Erin Go Braughless - or - An Underwear Disaster

Yesterday I was rushing around cleaning and cooking because the Engineer's company's Spouses Association (our little chapter in a world wide organization) was having the monthly meeting at my house. As I rushed to the recycle bin, my arms clutched full of newspapers, cardboard and bottles, something wet went down my chest. My language went down the toilet.

I didn't have time at that point to stop and change my clothes because folks were about to start arriving.

This morning, in a rush to get out of the house, I wasn't thinking and snatched on the bra I'd worn yesterday.

On my way to the car, I thumped the old bird seed out of the flat feeder and refilled it, then took off on a long drive around the beltway. As I was merging into traffic, I realized that my nose was being horribly offended. Despite the snow, I cracked both windows on my side so that the stink that had blown in could blow back out. The stench grew worse. After driving a couple of more miles, I realized it wasn't coming from outside, it had to be me.

I sniffed at the shoulders of the jacket I was wearing. It seemed okay. I bent my head and took a whiff of the middle of my chest.

I thought I was gunna gag!

I was too far to turn around, and it was just one quick errand that needed doing, so I went ahead and did it.

Of course the line for the cashier was long and slow. I tried to stand back from the person in front of me. The person who came up behind me quickly backed away. I almost died of embarrassment as the cashier waited on me and tried not to breathe and not to give me a "look" at the same time. I wanted to say, "I don't normally smell like this. It's not my hygiene, I spilled garbage water on myself," but I was too embarrassed.

I drove home at highway speed with all windows open. At least it had stopped snowing. I rushed into the house and tore off my clothing, gasping for clean air. I threw the offending bra across the bathroom...And realized it wasn't the bra, it was the sweater I was wearing. That was fresh from the laundry.

Only thing I can figure is that some of the icky old bird seed (or maybe some bird or squirrel poo) I'd knocked out of the feeder had splattered on the sweater. Sure was gross.

Culinary Incompetence

I am reputed to be a "good cook", but there are a couple of things that I simply cannot get right.

The best biscuits I've ever had in my life came from a KFC right on the border of Chapel Hill and Carrboro (Siamese twin towns) in North Carolina. They were light and fluffy, tender and moist, a mile high. Pure ecstasy. Ruth's Diner, in Salt Lake City, has what they call Mile High Biscuits, they are delicious, but they're more like cake than biscuits -- much too sweet to be genuine. I'd never kick one off my plate, though.

I think degree of sweetness in quick breads is a matter of personal preference, but my preference is for not-sweet biscuits and cornbread. I can make truly excellent corn bread, but the Engineer won't eat it. If I make spoon bread, however, he devours it.

Wandered from topic again, haven't I...

Since I can't trot on over to the CH/C, NC KFC, I keep trying to make my own biscuits. Until a couple of weeks ago, all of my efforts were abysmal failures. Got the flavor right on that last batch using a recipe from The Bread Bible (and thank you to my niece for that Christmas present.) They tasted wonderful. I think it's because the recipe called for unsalted butter instead of shortening (yum!) They still didn't have the loft of the best biscuits, but I'm going to work on it.

This morning I ran into my other culinary brick wall. Poached eggs.

Of course, poached eggs are something I love. If they weren't, I'd wouldn't try to cook them, so I wouldn't know I'm terrible at it.

The itch was initiated a couple of weeks ago at my anniversary brunch. I had a smoked salmon egg benedict. The poached egg was perfect.

My Mom makes poached eggs using a little insert for her big sauce pan. It has three removable, round bottomed cups that she smears with margarine then breaks an egg into. As the water in the saucepan boils, it cooks the eggs by steaming them.

This is cheating. Poached eggs are supposed to be dropped naked into boiling water.

Right.

Every time I try it, even when I carefully pour the raw egg from a custard cup into the water, the white spins off into a mess of filaments and froth. When I scoop out the sad center that has managed to cling together I end up getting enough water to float the Spanish Armada along with the egg.
Now, imagine that scene from "Gone With the Wind" where Scarlet is standing on the hill with the blazing sunset behind her and the wind blowing her skirt and hair. That's me. And this is my vow: "As God is my witness, some day, some how, I will cook a perfect poached egg!"

Ever get a song stuck in your head?

It plays over and over. You can't make it go away.

The first song that ever did that to me was "Tell Me a Story." It was on a kiddy record that my little sister owned. When she realized I didn't like it, she played it continuously. I hate it to this day and can sing all the verses.

