease an 8”-square baking pan and fit an ~8”x16" sheet of aluminum foil in bottom of pan so the foil overhangs both sides of the pan to use as handles to remove the brownies from pan after they are baked (it is really worth the trouble to do this). Spray with non-stick spray or lightly grease the foil.
In a small bowl whisk together the flour, salt and baking powder. Set aside. Melt the chocolate and butter over very low heat on the stovetop, in a double-boiler or in the microwave and stir until smooth. Remove the melted chocolate mixture from the heat, whisk in the 1 cup sugar and 2 teaspoons vanilla, then whisk in the 3 eggs, one at a time, mixing each egg in thoroughly before adding the next and mix until completely smooth. Add the reserved flour mixture and whisk just until incorporated.
In a small bowl, beat the cream cheese with the ¼ cup sugar, ½ teaspoon vanilla, and the egg yolk until mixed well. Pour half the brownie batter into the prepared pan and drop spoonfuls of half of the cream cheese mixture over the batter. Repeat the layering with the remaining brownie batter and cream cheese filling, then use the blade of a table knife or a spoon handle to gently swirl the batter and cream cheese filling together, creating a marbled effect.
Bake the brownies until the edges have puffed slightly, the center feels not quite firm when touched lightly, and a toothpick or cake tester inserted into center comes out with several moist, fudgy crumbs adhering to it, 50 to 60 minutes. Cool the brownies in the pan on a rack for 5 minutes, then, using the foil, lift the brownies from pan. Place the brownies on a rack and allow them to cool to room temperature. If you can stand the wait, refrigerate the brownies until chilled, at least 3 hours, cut into squares and serve.
14 April 2006
Cookie Collection Recipe 5
Meringues are a favorite of my niece and all of the friends she made while visiting us one summer when I hosted a little ladies tea party for her (picture five 7-year-olds, one 4-year-old, tiaras and feather boas with their accompanying cloud of pink feathers). Adding one drop of red food coloring per ½ cup of egg whites makes meringues with a very nice, young girl-pleasing, light pink color.
("Meringue" also happens to be the same way I always misspell a certain Latin dance with that has a fast one-two, one-two beat... the Merengue.)
Meringues
Makes ~48 cookies
Makes ~48 cookies
½ cup of egg whites
pinch cream of tartar
1 cup sugar
1 drop food coloring (optional)
Preheat oven to 200 degrees and line a couple of half-sheet pans (or cookie sheets) with parchment paper.
In a very clean bowl, whip the egg whites and cream of tartar to soft peaks. Gradually add the sugar and whip to stiff peaks. If using food coloring, add it and mix at low speed until incorporated. Pipe (or drop by the spoonful) the meringues onto prepared pans and bake at 200 degrees for 1 to 2 hours or until completely dry. Do not let the meringues brown.
Helpful Hints:
Any oil in your bowl, on the beaters or bits of egg yolk can prevent the whites from being beaten to their full air-holding capacity. Make sure everything is very clean.
If you have a problem with meringues slumping and losing their shape in the oven, try beating the egg whites longer or increasing your oven temperature a smidgen. I usually cook mine at ~200 degrees.
Or, if the issue is that they hold their shape but are just not dried, you may need to bake them longer. I bake mine for around 1½ hours, then turn off the oven, leave the oven light on and let the meringues sit in the oven overnight. If you are living someplace humid, you will definitely need to bake them longer and might have to leave them in an oven set on "warm" for several hours or overnight (that is the only way I can get them to dry while in the D.C. area during the summer). Basically, as long as the oven is low enough not to brown the meringues, they can stay in there as long as is needed to fully dry them.
Meringues can be formed in pretty much any shape or size (within reason). The only thing to watch for with the bigger shapes is that they will take considerably longer to completely dry out.
13 April 2006
Cookie Collection Recipe 4
Last night at dinner, a friend inquired when I was going to post more cookie recipes here and it was just the kick I needed to quit being so negligent in this endeavor. I’ll try to make up for the missed weeks ASAP. In the meantime, here are a couple of Passover-friendly macaroon recipes.
Macaroons really do need to be baked on parchment paper or a silpat because they’ll stick like glue to an ungreased pan and spread too much on a greased one. Luckily rolls of parchment can now be found at nearly all supermarkets. But, if you frequently bake cookies, you may want to buy parchment paper in larger amounts. King Arthur Flour Baker’s Catalog carries pre-cut sheets of parchment that fit a standard half-sheet pan ($17.95 for 100 sheets, item #5854, here).
