In writing this and revealing their location, I may be jeopardizing the lives of six youths.
My 15 year old nephew is part of a Nerf Assassination League. He and five of his buddies have signed up in a sanctioned competition in which teams wage guerrila warfare. School, church, extracurricular and work are off limits. Also off limits, shooting someone when they're naked. This group of six frosh have made it past the first round, something that has never before occurred. (I should add that they made it to this round after my nephew streaked across someone's lawn while this teammates picked off the enemy.) What makes this even more of an accomplishment is that these are teenage boys. I suspect that their success can be attributed to their parents' clever strategy. My sister's keen and cunning mind has been integral in their continued survival.
So, tonight, I'm hosting the team. I've been told that they will arrive in waves. They don't travel together. Too risky. They will be sleeping here, someone apparently standing watch. I assure you that this person will not be me. I've been given 3 dozen doughnuts, a bushel of bananas, and 2 gallons of orange juice which will provide breakfast. I've also been warned that I may not have enough food. In preparation, I've made 2 loaves of banana chocolate chip bread and a pan of brownies. I have a pound of dehydrated meat, which I figure can be eaten as a last resort.
They have arrived and already one loaf and a gallon milk is gone. Locusts man. Locusts.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The Lenten Saboteur
My buddy Tina swears off chocolate for Lent every year. This is especially impressive because of the mere existence of the Reester Bunny, a confectionary stroke of genius combining the perfect ratio of peanut butter to milk chocolate. Now, I've never actually had one but Tina has never ever steered me wrong and I see no reason why she would start now. I say all this because I have made it my personal mission to completely sabotage Lent for Tina. I'm not sure if she believes that her soul will perish in smoke and ash or Jesus won't rise on the 3rd day or what but I have seen into Tina's soul and the truth is... she loves chocolate. She hoards all the delicious Easter confections in high places where her babyhands can't reach and then on Easter, she comes over for ham and brings all those little damnable delights to my house.
I have been attempting to complete this mission every year for the last 13 years and I'm convinced that this is my year. Yes, I want it that bad. Some people prepare for the Olympics... I prepare for Lent.
I've culled and trimmed my list of temptations since the Holidays and I have found the perfect blend of comfort food and chocolate-y bliss. I thought about going all in with something that requires a 23 step process and the requirement of an order for a specialty product from a remote mountain kibbutz outside Istanbul that produces the most exquisite cocoa product. Alas, less is more. And I find myself always waxing nostalgic for something that harkens back to my childhood and the post 4H meeting treat buffet in the Welch Church basement. And so, I've determined that Emy Burt's* frosted Brownies are guaranteed to corrupt Tina's soul.
Emy Burt's Frosted Brownies
Melt in a large heavy saucepan:
1/2 cup salted butter
Meanwhile, combine:
1/3 c unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 c flour
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp baking powder
Removed from heat and add:
1 c. sugar
2 eggs, beaten
1 tsp vanilla paste
Beat in dry ingredients.
Spread in buttered and floured 8x8 pan.
Bake at 350 for 20-30 minutes.
To make frosting:
Combine:
3 tbsp salted butter, softened
3 tbsp cocoa powder
1 1/2 tbsp honey, warmed
1 tsp vanilla
1 c powdered sugar
Frost while still warm, though not hot or the damn frosting settles in the middle of the pan. No, I didn't just do that either.
Tina,
May your soul rejoice as it settles in Purgatory.
*Sidenote: Emy Burt is actually my godmother though I don't acknowledge her for a number of reasons:
1. She spells my name wrong. Its SaraH.
2. She doesn't know my middle name. She is laboring under the impression that it is, in fact, Rose.
3. She includes me in a mass email for Christmas. And I'm at the bottom after all her geriatric friends' names.
4. She doesn't know my sons' names. She thinks one is named Kyle.
5. She says, "You look more and more like your mother every time I see you!" Ugh.
I have been attempting to complete this mission every year for the last 13 years and I'm convinced that this is my year. Yes, I want it that bad. Some people prepare for the Olympics... I prepare for Lent.
I've culled and trimmed my list of temptations since the Holidays and I have found the perfect blend of comfort food and chocolate-y bliss. I thought about going all in with something that requires a 23 step process and the requirement of an order for a specialty product from a remote mountain kibbutz outside Istanbul that produces the most exquisite cocoa product. Alas, less is more. And I find myself always waxing nostalgic for something that harkens back to my childhood and the post 4H meeting treat buffet in the Welch Church basement. And so, I've determined that Emy Burt's* frosted Brownies are guaranteed to corrupt Tina's soul.
