Monthly Archives: August 2011

#iPPP: Pleading my case for an iPhone

Posted in Wordless Wednesday by

I don’t have an iPhone. It’s so embarrassing. I mean, I’m a blogger. It’s like being a cheerleader in 1991 and not having a pair of Girbauds. (Thanks, mom.)

What I do have is an awful Samsung phone – the Instant? Or maybe it’s the Now?

No, it’s called a Moment. That’s it. And let me tell you, it can’t capture a moment for shit.

The camera has a whopping 3.2 megapixels and takes a good second and a half to activate the shutter when you press the button. So either I have to anticipate the moment, miss the moment, or settle for a blurry version of the moment.

Luckily, Liz at A Belle, A Bean & A Chicago Dog and KLZ at Taming Insanity are ok with my iLameness, and let me play along for their iPhone Photo Phun meme. (They’ll let you play too. They’re awesome like that. Just no pics of your junk, ok? You know who you are.)

Now, I really don’t have to convince my husband that we should get iPhones when Sprint gets them later this year, in fact, I think he’s marking days off by scratching tally marks in our bedroom wall with a rusty nail. But I hate to wait until then to join in the photo phun, so I thought I’d share some of the terribly timed photography made bearable by the cuteness of my kid.

iPhone Photo Phun

Monday Meals: Pastalaya

Posted in Noms by

Confession: I’m not cooking today. I have a ton of leftovers from last night’s meal at church, so I thought I’d share this recipe from earlier in the year.

Just about every American food chain restaurant has something like this on the menu with a silly name like “Rattlesnake pasta” or “Jambalaya pasta.”

FIrst of all, purveyors of bland, overpriced, microwaved food, there is no rattlesnake in that pasta. There’s not even enough cayenne pepper to make a mosquito sneeze. Second, jambalaya = rice. No rice? It’s not jambalaya.

Now, ideally I would have thrown some crawfish into this dish, but my husband has some sort of religious objection to that particular southern delicacy, so I stuck with the safety of chicken and sausage. But the best part is that I made it so spicy that I may have paralyzed my tongue. Good stuff.

Pretty Easy Pastalaya

1 lb chicken parts, cooked and deboned

1/2 lb andouille sausage, sliced*

1 tsp bacon grease (oh, fine, use vegetable oil, but we all know bacon grease is superior)

1 small onion, chopped

3 cloves garlic, minced

2 cans diced tomatoes, undrained, with or without chilis, depends on heat preference

1 cup chicken stock** 

3 cups pasta (I used rigatoni here)

1 tbsp Italian seasoning

1 tsp cajun seasoning (I used Tony Chachere’s)

1 cup heavy cream

Warm the grease in a cast-iron skillet or dutch oven. Brown the sausage, add in the onion and garlic. Add the chicken, let it all sizzle for a bit.

Pour in the two cans of tomatoes and the chicken stock, and bring to a boil.

Add the pasta and seasonings, return to a boil, then turn heat to low and cover. Check and stir occasionally.

When the pasta is cooked, a bit on the soft side but not mushy, add the cream and remove from the heat. Let sit for a few minutes to cool.

*If you can’t get andouille in your area, any smoked sausage will do.

**This time, I made the stock from scratch, using the chicken parts in the recipe, salt and pepper, eight cups of water, two celery stalks, two carrots, an onion,  a bay leaf and some minced garlic. I let it simmer all morning, then strained and kept the liquid, let the chicken cool, and then deboned it. But store-bought works just fine, as does this stuff. 

Gone fishing (Don’t I wish)

Posted in Lists by

Today I’m still unorganized, still overbooked, still flying in fourteen directions at once so, oh look, another list!

Stasha writes The Good Life and features a Monday Listicle each week.

This week, everyone is talking about their top ten favorites places to be. This is great, because I can start my Monday with happy thoughts, and continue to ignore the laundry that needs folding, the emails that need answering, and the calendar that is entirely too crowded.

