A good chunk of this year was very unpleasant. At work one day during a particularly dark patch in the spring, when it was hard to imagine getting through the workday, let alone the year, I scheduled a holiday-related task on my online todo list for December. I was hoping that I would forget about the task and that by December things would look different.
In the words of my Dad, I’ve been “steady busy.” I’ve been planning a new ice cream blog. Because when you can’t find the time or energy to update your first blog, why not start another one? I’ve also been: making ice cream, taking a small business workshop (see also: ice cream), worrying about my dog (he’s fine, don’t worry, but there’s been stuff), basking in the glow of my Craft Whores win, and celebrating anniversaries.
Last Wednesday was my 13th wedding anniversary. Dave had his usual Wednesday night jam class thing, and that means on Wednesdays, Dave is gone before I get home. This means that Wednesday is not the night we make sweet weekly love, but rather Wednesday nights I have to not only walk the dog, but also provide my own dinner (my life is hard).
But I found these on the counter when I got home.
I assumed there were 12, because a dozen roses is a thing, right? Later Dave told me there were 13 because we’ve been married 13 years and I was touched in my cold black heart by his uncharacteristic romantic symbolism. But the best part of my anniversary present was the note on the counter saying “Chuck walk: check.” When I realized I could report directly to the couch, plant my ass there and watch TV, my eyes welled up with tears of joy. ‘Twas a happy anniversary indeed!
Last week was also our 20-year dating anniversary which, holy crap, is a long time, no? We celebrated by seeing Peter Gabriel on his last “Back to Front” tour stop. He performed the album “So” in its entirety in honor of the 25th anniversary of its release. Which occurred when I was FOURTEEN years old and Peter Gabriel didn’t look like an elderly Druid. But he sounded awesome. He also played two other non-“So” sets, including songs from the album “Us” that came out the month I met Dave (11 days before we officially started dating, not that I looked it up and counted). I assume he played “Come Talk to Me” in honor of our 20th anniversary, right?
As I rested my head on Dave’s shoulder and listened to the song, memories of that CD playing over and over as we fell in love came flooding back to me like 20 years hadn’t passed. How the hell did 20 years pass so quickly? Add Peter Gabriel to the growing list of bastards who made me cry at a concert.
Please to enjoy this video (this wasn’t our show, but the only video from our show on YouTube gave me vertigo). Song starts around 2:15:
My birthday was Wednesday. Dave and I always make each other a birthday cake.
My favorite cake is Harvey Wallbanger. This cake (boxed yellow mix doctored with vanilla pudding and the ingredients of the Harvey Wallbanger drink–vodka, Galliano, and orange juice) was a childhood favorite. In my family, there were two schools: cream cheese frosting/normal cake pan (my Gram) and powdered sugar glaze/bundt (my Great Aunt Gert…and apparently everyone else in the U.S., as evidenced by my futile search for an online recipe that matches mine–this is the closest I could find.). While I’m not going to turn down a slice of Harvey Wallbanger bundt cake with glaze on top, I’m on Team Cream Cheese (yea, Gram!). Everything tastes better with cream cheese frosting.
Bundt??? It’s a cake!
Here is Dave’s handiwork this year:
Here is some physics humor:
ME: Is the pattern on the top some sort of scientific notation?
DAVE: It’s the signature of the Higgs boson.
END PHYSICS HUMOR.
This year’s worst birthday present: Timeline, thanks Facebook!
This year’s age: 39.
I have some thoughts about turning 39, or more accurately, being 363 days away from 40, mostly along the lines of, “fuck!”
But since my period will start anytime in the next 0 to 14 days, (it’s like broken-clockwork) perhaps I’m just generally cranky, not age-specifically cranky. So I think I’ll mull it over more before sharing my deep and meaningful and bitchy feelings.
Hey, speaking of broken clocks…did anyone else find Ato Boldon’s Olympic sprint commentary sort of bizarre? It’s like he talked until he stopped making sense. He’d just throw random shit out that sounded like it could be relevant, such as: “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.” Um, right. Wait, what? Hey, a stitch in time saves nine! He who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day! Insert random saying mentioning time or running here!
I’m going to eat more cake now.
July is National Ice Cream Month. I’m throwing an ice cream social…in August. Oh well, it’s the thought that counts.
Who do we have to thank for this month-long celebration of ice cream?
Photo Credit: Curtis Patrick & Art Van Court collections
I thought an ice cream social would be a fun way to practice what I learned at Ice Cream 101 in January. To practice for the party, I’ve made ice cream almost every weekend since the class. I’m getting fat. So it’s time to unleash my ice cream on others because I’m giving like that.