Emy Burt's Frosted Brownies
Melt in a large heavy saucepan:
1/2 cup salted butter
Meanwhile, combine:
1/3 c unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 c flour
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp baking powder
Removed from heat and add:
1 c. sugar
2 eggs, beaten
1 tsp vanilla paste
Beat in dry ingredients.
Spread in buttered and floured 8x8 pan.
Bake at 350 for 20-30 minutes.
To make frosting:
Combine:
3 tbsp salted butter, softened
3 tbsp cocoa powder
1 1/2 tbsp honey, warmed
1 tsp vanilla
1 c powdered sugar
Frost while still warm, though not hot or the damn frosting settles in the middle of the pan. No, I didn't just do that either.
Tina,
May your soul rejoice as it settles in Purgatory.
*Sidenote: Emy Burt is actually my godmother though I don't acknowledge her for a number of reasons:
1. She spells my name wrong. Its SaraH.
2. She doesn't know my middle name. She is laboring under the impression that it is, in fact, Rose.
3. She includes me in a mass email for Christmas. And I'm at the bottom after all her geriatric friends' names.
4. She doesn't know my sons' names. She thinks one is named Kyle.
5. She says, "You look more and more like your mother every time I see you!" Ugh.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Big Diesel
Justin has a guy that works for him who introduced himself as "Big Diesel". No Joe or Tom or Roy. Big Diesel. Mind you, Justin works in the tech industry and never, in any way, shape or form, has he come into contact with a diesel or fuel based product. And, in fact, when I got a holiday card from Justin's team, Big Diesel was signed in all caps in thick, purple ink. I imagine that Big Diesel is a tall guy with a large gut and closely cropped hair. He probably wears his pants under said gut and strolls into work wearing a quilted flannel jacket and a pair for choppers. He might say something like, "Its 5 o'clock somewhere!" everytime he has a beer. I'm guessing he's a master griller and specializes in the perfectly prepared bratwurst. Queso is his go-to party food.
So I ask Justin, "Does Big Diesel have a real name or when you sit down to sign a contract, does he sign it with 'B. Diesel'?"
"No, he uses his last name."
"And what is his last name?"
"Huh. Don't really know as its just scribble." Justin ponders, "I should probably find out what his given name is..."
I frequently send baked goods to work with Justin as I assume that all the tech guys/gals who work for him are hopeless in the kitchen and everyone needs a little home baked goodness. It turns out that Big Diesel loves this sweets. I made an item called "Candy bar cookie bars" some time ago and he has been pestering Justin for the recipe ever since. Ha! Big Diesel obviously doesn't know me and my manner of hoarding recipes. So, in honor of my pal, Big Diesel (who likely does not read my blog), here's the "Candy Bar Cookie Bar" which I sent on Superbowl Sunday:
In medium saucepan, stir over medium low heat until smooth:
Brown Sugar 1 c
Butter 2/3 c
Corn Syrup 1/4 c
Remove from heat and add:
Peanut butter 1/4 c
Vanilla 1 tsp
For crust:
Measure into a large bowl:
Quick oats 3 c
Pour butter mixture over oats and mix ever so gently.
Press oat mixture into ungreased 9x13 pan.
Bake at 375 for 10ish minutes or until edges are light brown.
Cool slightly.
In microwave, combine and melt:
Semisweet chocolate chips 12 oz bag
Butterscotch chips 1 c
Stir in:
Peanut butter 2/3 c
Sprinkle over crust:
Chopped peanuts 1 c
Slowly pour chocolate mixture over peanuts and gently spread to even thickness.
Cool completely.
Modify as needed.
So I ask Justin, "Does Big Diesel have a real name or when you sit down to sign a contract, does he sign it with 'B. Diesel'?"
"No, he uses his last name."
"And what is his last name?"
"Huh. Don't really know as its just scribble." Justin ponders, "I should probably find out what his given name is..."
I frequently send baked goods to work with Justin as I assume that all the tech guys/gals who work for him are hopeless in the kitchen and everyone needs a little home baked goodness. It turns out that Big Diesel loves this sweets. I made an item called "Candy bar cookie bars" some time ago and he has been pestering Justin for the recipe ever since. Ha! Big Diesel obviously doesn't know me and my manner of hoarding recipes. So, in honor of my pal, Big Diesel (who likely does not read my blog), here's the "Candy Bar Cookie Bar" which I sent on Superbowl Sunday:
In medium saucepan, stir over medium low heat until smooth:
Brown Sugar 1 c
Butter 2/3 c
Corn Syrup 1/4 c
Remove from heat and add:
Peanut butter 1/4 c
Vanilla 1 tsp
For crust:
Measure into a large bowl:
Quick oats 3 c
Pour butter mixture over oats and mix ever so gently.