I’d rather be:

1. Sitting on the dock of my uncle’s lake house on Toledo Bend in Hemphill, Texas with a hook in the water and a cold beer in my hand.

2. Blissed out on the couch at my aunt’s house in Houston with a bellyful of her amazing cooking.

3. Snuggled up in my bed with my new pillow and the softest sheets imaginable while another episode of Mad Men plays on Netflix.

4. Or snuggling with my husband, my head in just the right spot on his chest with his arm wrapped around me, breathing deeply of that intoxicating mixture of cologne and deodorant that makes me swoon every time I catch even the smallest whiff.

5. On Twitter, gleefully wasting time with the funniest people in the world. Sometimes I worry about becoming Wall-E people by spending so much time there, but then I’m all, eh, who cares if my bones weaken and I forget how to walk. TWITTER!

6. Pounding the pavement on the path at Penguin Park. Ok, so I don’t really want to become a Wall-E person, so I have to get some exercise every day. The fresh air, towering trees and glistening pond at the park make for a beautiful walk, as long as I’m careful to avoid the goose poop that booby traps the third quarter mile.

7. At my church, working hard in the café kitchen. This has truly become one of my favorite haunts. I’ve gotten familiar enough with the place that it feels like my own kitchen, and even though I spent five hours there yesterday evening, I can’t wait to go back.

8. Curled up in my recliner with my MacBook, visiting my friends’ blogs, surfing the net for funny stuff, and doing lots of online shopping. Amazon, you complete me.

9. Wandering around the aisles at Nebraska Furniture Mart. The name of this place does not do it justice. I think every piece of furniture, décor, electronics and kitchenware in my house has come from this mega store. There’s always a new treasure to find, and even if I’m decorating on a budget I can daydream about the leather couches I’ll have one day.

10. Strolling along the path at Deanna Rose Farmstead. The nephews had a blast when we went this summer. There is so much to do and see here, and I can’t wait for Monkey to be old enough to get to run around and really enjoy this place. It’s such a treasure, even if they’ve become snack Nazis and won’t let us bring in our own picnic food anymore.

Hm, now that I think about it, perhaps I should just clear off the calendar, shove the laundry back in the basket, delete all the emails and take the kids to the Farm.

What about you? Where are your favorite places?

My house smells like Vicks and Bengay, so you know we’re having fun

Posted in Today's Entry by

I have six or seven half-finished posts sitting around, but I’m so unfocused right now I can barely function. Thank goodness for my friend Rach and her Friday Life’s Lessons meme. A list is just what I need to get my mind in the mood to accomplish some things.

So here’s this week’s Life’s Lessons: The glutton for punishment edition.

1. I don’t like to be bored. When I’m bored, I think up awful ways to amuse myself, like becoming a runner.

2. Which is hilarious, if you think about it, because I’m the least athletic person ever. I’m so uncoordinated I fell down walking a straight line on flat ground in broad daylight. And no, I wasn’t chewing gum.

3. Hubs and I decided to try the C25K program to prepare for our first 5k on Thanksgiving. Which is awesome, because the couple that runs together stays together, if for no other reason than they are too tired and worn out to fight.

4. It’s kind of not awesome, though, because he’s eight inches taller than me, and all of that extra length is in his legs. So he’s striding along beautifully, and here’s stubby little me bouncing along taking two steps to his one and trying to keep up without bruising my chin with my ginormous boobs that can’t be tamed even with two sports bras and a support tank.

5. Hubs is the playlist master though. Give him any occasion and he’ll sit down to his massive iTunes library to crank out the perfect collection of music for the situation. When I don’t think I can pick ‘em up and put ‘em down for one more stinking quarter mile, here comes some Katy Perry and baby, I’m a fiiireworrrk.

6. In other, somewhat related news, I guess that the Monkey was jealous of Mama and Dada’s newfound aches and pains and thought he’d join in on the fun, so he developed an awesome cold over the last 48 hours.

