6.30.2006

Smoke up.

Today marks the last opportunity for Colorado smokers to enjoy a cig in their favorite bar or tavern.

Smoke em if you got em!

6.28.2006

Loaf.

I am thoroughly obsessed with Food Network, particularly with Rachael Ray. I also frequent foodnetwork.com for recipes, menu ideas, and the like.

When I find a recipe that looks appealing, I often read the reviews and get the skinny on the finished product's saltiness, a good substitute for exotic Malaysian walnut-truffle oil, or the true number of folks that 9 inch quiche will actually feed.

I've noticed that many of the reviewers base their appraisal of a particular recipe solely on whether or not their husband "cleaned his plate" or "ate it all up."

This disturbs me fundamentally and conjures some very specific imagery that takes me back to my days in rural Arkansas.

Take these meatloaf reviews for example:

Kelli from Marysville, OH
It's difficult to get my husband to try new things, but once I made this, he is requesting it all the time!

Debbie from Decatur, IL
I fixed this and my husband ate over half of it at one sitting! He couldn't get enough of this meatloaf and said it was a "keeper."

Anonymous
My husband had to stop himself from eating it, so I packed it up for lunch the next day.

Anonymous from West Hills, CA
I love meatloaf but my husband has always stated he hates it. In 8 years, I've never made one. When I saw this episode, I made an executive decision and if he didn't eat what was put in front of him, Taco Bell is down the street! This meatloaf was fabulous! MY HUSBAND LOVED IT, AND HAD SECONDS!


Now I don't know about you, but I'm thinkin hubby gets home about 7ish, covered in some sort of motor oil or cement mixing product, sits his distended belly down with an audible "fwap" on the dining room table, and awaits his dinner. He'd gladly take a Hungry Man meal any night of the week, but "the wife" is always cookin up somethin she says he just has to try.

He shovels in the first bite with his greasy fingers and barely swallows before belting out something to the effect of "Dangit Dolores, I dun told you I ain't into no gourmet shit. I like my meat and I like my corn. Why you always tryin to make a man starve."

After feeding his dinner to Butch, the flea-infested family mutt, he plops himself down into the reclining section of his brown, urine-stained sectional sofa, turns on Nascar, and yells "Dolores, fix me a dang pot pie and git yerself over here with a Natty Lite already."

Dolores, head down, probably holding at least one but likely two dirty children, serves him a cold one in his favorite "Life's a Beach, Then you Die" beer titty and retires to the kitchen for a Virginia Slim Ultra Light Menthol 100, a stiff Gilbey's & tonic, and a good cry.

Perhaps I'm reading a little too much into a few brief recipe reviews, but I just can't shake the visuals.

Well, I better be off to the grocery...the H likes it when I cook him up some chili and cornbread. Oh, and I think he's all out of Milwaukee's Best.

Stoven.

The H and I often use idle time at work to have serious discussions about our relationship, the future, world peace, and, well...this:

me: Stove + Oven = Range

the H: I thought that Range = Stove?

me: Sears refers to them as ranges...there are stand-alones, built-ins...myriad options.

the H: If you think about it, range is a heckuva strange name for it. They should call them heatboxes.

me: stovens

the H: oves

me: hotpockets

the H: firehavers

me: toastycubes

the H: warmifyers

me: sizzleports

the H: hotties

me: quick'n'balmies

the H: foodholes

me: nibblewombs

the H: Ha! I don't think I can top that. reheaterators

me: dinncinerators

the H: makiefoodies

me: hotlunchlockers

the H: fryerbakers

me: redcoilrectangles

the H: handhurters

me: boilbakeandbeyonders

the H: cookers

me: Cookers? I think this game is done...and I think I won...but just in case: humidhomehearths

the H: You do win.

Here's your prize:









Scintillating.

6.27.2006

Weiner schnitzel.

It is somehow perfectly fitting that Home Depot serves hot dogs at a little cart outside the store.

6.26.2006

Baby cakes.

I don't care much for children, as a general rule.

Actually, I can kind of dig some of em individually and briefly.

A friend of ours is about to have one of the little suckers, so I'm hoping it is of the quiet, clean variety and that I'm not expected to do much except say "Congrats!" and "He's a keeper."

No, really, I'm a little excited and I don't quite know why.

I think perhaps because it's kind of neato to see the amalgamation of two people in a miniature package. Or maybe because, despite my dislike for most children and my strict disavowal of all things maternal, I'm secretly becoming more and more willing to embrace the possibility.

We went to Body Worlds II at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science last night. It was fabulous and disgusting and fascinating and beautiful, and I encourage you all to go toute suite. What I found particularly interesting was the fact that the museum (or perhaps the artist?) chose to keep the pregnant woman and the embryos hidden from view.

You seriously had to be a sleuth to even notice that there was segment on pregnancy and embryonic development at the exhibit....and then read a disclaimer about the origins of the specimens therein before crossing into that particular room.

At an exhibit of plastinated, skin-free human bodies and individual body parts (healthy and not) arranged in a number of very curious ways, why, pray tell, would this particular portion be confined to a dark corner?

Que sera sera

I suppose it was the embryos that got me thinking about teh childrens and my latent fear for the future of my own uterus (read: life).

Back to the purpose at hand: I've been asked to prepare the cake for my friend's co-ed baby shower, so if anyone out there knows where one might procure a small plastic baby that can withstand temperatures of up to 450 degrees farenheit, please enlighten me. (said baby should be sufficiently large to not get lodged in anyone's esophagus, but small enough not to span more than one slice of cake)

Crooked fingers.

After a long, hot weekend of fueling my kitten's incessant lust for a brown boot lace, and therefore not tending to my shiny new blog, today was to be the day that I actually buckled down and wrote something of worth on this thing.

But alas, I've inexplicably lost all ability to type.

Seriously folks, it has taken me 'round about four nine attempts to get these couple sentences out of my wayward fingertips.

huh.