Press oat mixture into ungreased 9x13 pan.
Bake at 375 for 10ish minutes or until edges are light brown.
Cool slightly.
In microwave, combine and melt:
Semisweet chocolate chips 12 oz bag
Butterscotch chips 1 c
Stir in:
Peanut butter 2/3 c
Sprinkle over crust:
Chopped peanuts 1 c
Slowly pour chocolate mixture over peanuts and gently spread to even thickness.
Cool completely.
Modify as needed.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Scowling Productivity.
I was up at 0430 this morning. As I lay in my suddenly uncomfortable bed, I faced a difficult and day changing decision, I could continue to lay, setting the tone for my next 24 hours of likely laziness or I could get up, be productive, paste a smile on my face. I settled on the middle ground- productivity galore, smiles nonexistent.
Started with Banana Chocolate Chip Muffins. Before I share this recipe, I'm going to warn you- I don't like sharing. Or rather, I only like partially sharing. I found the following recipe in a Lutheran Ladies compilation of recipes. This treasury was located, mouldering, in a decrepit box at a junk ("Antique") store. Now, Mrs. Harold Schumacher may have known a few things about baking, but she didn't know squat about flavorful banana muffins. So, I've made a few modifications (side note: "So, I've made a few modifications..." will be a very common theme every time I include a recipe. I modify virtually every baking recipe but I never share the modifications simply because I don't often remember what I changed. Also, back to the not sharing theme- if the recipe came out perfectly, I want a complete monopoly on that baked good. I want to show up at a party with my perfect item and dominate all other goodies. You may ask, "Can I have your recipe??" My response, "Of course!" The unsaid response, "Of course I'll share my recipe but it won't taste like these because I've made some modifications and blown Mrs. Harold Schumacher out of the kitchen." Then, I want you to text me later and say, "Mine didn't taste the same!" and then I can invite you over for a batch and we can have coffee and talk about things unrelated to baking.) and the result is perfection.
Banana Muffins-
Combine and set aside:
Flour 1 1/2 c.
Baking Soda 1 tsp
Baking Powder 1 tsp
Salt 1/2 tsp
Mix:
Mashed ripe bananas numbering 3
Egg 1
Butter, melted 1/3 cup
Sugar 3/4 cup
Add:
Flour mixture and
Chocolate chips 1/2 c (OK- this is an obvious modification.)
Mix well.
Bake:
In greased muffin tin at 350 for, oh, about 17.2 minutes.
Cool:
For 5 minutes and serve with ice cold milk.
Modify as needed.
Started with Banana Chocolate Chip Muffins. Before I share this recipe, I'm going to warn you- I don't like sharing. Or rather, I only like partially sharing. I found the following recipe in a Lutheran Ladies compilation of recipes. This treasury was located, mouldering, in a decrepit box at a junk ("Antique") store. Now, Mrs. Harold Schumacher may have known a few things about baking, but she didn't know squat about flavorful banana muffins. So, I've made a few modifications (side note: "So, I've made a few modifications..." will be a very common theme every time I include a recipe. I modify virtually every baking recipe but I never share the modifications simply because I don't often remember what I changed. Also, back to the not sharing theme- if the recipe came out perfectly, I want a complete monopoly on that baked good. I want to show up at a party with my perfect item and dominate all other goodies. You may ask, "Can I have your recipe??" My response, "Of course!" The unsaid response, "Of course I'll share my recipe but it won't taste like these because I've made some modifications and blown Mrs. Harold Schumacher out of the kitchen." Then, I want you to text me later and say, "Mine didn't taste the same!" and then I can invite you over for a batch and we can have coffee and talk about things unrelated to baking.) and the result is perfection.
Banana Muffins-
Combine and set aside:
Flour 1 1/2 c.
Baking Soda 1 tsp
Baking Powder 1 tsp
Salt 1/2 tsp
Mix:
Mashed ripe bananas numbering 3
Egg 1
Butter, melted 1/3 cup
Sugar 3/4 cup
Add:
Flour mixture and
Chocolate chips 1/2 c (OK- this is an obvious modification.)
Mix well.
Bake:
In greased muffin tin at 350 for, oh, about 17.2 minutes.
Cool:
For 5 minutes and serve with ice cold milk.
Modify as needed.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
the pathetic follow through...
I'm a strong starter. Ask anyone who lives with me. When i decided to repaint my bedroom, i let out an enthusiastic whoop and moved all the furniture, spent $150 on premium paint and did all the rollerwork in one day. Taping? Not so much. Brushwork? Rather not. Cleanup? Bahahaha!
Ideas come easily, motivation flows from my brain to my muscles and out my wallet. And then, apathy.
Another example, holiday cookies. When someone cleaned out the fridge and freezer (not me of course. The very idea is laughable.), one may have found 5 containers of cookie dough ready for culinary creation. "Sarah, do you want to finish up with this stuff?"
"Absolutely not. The holidays are over."
I'm writing this brief blurb to prepare all of my 2 followers that I'm taking up this blog business again but not to get too excited because it may be many moons until I write again. I know, you wait, hanging on my every witty word and the sun seems to shine that much brighter when I'm composing and publishing. I have no cohesive subject, not food or travel, but simplicity of how-it-is. So, thank you Duet of Loyal Followers.
Ideas come easily, motivation flows from my brain to my muscles and out my wallet. And then, apathy.
Another example, holiday cookies. When someone cleaned out the fridge and freezer (not me of course. The very idea is laughable.), one may have found 5 containers of cookie dough ready for culinary creation. "Sarah, do you want to finish up with this stuff?"
"Absolutely not. The holidays are over."
I'm writing this brief blurb to prepare all of my 2 followers that I'm taking up this blog business again but not to get too excited because it may be many moons until I write again. I know, you wait, hanging on my every witty word and the sun seems to shine that much brighter when I'm composing and publishing. I have no cohesive subject, not food or travel, but simplicity of how-it-is. So, thank you Duet of Loyal Followers.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Day 2 continues...?
This was a long day. You can see that it took me a few months to recall details and then get motivated to actually do something with them...
Our saga continues...
Uneventful drive back to Portland. M is exhausted and flagging. I treat her to my song stylings all the way around the dial. She is clearly exhausted and delirious; she laughs that my jokes. Even the lame ones. I'm disturbed to discover that I know at least a little of every single song on the radio- even the Spanish language ones... how did this happen? It is much like realizing that one knows every word to every song on Kool108.
We are sitting in rush hour traffic- one would think that this situation would be irritated but I'm just happy to be listening to Green Day (again) in the Versa. A cigarette would be about perfect right now but the interior of the car is absolutely plastered with No Smoking stickers. I say its more of a guideline than a rule but M walks the line and abides by all rules. ever. created.
We arrive at the hotel unscathed. M warns me not to lay on the bed as I may never get up. I ignore her sage advice and realize that she is, in fact, right. I don't want to move and I'm feeling melancholy that we aren't going to see the Combine Demolition Derby. An opportunity. Wasted. M rallies and motivates by performing her rendition of "Call Me Big Papa" and reminding me that Megafaun is playing in 45 minutes... Game on.
Happy Valley
We have passed 2 megachurches and I'm feeling a bit unnerved. The drive is a tad strange as every 50 yards or so, there are giant concrete Lego blocks. We go from seeing tiny houses ("How do they get a couch in there?!" M wonders) to giant hideous McMansions. The festival is marked with a minuscule white sign stating, "PICKATHON" (actual size shown.)
We drive to a mown down field and marvel and the number of VW buses and Subaru wagons. Pretty sure this is the right place. As we are walking to the ticket tent, M asks for her ticket, which I had supposedly printed... not so much. Does M want to murder me? Yes. Am I worried? No. Because I have a smartphone. Ticket acquired and painful death averted.
Armbands fastened (to my armhair), we walk back to the Versa and drive to the actual festival lot, which is, a huge barren field with razor sharp wheat stalks that yearn to puncture tires and disembowel the Versa. The terrain is uneven and, while I'm concerned that the car won't make it, M smirks and says, "You don't know anything about Versas. Floor it." Well, I refuse to floor anything but instead gingerly maneuver the car into a parking slot where it perches on a clot of dirt. Perfect.
Our saga continues...
Uneventful drive back to Portland. M is exhausted and flagging. I treat her to my song stylings all the way around the dial. She is clearly exhausted and delirious; she laughs that my jokes. Even the lame ones. I'm disturbed to discover that I know at least a little of every single song on the radio- even the Spanish language ones... how did this happen? It is much like realizing that one knows every word to every song on Kool108.