7. With lots of snot.

8. I hate snot.

9. But then he started wheezing after his nap today, so we’re taking him to see the doctor.

10. I hesitated to make the appointment, because I know there’s not much they can do, but he just looks awful. He’s stuffing his face as usual, but he’s not nearly as enthusiastic about it!

*Update: Monkey has strep! Gahh. My poor little guy. He’s laying in his Daddy’s lap right now getting his snuggle on.

Healthy Monkey

Sick Monkey

What about you? How was your week? Tell us about it then link up over at Rach’s!

Life With Baby Donut

Dear Russell Brand:

Posted in Letters No One Will Ever Answer by

We tried to watch your Arthur movie this weekend, but were befallen by several catastrophes that seemed to make it impossible to get past the scene with you and the horse.

The first time, we were in bed on a Thursday evening, cackling merrily at your wild antics while you delivered witty lines from between your large teeth. You have a lot of teeth, Russell. I supposed that’s why you grow your hair out? To add a bit of balance?

Anyway, we’d just begun the film when the power went out, trapping the DVD in the electronic device that was meant to play it and not hold it hostage.

Sixteen hours later, we’d been restored to modern civility, minus the contents of our refrigerator and freezer, which had sadly spoiled.

However, unlike your hapless character, my husband is gainfully employed and so he headed off to work to earn more funds to replace our victuals while I tried again to enjoy the film alone.

I shit you not, sir, the moment you mounted that shifty-eyed steed a man climbed over my fence and startled my dog. He made quite a ruckus back there, leading me to believe he was intent on breaking in and doing me bodily harm, so I called the police and cowered weaponless in a corner.

(That won’t happen again, I assure you, as I’ve purchased something long and black that goes boom.)

He was gone by the time the police arrived, not that they hadn’t given him plenty of time, had he been so inclined, to make camp, build a fire, roast some marshmallows, prepare some s’mores and shed his t-shirt.

He did not murder me nor leave me any chocolatey sandwich goodness, but the t-shirt was left behind as the only evidence of his visit. It’s a good thing I hadn’t gotten a look at him while he was wearing it, or I might have died from laughter.

The next afternoon, I thought it prudent to try watching the original Arthur film first, and perhaps avoid all the curious negative coincidences that came along with yours.

You are quite funnier than Dudley Moore, I have to say, and much better looking, even with the large teeth. And although Jennifer Garner isn’t on my husband’s Famous Five list, she’s a large and dimpled step up from Liza Manelli, who talks as if she’s chewing her face. (Fashion points for the yellow raincoat though, Liza.)

That evening, we gave your film one more try, and had nearly made it to the wedding scene when we were accosted by another thunderstorm packing 70-mile-per-hour winds.

This time, though, our luck seemed a bit better, as the power stayed on and we managed to follow you all the way to the finish, something I regretted when I realized whoever designed your closing title sequence insisted on including that Christopher Cross song from the original.

Really, Russell, was that the Best That You Could Do?

Yours truly,

Mamamash

*Have you seen the new Arthur yet? What did you think? Also, is anyone else madly in love with Helen Mirren? Just me? Ok. 

Monday Meals: We’re smoking the good stuff

Posted in Noms by

Last week hubs and I were feeling ambitious and decided to use our smoker for the first time. We had the choice of brisket or ribs from the deep freeze, and since I felt it would be a crime to screw up a rack of ribs, we settled on the brisket, hoping it would be more forgiving.

It took us awhile to get the temperature right, but once we figured out that we needed to create more air flow under the coals, we were on a roll.

I followed the advice of The Smoker King, rubbing the brisket down with mustard before applying this rub.

  • 2 tablespoons kosher or coarse salt
  • 2 teaspoons coarse black pepper (use fresh cracked pepper)
  • 2 teaspoons paprika
  • 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
  • 1 teaspoon oregano leaves (dried)
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
  • 1 teaspoon granulated garlic

Our brisket was about five pounds, and we cooked it for five hours in the smoker at 225 degrees, followed by another hour foil wrapped in the oven at the same temp.

It was amazing. There was an embarrassing amount of moaning on both parts as we sliced off thin strips of the beef, soaked through with spicy, smoky flavor, and popped them our mouths.

I created a poor man’s version of our favorite BBQ joint Oklahoma Joe’s trademark Z-man by layering slices of brisket with a little sauce, smoked provolone, pickles and a beer-battered onion ring.

Even if you’re a novice in the kitchen or a newbie to the art of smoked meats, I’d recommend this as a starter project.

Your neighbors will thank you for the smell, and they’ll be a tad bit envious as they watch you carry your tasty hunk of meat inside while they sit down to their usual Tuesday night spaghetti.

Take me down to the little white church

Posted in Marriage by

He waited at the altar in a suit and tie. I walked down to meet him in an ivory gown. We said our vows in the same country church where his parents were married many years before.

This photo brings me joy every time I see it because I can clearly remember that gorgeous day in March. The fields of grass and heather echoed our wedding colors of purple and green. The air was still crisp and cool.

We were married on the Ides of March, superstitions be damned. Our first year of marriage included a death in the family, two miscarriages and a hurricane that destroyed everything we owned.

But we made our way through it all together, and I’m more in love with him now than I was on that day, tears streaming down my face as I choked through the words the preacher told me to say.

Share your favorite wedding photo, and tell us why you love it over at Mommy of a Monster & Twins.

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Clowns are still scary. Librarians, not so much.

Posted in I'm Still Learning by

I checked out some books from the public library for the first time in nearly fifteen years yesterday.

It felt like having lunch with a friend you haven’t seen since high school; awkward at first, followed by a rush of memories so vivid you could swear you were reliving your senior year all over again, and ending with a promise to do this again, sometime soon for sure.

I had gone to Barnes & Noble earlier that day with a friend and our kids. While they played with the little train table, we thumbed through books, me remembering all the wonderful stories from my childhood, her jolting me back to reality by reminding me about the prices.

Really, B&N? $12.50 for Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel? You are insane.

After I’d recovered from sobering realization that I would need to work two jobs and pay someone else to read these books to my kids in order to even afford them, my friend reminded me about the very public, very well stocked and very free library.

I’m lucky to live in a city with an awesome library system. There’s a branch right down the road, they will pull books from any other branch if they don’t have them and I can even put a hold on the books online.

I am ashamed that it took me so long to appreciate and take advantage of such a resource.

Anyway, later that day, while Monkey napped and Hubs held down the couch, I zipped down the road a bit in hopes of coming home with an armful of quality (read: free) reading material.

When I stepped in the doors, I was taken aback by the quiet. I might have tiptoed to the first shelf.

I quickly amassed more books than I could carry, but I couldn’t find a copy of the Elizabeth Berg short story collection I wanted.

I walked silently to the front, gingerly laid my choices on the desk, came face to face with the librarian and let out an audible squeak.

My mind was suddenly awash with memories of the last time I’d had a conversation with my high school librarian – a bespectacled, pinched-faced woman who stared disapprovingly down her nose at me as she rustled through my backpack.

I had set off the alarms upon exiting the library after my class had gone in to do research. (This was in the olden days, kids, back when we had a card catalogue with cards in it, and the pedias were encyclo and not wiki.)

Mortified, I stood there as she rifled through my belongings, convinced I had stolen something.

I hadn’t, of course, but the book I had checked out a week previous was missing the card, so she had to look me up in the system to make sure I had checked it out.

After scowling at me for some time, she put in a new card and sent me on my way.

I swore off librarians for a good while after that, which is a terrible thing to do, as most librarians are helpful souls and would never try to intimidate or embarrass short, mousy-haired students.

As my adult self trembled from the memories, this new librarian spoke.

“Is that all, honey?” she coughed. Her hair was red and thinning, her eyebrows penciled in to match. She smelled of cigarettes and White Shoulders.

“No,” I replied, in what would barely qualify as a whisper. I made my request for the Berg book.

“WHAT’S THAT?” she said, louder.

I mustered up all the courage I could find, telling myself that this was a nice librarian, that she couldn’t give me detention, that I was thirty-two freaking years old and no longer a shy wallflower, and repeated my request.

“I’d like ‘The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted’ by Elizabeth Berg,” I said.

The teenager behind me chortled at my words, admittedly funny coming from the mouth of a chubby woman.

I turned on my heel, narrowed my eyes, and gave him my best impersonation of my high school librarian.

I think he may have peed a little. He stared at the ground, face red.

Empowered, I turned back to the little old redheaded lady just in time to see her smile and hear her chuckle.

“Oh, yes dear,” she said. “I’ve had a few of those days in my time.”

She found a copy of the book at another branch, said I would get an email when it came in, and sent me on my way.

Before I left the library, I paused at the doors to survey the place one more time. It was worn but comfortable. The books sat expectantly on the shelves. A handful of people sat at the row of computers, looking for jobs, reading the news, and playing games.

I thought, “I can’t wait to come back.”

And then I hurried home, excited to lose myself in the stories I held in my arms.

*I decided after posting this to link it to Pour Your Heart Out over at Things I Can’t Say. Shell always has the best linkups, and I’ve been reading the PYHO entries for awhile, although I’m not really the type to do so myself. This is as close as I can get for now – sharing how shocking it can be when your old self and your new self come face to face for a brief moment.

Monday Meals: Dessert!

Posted in Noms by

One of my biggest joys in life is feeding other people. I think it results from a combination of being both Southern and Baptist.

So it’s no coincidence that my area of service at church is with a team of people who provide the food anytime there’s a gathering. (Those Baptists. Can’t worship without a casserole.)

Last month, we fed a small group of about 25 men a BBQ lunch, complete with banana pudding and chocolate cake.

The banana pudding sucked.

Now, before you go getting mad at me for criticizing someone’s cooking, let me tell you – I made the ‘nanner puddin’.

It wasn’t my recipe, but yeah, I was responsible for the sad yellow gloop that only a few people slopped out of the dish.

But the other gal there, she brought this chocolate cake. And it was amazing. And I stole a whole piece. Yes, I stole from Christians.

What? Jesus loves me too. Even with the potty mouth.

So, anyway, I thought I’d share the recipe for this ahhhmazing chocolate concoction. Be forewarned though, if you make this, and there’s no one around to share it with, it will call to you nightly at about 3 a.m. and you’ll eat the whole thing yourself.

Or so I’ve heard.

There are no decent photos of this cake because, well, I didn’t take any. But I did mention on Twitter that it was so good I’d eat it off the floor, and MamaRiceCake called me out, so we do have this gem.

 

Too Much Chocolate Cake

1 (18.25 ounce) package devil’s food cake mix
1 (5.9 ounce) package instant chocolate pudding mix
1 cup sour cream
1 cup vegetable oil
4 eggs
1/2 cup warm water
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, mix everything but the chocolate chips. Then, gently stir them in and pour the batter into a well-greased bundt pan.
Bake for 45 minutes or until the top is spongy to the touch. Invert cake onto a platter, frost with white icing when cooled.

*This is a pretty well known recipe among the potluck crowd. They say to be sure to under-bake it just a tad to keep the middle gooey. Also, you could just dust this with powdered sugar, but white icing (not vanilla, not buttercream, not cream cheese, just “white,”) will make this taste like an inside-out Hostess cupcake.

The Pythagorean Theorem in real life

Posted in Marriage by

I wrote this post a couple of days ago dedicated to my husband and all the things I love about him for What I Love About Him over at Multitasking Mumma’s.

In that post, I included this picture.