And, although I prefer not to recommend recipes that require specialty equipment (and pricey equipment, at that), these macaroons are easiest to make with a food processor. If you don’t have one, you may be able to grind the almonds/coconut in a blender in smaller batches and then mix in the eggs by hand. However, one of the best material items that RWT brought to our marriage (and one of the few we still own) was his father’s old DLC-7 Cuisinart, so I have no experience using anything else for these cookies.
Almond Macaroons
Makes about two dozen 2-inch cookies
Makes about two dozen 2-inch cookies
3 cups (12 ounces) blanched, slivered almonds
1½ cups sugar
1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon (3 large) egg whites
1 teaspoon almond extract
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees and line two half-sheet pans (or cookie sheets) with parchment paper.
Put the almonds into a food processor fitted with the metal chopping blade and process for 1 minute, add the sugar and process for 15 seconds longer. Add the eggs whites and almond extract and process until the dough wads around the blade. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a spatula and process about 5 seconds longer until the dough forms a stiff, but cohesive, malleable paste (similar in consistency to marzipan), about 5 seconds longer. If mixture is crumbly or dry, turn the machine back on and add water by drops through the feed tube until you get the right consistency.
Scoop balls of the dough, 1 to 2 tablespoon-sized (you can also make them smaller, just be sure to adjust the baking time), onto the parchment-lined pans, spacing them ~1½ inches apart. For a more finished look, you can roll the dough into smooth balls with slightly-dampened hands. You can also make fancier macaroons by piping out the dough into mounds using a large pastry bag fitted with a ¾-inch open star tip, but if you do go this route, add a bit of water to the dough to make it slightly softer and be prepared to use considerable hand strength. Usually, I just use a small (1½ tablespoon-sized) scoop (like a mini-ice cream scoop) and then use dampened fingertips to smooth the tops of the dough.
Bake the macaroons, switching the positions of the pans midway through baking, until the cookies are golden brown, 20 to 25 minutes. If overbaked, the macaroons will dry out rather quickly when stored (but we still always manage to choke them down… somehow…). After the macaroons have completely cooled on the parchment paper, peel them off and store in an airtight container.
Coconut Macaroons
Makes about two dozen 2-inch cookies
Makes about two dozen 2-inch cookies
14 ounces sweetened flaked coconut
1½ cups sugar
1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon (3 large) egg whites
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
Preheat the oven to 325 degrees and line two half-sheet pans (or cookie sheets) with parchment paper.
Put the coconut into a food processor fitted with the metal chopping blade and process for 1 minute, add the sugar and process for 15 seconds longer. Add the eggs whites and vanilla extract and process for 1 minute. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a spatula and process about 5 seconds longer until the dough forms a paste that resembles slushy snow. If mixture is crumbly or dry, turn the machine back on and add water by drops through the feed tube until you get the right consistency.
Scoop balls of the dough, 1 to 2 tablespoon-sized (you can also make them smaller, just be sure to adjust the baking time), onto the parchment-lined pans, spacing them ~1½ inches apart. For a more finished look, you can roll the dough into smooth balls with slightly-dampened hands. You can also make fancier macaroons by piping out the dough into mounds using a large pastry bag fitted with a ¾-inch open star tip, but if you do go this route, add a bit of water to the dough to make it slightly softer and be prepared to use considerable hand strength. Usually, I just use a small (1½ tablespoon-sized) scoop (like a mini-ice cream scoop) and then use dampened fingertips to smooth the tops of the dough.
Bake the macaroons, switching the positions of the pans midway through baking, until the cookies are golden brown, 20 to 25 minutes. If overbaked, the macaroons will dry out rather quickly when stored (I’ve found the coconut macs tend to dry out less quickly than the almond macs, but they also burn more easily, so you’ll still need to watch them pretty closely near the end of the baking time). After the macaroons have completely cooled on the parchment paper, peel them off and store in an airtight container.
Convergent Phobias
Yesterday evening RWT & I went out to dinner with some friends to Firefly. Since they do not have valet service during mid-week and we did not want to deal with the hassle of parking the car, we opted to take the metro. Simple? No. For me, metro is never a decision to be taken lightly.
While not exactly claustrophobic, I get extremely uncomfortable in places with limited egress. It does not matter how big or small they are. You can squeeze me into a large cardboard box and it is no big deal (unless it is made of particularly strong cardboard and you tape it shut!). In fact, for nearly my whole 3rd grade year, the favorite pastime of my friend and I was to spend hours sitting in a large cardboard box, playing Crazy Eights and eating pretzels with mustard. So it is not really a size-thing.
But you won’t be able to get me into anything but the shallowest of cave – no matter how roomy on the inside (I certainly won’t be listening to the Stalacpipe Organ at Luray Caverns anytime soon). I don’t like underground parking garages. Or going too deep underwater (no scuba diving for me). I’ve even been known to get short of breath when in the middle of a large, crowded room (I much prefer a table near the door, please).
The worst was when I worked as a corrosion control/paint expert and I had to inspect underground storage tanks. It would take all of my willpower to climb down the ladder into the tank. All of the tanks I inspected were huge, but every moment I spent inside, 98% of my attention was focused on fact that the exit was an itty-bitty circle high up at the top of a ladder. Ten minutes was about my limit, then I’d start to hyperventilate and flee the scene.
So taking the metro… ugh. Underground. No quick way out. And, to only make matters worse… in the D.C. area, the access to nearly all the metro stations is by escalator. Aaaack. Another phobia. Perhaps, when I was a child, my mother was just too diligent in her warnings to be careful not to get shoes/clothing/body parts stuck in the mashing escalator teeth. But to this day, navigating on and off an escalator is a feat that requires great concentration and bravery. Of course, there are elevators at the metro stations (if they are working), but, really, you’ve got to be kidding me.
The first five years we lived in this area, I never took the metro. However, about a year ago, after much encouragement and mental preparation, I finally took the plunge. RWT is wonderful and works diligently to keep me distracted from thinking about how I am deep within the bowels of the earth trapped in a very long, dark tunnel (even when the twenty-somethings sitting behind us start talking about what it would be like to be riding the metro and be claustrophobic and how one would want to pound on the doors screaming to be let out if the train suddenly stopped between stations). So now I am proud to say that I’ve ridden the metro. Four trips at that! I even have my own metro farecard.
Luckily, metro-riding does not also involve large areas of grating that I have to walk across, see-through stairs, crickets or needles (well, there probably are a few needle users on some of the trains, but as long as no one is poking me with any, I’m fine). Those would completely send me over the edge… or in search of parking.
While not exactly claustrophobic, I get extremely uncomfortable in places with limited egress. It does not matter how big or small they are. You can squeeze me into a large cardboard box and it is no big deal (unless it is made of particularly strong cardboard and you tape it shut!). In fact, for nearly my whole 3rd grade year, the favorite pastime of my friend and I was to spend hours sitting in a large cardboard box, playing Crazy Eights and eating pretzels with mustard. So it is not really a size-thing.
But you won’t be able to get me into anything but the shallowest of cave – no matter how roomy on the inside (I certainly won’t be listening to the Stalacpipe Organ at Luray Caverns anytime soon). I don’t like underground parking garages. Or going too deep underwater (no scuba diving for me). I’ve even been known to get short of breath when in the middle of a large, crowded room (I much prefer a table near the door, please).
The worst was when I worked as a corrosion control/paint expert and I had to inspect underground storage tanks. It would take all of my willpower to climb down the ladder into the tank. All of the tanks I inspected were huge, but every moment I spent inside, 98% of my attention was focused on fact that the exit was an itty-bitty circle high up at the top of a ladder. Ten minutes was about my limit, then I’d start to hyperventilate and flee the scene.
So taking the metro… ugh. Underground. No quick way out. And, to only make matters worse… in the D.C. area, the access to nearly all the metro stations is by escalator. Aaaack. Another phobia. Perhaps, when I was a child, my mother was just too diligent in her warnings to be careful not to get shoes/clothing/body parts stuck in the mashing escalator teeth. But to this day, navigating on and off an escalator is a feat that requires great concentration and bravery. Of course, there are elevators at the metro stations (if they are working), but, really, you’ve got to be kidding me.
The first five years we lived in this area, I never took the metro. However, about a year ago, after much encouragement and mental preparation, I finally took the plunge. RWT is wonderful and works diligently to keep me distracted from thinking about how I am deep within the bowels of the earth trapped in a very long, dark tunnel (even when the twenty-somethings sitting behind us start talking about what it would be like to be riding the metro and be claustrophobic and how one would want to pound on the doors screaming to be let out if the train suddenly stopped between stations). So now I am proud to say that I’ve ridden the metro. Four trips at that! I even have my own metro farecard.
Luckily, metro-riding does not also involve large areas of grating that I have to walk across, see-through stairs, crickets or needles (well, there probably are a few needle users on some of the trains, but as long as no one is poking me with any, I’m fine). Those would completely send me over the edge… or in search of parking.
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