I’m having 20 people over and plan to serve six flavors of ice cream and one sorbet. I’ve calculated that I need to make 15 quarts. So far I’ve made two. Somehow this all seemed like a better idea back in January.
A friend suggested having smaller ice cream scoops available because people would want to taste everything. As I always do, I had to kick that idea up to 11. I bought ice cream tasting spoons. I could not find a non-commercial source of ice cream tasting spoons. Let’s just say I now have a laughable number of ice cream tasting spoons.
I spent part of last weekend making a to do list for the party and Tetris-ing all the tasks into the amount of time left. Basically, I will be up to my eyeballs in party tasks (and ice cream tasting spoons) for the next ten days. After the party, I plan to be back with tales of how much ass it kicked, and how much everyone loved my ice cream, and how someone offered me a couple hundred thousand dollars to quit my job and open my ice cream store (what? unrealistic?!?!).
What flavor would you most want to see at an ice cream social? Besides a “guess how many ice cream tasting spoons are in this jar” game, and eating ice cream, and being social, do you have other suggestions for entertainment at an ice cream social?
I once believed I’d look smaller if I wore clothes that were too big. In high school, the Gap sold a cardigan sweater that ran ridiculously large. Boom! I could have the satisfaction of buying a medium and still have it be two sizes too big. I got the foamy green color and my friend Sarah got the dusty rose, or maybe it was coral. Why does it irritate me that I can’t remember the color of Sarah’s sweater? All I know is the sweater looked cute on her. On me…not so much.
I got rid of it, right?
No. Being the pack rat I am, I still had the foamy green over-sized Gap cardigan sweater five years later when I started my job. I soon learned I needed to leave a sweater at work permanently to protect me from the arctic air conditioning in the summer. The hoarder in me was thrilled to finally have a use for the otherwise unworn foamy green over-sized Gap cardigan sweater. See, it is good to hang onto things (let’s reinforce my hoarding!). Over the years the foamy green over-sized Gap cardigan sweater slowly started to disintegrate, starting at the cuffs.
I threw it out, right?
No. I rolled up the sleeves to hide the fraying edges and the growing holes. The sweater was too big, remember? I could roll the cuffs a few times and still get full arm coverage.
I have next to no fashion sense. But even I couldn’t keep wearing that sweater. My colleagues were going to think I was homeless.
I threw it out, right?
No. Even though I wouldn’t wear it, it could still come in handy. Like that time last winter when a cold rain pummeled me sideways in the wind tunnel that is the walk from the subway to my office. After removing my soaked wool pants, I sat on my chair with the foamy green (mercifully) over-sized Gap cardigan sweater draped over my lap until my pants dried. And I believe I updated my Facebook status to say I wasn’t wearing pants. Praise all that is holy my office has a door.
During my office cleaning in May, I faced a critical decision.
I decided it was time for the foamy green over-sized Gap cardigan sweater to go. But not before documenting it’s foamy green over-sizedness. You can see why I had to keep this sweater for 21 years, no? The fabric to cost ratio alone made it worthwhile. I love how it hangs all heavy and ill-fitting. The extra fabric bunching under my elbow is particularly fetching.
Dave likes this close up shot of the holes.
I threw it out, right?
I couldn’t get this song out of my head while writing this post, so here you go.
I’d say I’ve been phoning it in recently, but it’s more like calling in sick. All my blog energy went into finalizing the redesign, and now I’m left with a backlog of five dozen post ideas and no idea where to start. How about more crap I found when cleaning my office?
Please don’t tell me you can’t recognize these, it will make me feel old:
I can sort of forgive myself for keeping the couple dozen floppy disks with stuff from grad school on them. But 10 blank disks? Seriously? Why was I keeping these?
I still haven’t thrown out the disks with stuff on them. The hoarder in me wanted to clarify what was on them first. But then I remembered I have no way to read them. So I put them on the trash pile, only to grab for them to check what was on them before throwing them in the trash can…only to remember I can’t read them. Repeat futile cycle of hoarding obsolete technology until exhausted.
I asked Dave how to dispose of them and he laughed at me. He says I should just toss them…no one can read them (duh, including me!). God bless anyone who still has the means to read a floppy disk and who would be willing to rummage through trash to dig these out. Your reward…the results of the survey I fielded about Niagara Mohawk’s energy saving light bulb program? My thesis? My resume circa 1996? Enjoy!