I've had lots of songs run a continuous loop through my brain; mostly inane songs, advertising ditties, kids' songs, etc. Occasionally a song that I like will inhabit my head. By the time it moves on, I usually don't much like it any more.

Combating one of these songs can result in a Pyrrhic victory. Like the time I had " Never Been to Me" playing and drowned it out with the Oscar Meyer Wiener song. Which, of course, got stuck itself. If I did drugs or alcohol, I think I would have resorted to them -- heavily.

The most recent one to get stuck is 'Ricky" by Weird Al Yankovic. Why that one? I never loved Lucy. I always loathed Lucy.

Oops, maybe I just answered my own question.

Savage Warrior Kitties

BadStrangerCat likes to torment Kitsu by coming up to the dining room sliding glass doors. She stands on her hind legs and shadow boxes at Kitsu. Kitsu understands that this is a dire threat to her territory and herself, so she howls, growls, hisses and puffs up her fur.

If I'm home, the yowling draws my attention. I run out the back door shouting threats, "BadStrangerCat, get out of my yard! I'm gunna tear your ears off if I catch you! I'll kick your fuzzy tail into next week!" etc, etc.

I suspect the neighbors think I'm crazy, but nobody threatens my kitties and gets away with it.

Today Kitsu persuaded me to let her into the greenhouse. Both cats love to sit on the greenhouse chair cushions in the sun on cold days because the greenhouse is on the south side of the house and toasty warm on sunny afternoons.

Sachi heard the sliding glass door open and came running.

Kitsu did not want to share the greenhouse. She stood on her hind legs in front of the door opening and shadow boxed at Sachi. Sachi was totally unimpressed and waltzed right on in to the greenhouse under Kitsu's punching paws.

Kitsu deflated like a punctured balloon. Why didn't shadow boxing make her horrifying like it does BadStrangerCat? Why didn't Sachi understand the depth of the threat?

Poor paper tiger Kitsu, she don't get no respect.

Tah-Dah!

The Remorse Hat is finished.
I found buttons I liked and made pompoms.


The pompoms are removable. There's a loop at the top of the cord to button them to the top button and then the cord wraps around the other two buttons. The pompoms are easy to put on and take off.





Now for the hard part -- the letter to go with the hat.

Early Anniversary

Thursday the 6th is the Engineer's and my 9th anniversary. Perfectly amazing that he hasn't strangled me and I haven't hit him with my baseball bat. Isn't that the case with anyone you live with, though? I do think he's cute and he's never boring, so I guess I'll keep him. He seems pretty fond of me too.

Since he's going off to Houston next weekend to go to The Rodeo and see Martina McBride with a hot blond (actually, she's non-genetic family, but it gives him a cheap thrill when I say he's going with a hot blond) we went out to brunch today at the Glitretind Restaurant at Stein Ericksen Lodge for an early celebration.

It's not every day we eat at a five star restaurant -- thank goodness, the prices would kill us!

Fortunately it's at a ski resort, so you don't have to dress for brunch. Half the folks there were clomping around in ski boots and bib overall ski pants. Everyone was intent on doing some serious damage to the buffet and their waistlines.

When I visit a spread like that, I don't fill up on bread rolls and salad, I head straight for the expensive protein and out of season fruit. The Engineer was a happy glutton because they had fish in multiple formats. Lox, shrimp, crab claws, muscles, clams, sushi, pickled herring, encrusted halibut, eggs benedict with smoked salmon instead of Canadian bacon -- he laid waste to all of the seafood. I staged an assault on the prime rib, shrimp and bacon, and surrounded them with raspberries, blackberries and strawberries.

I did take one crab claw. I didn't realize it, but the cocktail sauce had migrated to puddle under the crab claw, so when I picked it up to crack it open, I got red sauce all over my fingers.

So I daintily cleaned them off on my napkin and continued with the feast.

Perhaps my parents should have named me Grace. When I stood up, I realized that I had missed my napkin and wiped cocktail sauce all over the white table cloth. At a five star restaurant.

I wonder if the Engineer will ever take me out again...

Schizophrenic March

This morning dawned sunny and balmy. It actually got up to 61, the warmest it's been in months. The snow was all gone from the picnic table.

Then the wind started to blow. The temperature dropped more than 20 degrees in one hour. Rain began to fall and quickly turned to snow. There's about 4 inches on the picnic table now.

That's March.