It seems as though you aren’t going to let me get away with just showing you the aftermath, and have also demanded asked that I explain myself.

So I will, but no judgment, ok?

Last March, when I was pregnant and admittedly hormonal, I stood at the back door and watched my husband tending to our dogs.

Two of the dogs were playing with a toy, and decided they no longer wanted to share, so they snarked at each other.

My husband got in the middle of them, but they were being total assholes that day and didn’t want to let it go, so they continued to bicker around him.

Now, a few months earlier, we had gotten burglarized and I had insisted on the purchase of two kick bars that we could use to block the doors from being opened. Eventually, my fear of getting robbed again was overtaken by my laziness in setting the bars in place, so they’d taken up residence on the floor next to the kitchen wall.

Worried that my husband was going to get bitten by these rotten dogs growling “Come at me, bro,” while they darted in and around his legs, locked in a bitchy slap fight over a freaking $2 piece of rubber, I picked up a metal bar and headed outside.

I fully intended to poke at the moronic mongrels until they came to their senses, but I didn’t need to, as my husband had collared them both and was griping at them as they sat shamefacedly before him.

As he lectured them about how they’d embarrassed and disappointed him, I began to get bored. (In my defense, he’s rather long winded when he’s delivering an ass chewing, and it tends to become tedious.)

So, I began to swing the pole around like a ninja with a…oh hell, what are those things called?

Yeah, so anyway, I’m a ninja with a pole, and I’m swinging it around super skillfully. I turn around in an awesome move, surprisingly agile what with my big belly, and I feel the pole connect with something.

Something taller than me.

“Oh shit,” I remember thinking. “I’ve knocked out his teeth. He’s going to kill me.”

Terrified, I whirl around to see what I hit.

My husband is standing there and his face is missing, completely obscured by a fast-flowing red waterfall.

I began to freak out while he’s just standing there quietly wondering why his hands are all bloody, and drag him inside to put a wet towel on his face so we can investigate the source of the, um, leak.

I was picturing hours of painful dental work, thinking that I may have earned myself a place out back in the doghouse next to our pissy pups, so I was kind of relieved to see that I’d only cut his eyebrow.

Only, as in it was hanging over his eye.

The circular edge of the metal pole had left a crescent moon cut that created a fallen flap of skin, revealing some pretty gross stuff up in there. (On the plus side, at least I know my husband is not an android. So there’s that.)

I tried to push the skin back up, but it was obvious he was going to need stitches. Which is awesome, since he hates needles.

Anyway, I put him in the car and we head over to the ER, which is five minutes down the road, and embarrassingly enough, a place we tend to frequent.

We walk in, tell them about his injury, and they call him back. But they won’t let me go with him.

I’m confused at this point. I always go back with him. That time with the chest pains? I went back. That time he slipped and fell and hit his head on the concrete beside the house? I went back.

Why wouldn’t they let me go back?

My question was answered about five minutes later when my husband stepped back out into the lobby to get me.

He confessed that as the nurses were taking his vitals, they had questioned him about the injury.

“Did she hit you?” they asked.

“Yes,” he said. “But it was an accident.”

“Do you have these ‘accidents’ often?” they inquired.

You can imagine how mortified I was at this point. Ok, yes, I’d broken a few plates during this pregnancy, and ok, so the crack in the bathroom door was from where I kicked it, but c’mon, people! I’ve never hit my husband on purpose!

In a thankfully anticlimactic finish, we go on back and eventually they get him all stitched up (notice how I’m skipping the part about how he acted like a toddler getting immunizations here, that’s cause I’m a good wife) and send us home.

The funniest part of all of this, at least for me, was after I told my students what had happened, two of them got together and drew this for me as part of an assignment.

There were no funny parts for him. For the next few weeks, he got to sport a stylish black eye with his stitches.

Best Easter picture EVER.

See? You can’t even see the scar unless you’re really close.

Not that close. Back up off my husband. I have a pole…