I stumbled upon an out-of-the-way deserted little filing room at work a few weeks ago. I’d never been back in that suite of offices before and I was curious (and on the prowl for my favorite size post-it notes that our division never seems to order anymore–shh!). I wandered back there on my way out one evening and got thoroughly creeped out. There were 5 1/4 inch floppy disks back there! And a word processor. And an ashtray. I was afraid I’d accidentally entered the early 90s. Luckily I made my way safely back to 2012. That experience actually helped light the fire under my ass to clean my own hellhole of an office.
Do you have any unusable media lying around? Do you think it’s weird that I brought blank floppy disks home so I could take photos? Have you ever felt like you’d gone back in time?
I’ve never been a big fan of strawberry ice cream, especially when it includes pieces of strawberry. They freeze and provide a grating, icy mouth feel to something that’s supposed to be smooth and creamy.
My Ice Cream 101 professor mentioned the difficulty of adding fruit to ice cream due to its high water content, and my mind started racing about ways to tackle the problem. Ever since the class, I waited for strawberry season. For the past two weeks, I’ve been up to my eyeballs in strawberries. After washing, hulling, and eating many quarts of strawberries, I’m over strawberry season.
The recipe I used as a starting point (Jeni’s Splendid Roasted Strawberry and Buttermilk Ice Cream) used only one half-cup of roasted strawberry puree per quart of finished ice cream. Two weeks ago, I made that recipe as well as two variations. Why did I make the variations? Because I like to make things difficult and I want to create something of my own. Irritatingly, we liked Jeni’s recipe the best of the three. But none of them (all made with just a half-cup of strawberry puree) bowled us over with strawberry flavor.
I’m a bit on the lazy (logy!) side. So given all the work involved in this endeavor (hauling our asses to a farm in Maryland to get the strawberries, then washing, hulling, slicing, roasting, and pureeing them), I wanted more berry flavor. I’m demanding like that. The ice cream sort of tasted like a strawberry yogurt popsicle.
Not being such a huge strawberry ice cream fan to begin with, I decided to try making one of my favorite strawberry desserts into an ice cream flavor. Enter strawberry pretzel salad ice cream:
I took some of the leftover roasted strawberry puree and boiled it with more sugar until it became syrupy and thick (so it wouldn’t freeze). Then I swirled the strawberry sauce into cream cheese ice cream. I baked up a small amount of sweetened crushed pretzel crust and threw that in as well.
I loved it. It tasted almost exactly like strawberry pretzel salad and the strawberry swirl had much more berry flavor than any of the dedicated strawberry ice creams. The pretzels started getting soggy after a couple of days though. And Dave didn’t like it, totally bursting my “I’m a brilliant ice cream flavor creator” bubble.
Over Memorial Day, I tested another variation of strawberry ice cream, doubling the amount of strawberry puree. We liked it marginally better than the original three versions. Economically speaking, I’m not sure the flavor boost was worth adding an extra half-cup of puree. The dairy just seems to dilute the flavor either way.
I don’t know if I have a future in the ice cream business, or food service more generally. It seems that “artisan” and fresh, local ingredients are all the rage. That’s all well and good, and I would want to make homemade ice cream with high-quality ingredients if I opened a store, but some of the effort (and more importantly, expense) seems silly. Maybe I’m just disgruntled from all that washing and hulling and slicing and roasting, but I find it really hard to believe that most people would notice a difference between fresh farm strawberries and store-bought frozen strawberries after adding sugar, pureeing the crap out of them, and then diluting the puree with more than 3 cups of dairy. I see a test of this in my future, but not anytime soon, because I’m sick with this.
After all of this, we simply hadn’t eaten enough strawberry dessert. So I did what anyone who had already made five batches of ice cream in two weeks would do…I made another dessert. A testament to the lack of excitement in my life, this extra dessert-making was due in large part because I wanted to take a picture of a piece of actual strawberry pretzel salad next to my ice cream version.
Since strawberry season is almost over here, I also made extra strawberry puree to freeze so that I have it on hand to make strawberry ice cream for my summer ice cream social. I didn’t make quite as much puree as I’d hoped since I overfilled the food processor, causing puree to ooze out everywhere, but that’s a bitch-fest for another day.
NOTE: Photo of the puree made with my blood, sweat, and tears from $5.49/quart strawberries running all over my kitchen counter and down my kitchen sink drain is not available.
Please to enjoy one of my favorite commercial ear worms ever, from my hometown joint Eat’n Park. I make better strawberry pie, by the way.
Recently I wrote a post on what I learned from the Duggars about the basic needs of a husband. The source of this knowledge, the Institute in Basic Life Principles, sells the “Seven Basic Needs of a Husband” eight-page pamphlet for two bucks.