We are sitting in rush hour traffic- one would think that this situation would be irritated but I'm just happy to be listening to Green Day (again) in the Versa. A cigarette would be about perfect right now but the interior of the car is absolutely plastered with No Smoking stickers. I say its more of a guideline than a rule but M walks the line and abides by all rules. ever. created.
We arrive at the hotel unscathed. M warns me not to lay on the bed as I may never get up. I ignore her sage advice and realize that she is, in fact, right. I don't want to move and I'm feeling melancholy that we aren't going to see the Combine Demolition Derby. An opportunity. Wasted. M rallies and motivates by performing her rendition of "Call Me Big Papa" and reminding me that Megafaun is playing in 45 minutes... Game on.
Happy Valley
We have passed 2 megachurches and I'm feeling a bit unnerved. The drive is a tad strange as every 50 yards or so, there are giant concrete Lego blocks. We go from seeing tiny houses ("How do they get a couch in there?!" M wonders) to giant hideous McMansions. The festival is marked with a minuscule white sign stating, "PICKATHON" (actual size shown.)
We drive to a mown down field and marvel and the number of VW buses and Subaru wagons. Pretty sure this is the right place. As we are walking to the ticket tent, M asks for her ticket, which I had supposedly printed... not so much. Does M want to murder me? Yes. Am I worried? No. Because I have a smartphone. Ticket acquired and painful death averted.
Armbands fastened (to my armhair), we walk back to the Versa and drive to the actual festival lot, which is, a huge barren field with razor sharp wheat stalks that yearn to puncture tires and disembowel the Versa. The terrain is uneven and, while I'm concerned that the car won't make it, M smirks and says, "You don't know anything about Versas. Floor it." Well, I refuse to floor anything but instead gingerly maneuver the car into a parking slot where it perches on a clot of dirt. Perfect.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Portland Day 2- Eat food.
Lunch menu:
Saltwater taffy
Strawberry White Chocolate dipped Twinkie
S'mores Poptart dunked in half white chocolate half milk chocolate
Butterfinger Extravaganza Fudge
White Chocolate Praline Fudge
Chocolate Drenched Bacon
Water
After procuring lunch from no fewer than 4 candy stores, we go to hide so we can enjoy our food without judgement. M starts with the Twinkie and I choose the Poptart.
After the first bite, we realize we have made a serious miscalculation in our abilities. My teeth are rotting from my mouth and M says in a devastated tone of the person who has realized their mortality, "I can't -sob- do it, Donnie. I'm sorry."
We look out over the water and realize our utter and crushing disappointment. A period of silence is punctuated only by the screams of the gulls as they devour our food dreams. We look into the empty bag and see, what's this?! The Bacon! With one taste, we are redeemed. -sigh- We also take it as a positive omen that "Bacon Love" is playing on the radio when we get in the Versa. All is right once more.
We waddle to the car and set our sights and hearts toward Tillamook and its legendary factory. The drive is uneventful except for M's sheer panic whenever I get behind the wheel, which is always. As we careen along the curving road, a semi-truck loaded with logs barrelled around a blind turn directly towards the Versa. We never quite recovered from that and I agreed to take it easy on the corners. M has taken to gripping any surface to keep from being thrown from the car. I see now why she always insists on driving whenever we go anywhere. She informs me that, when we get back to Mpls, she will chauffeur me around anywhere I want to go. She claims it payback for my driving all over Oregon but quite obviously, it is some not-so-covert accusation that I'm a danger behind the wheel.
Tillamook Cheese Factory is a crazy madhouse. I observe a woman clad in a nude belly shirt, tiiiiiiight skinny jeans and stiletto knee-high boots emerging from a giant truck. Really lady?? You're at a damn cheese and ice cream factory. Proper attire is your brother's sweatpants and a shirt that fits like a tent. I'm suddenly feeling not so bad about eating the chocolate bacon. We bustle into the factory and find it crawling with folks who clearly don't get out much. I wonder if the hairnetted ladies who work there ever feel the pressure to perform. It seems like living in a fishbowl. People are constantly snapping pictures of you. At what point do you not bother with makeup and facial hair removal?
Dinner Menu:
Squeaky Cheese
1/2 pound of assorted cheese cubes
4 beef sticks
1 box of Triscuits
Ice Cream x2
Diet Coke
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