But what of a wife’s needs? Well, they have that covered too! Only wives must be a little more high maintenance, because the “Seven Basic Needs of a Wife” take 80 pages to explain and cost $12.99 to receive.
But hey, I’m a wife and I know a little something about my needs. Let me share some of them with you now. I need a husband who will:
1.) Check his damn pockets before throwing shit in the laundry. On the plus side, our guitar picks and loose change (and cell phones) are impeccably clean around here.
2.) Not leave peanut butter on the side of the jar. And/or fix the ant problem. I’d be happy with either really. The peanut butter is unfortunately not pictured, because I wiped it off in a huff before remembering this photo project. And even though I haven’t made a peep to Dave about documenting his failure to meet my needs, he’s miraculously stopped leaving peanut butter on the jar. I do have a photo of an ant that got stuck inside our frigging salt shaker last year, if anyone’s interested in that.
3.) Run agreed-to errands in my lifetime. We’ve been paying the fee for this brand new, yet faulty DVR for months. I even placed it near the front door for easier recall. No dice.
4.) Wait for me to actually finish what I’m saying before absent-mindedly asking, “what?” Here’s a charming story: Dave received a pair of ear plugs from our friend JohnBoy at his bachelor party along with the advice, “Sometimes Tracy is going to want to talk to you and sometimes you aren’t going to want to listen.”
5.) Close things he’s opened. The regularly open dishwasher door is a shin-busting accident waiting to happen. I probably should have done a video for this one because there’s no way to capture the majesty of how many doors and drawers Dave can leave open at a time in one picture.
6.) Sit on the furniture without deforming it. Seriously, the power of Dave’s ass is beyond my understanding. I have no idea how he makes the cushions do that.
7.) Learn how to distinguish times when I might be receptive to him grabbing my boobs. Or at least won’t try to turn every dish washing experience into a Cialis moment.
Well, that’s seven. So I won’t mention “allowing me to be financially dependent” again. There you go, I’ve just saved you guys $12.99.
Did I miss anything?
Last year, I missed the supermoon. Meaning I had no idea what a supermoon was or why I should give a shit. Then in the days that followed, I saw the pictures. And regretted missing it.
This time, I was ready. I planned my whole day around seeing the supermoon in its rising glory and getting a great picture. Of course, with my photo shoot luck, the weather had other plans. Clouds completely covered the sky all evening. But we stuck with the original plan, to head into the city (to get a photo of the supermoon with D.C. stuff in the foreground), in case the sky cleared.
We arrived early and headed to the WWII Memorial to wait. This was one of the earlier photos of the evening, but already Dave was losing patience with having his picture taken.
The clouds were stubborn but so was I. While I waited for supermoon rising time, I messed around taking fountain pictures.
Every so often, we’d check the sky for the supermoon, but nada. But the weather was pleasant, so we sat at the Memorial even after giving up on the fucking supermoon (not that I was bitter or anything). We sat and talked and watched the fountains. It felt indulgent and relaxing to just hang out there, like we were on vacation and visiting the Trevi Fountain. I guess when a boring old suburban married couple like us bothers to trek 6 long miles into the big bad city and actually finds good parking, well, let’s just say I wanted to make an evening out of it. So we visited my favorite statue before going home.
When we went out for Chuck’s late night walk, the clouds finally moved enough for us to catch a glimpse of the now-too-high-in-the-sky-to-be-noticeably-super moon. Before I could finish saying, “should I go get the camera,” another cloud blocked it again. Maybe next year.
How was supermoon viewing where you live? Did you get any pictures? I think I’m finally over my disappointment and ready to see some supermoon photos.
A few years ago, I got a bee in my bonnet about beautifying our landscaping. I couldn’t just choose a few plants, oh no. I bought books, cross-referenced them, and drew plans to scale on graph paper. I did everything “right,” including planning the beds for the mature size of the plants I’d chosen, not the size at the time of planting. Somehow the bed on the side still ended up an overgrown jungle within three years and every single perennial in the front bed died, leaving it pretty sparse.
The best thing I did was select a Miss Kim Lilac for the corner of the front bed by the porch. Lilacs remind me of home, but aren’t very prevalent here in the…South (I live in the South–eek!). The Miss Kim was billed as a lilac for more southern zones. And it’s super fragrant, so when I sit on my porch while it’s in bloom (now!), the breeze brings the scent to me and makes me feel happy. This variety also stays relatively small, so I like to call it Miss Lil’ Kim, but it doesn’t look like this:
No, this is the Miss (Lil’) Kim of which type: