Archive for January, 2008

silver linings

happiness is finding a forgotten stash of chocolate; the good, dark stuff, on a rotten day.

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inside out

In one of my favorite movies, The Five Senses, a cake maker creates beautiful cakes that unfortunately don’t taste too good. She’s unaware of the fact until her fabulous Italian lover, this amazing, gorgeous man full of the vibrant and warm stuffs of life, brings this to her attention. Sometimes I feel like one of those cakes. I get told often these days what a fabulous job I’m doing with my life, but inside I don’t feel so faboo.

It’s kind of like my own cakes that I bake every year for the kiddo’s birthday. We’ll be baking it in a day or so (always bake the cake a day or two ahead, to let the flavors “bloom” into the structure. It’s a secret that works). Uually, I make an Italian cream cake and get good results. Some years, I’ve been tempted by other recipes, and produced either a great tasting cake that looks awful, or a nice looking cake that is unfortunately tasteless, even with the support of my little secret. This year, I’m very tempted by a tres leche cake, which I feel intuitively will taste great, but I’m wondering if all that moist milk will support a decorating job. The decorating job is pretty important this year, a milestone year. It must be purple, per the kiddo’s orders. We can’t seem to get enough of the color, both of us.

She’s not crazy about becoming a year old and seems to have regressed purposely into baby mode. I think once she gets a taste of the perks, she’ll grab onto the idea though.

Last night was a rough night. I will only say that unlike kitties and kiddies, fish don’t vomit, and for that one small fact, I am grateful instead of running screaming over the edge.

this can’t be real:

thanks, Jenqu.

Etsy alert:

il_430xn18062317.jpg
Isn’t this trinket lovely, now? It can be found at luxe Deluxe. I would totally wear so many of her creations. Actually, I think this would look darling gracing a certain sister’s neck at her bird themed wedding. No?

name games

Lo’s post reminded me of the conniptions Mother would go into upon hearing prospective names for her grandchildren. She doesn’t like many of the names, at least at first. Then they grow popular among the general public (especially the names of T’s children, she’s the most creative in that department), and, after a time, they seem to grow finally upon her, as children do. I thought of course, of the kiddo’s own seven syllabled, 26 lettered mouthful of a full name, which I’d chosen almost five years ago, now. Will she hate me for that? I think it sounds wonderful off the tongue, all aristocratically English, until one gets to her last name. But even then, it only garnishes it with some spice (think….paprika…hey, there’s a name that would top Apple) and intrigue, as though the family married into a now defunct old Polish royal court or something. I think I’ll start calling her Duchess.

Apples and paprika. Food again. Yes, here we go… today, in the dead of winter, the kiddo’s luncheon request consisted of potato salad, strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries (the blueberries were sold out, townwide. Wonder why?). She at least settled for mac and cheese for dinner.

We got a new alarm clock, after I’d decided that I will not ever again wake to a droning buzzer in this lifetime. It has a choice of four sounds…ocean, brook, forest, or windchimes. Windchimes are the popular choice, though I’m not quite sure how this will fare in the long run. The kiddo likes to use the sleep option to play as we’re going to bed, and so far, it’s like laying awake in some crazy bellfry, a place where one might find Freddy Kreuger’s mother lurking about, wringing her hands over her son’s damned and evil soul.

mmm, orange

Every so often, when I feel like being super nutritionally pure, I buy up a horde of betacarotene packed, orange foods….squashes, carrots, sweet potatoes, and so on. So tonight, I took out a big ol’ rutabaga/turnip, something I usually only eat when I go home to New York to visit. The proper preparation is a point of contention with my mother and a certain sister of hers. I don’t even bring up Thanksgiving dinners  anymore, because she could go on, and on, and on about how bad this sister’s turnips are. Like most things of this nature, it’s probably about a lot more than turnips.

Have you ever tried to cube up a turnip?!? Not the little, pink and white ones…the big, waxy melon size ones. Ohmygod. I actually thought it would be harder to peel, but halfway through attempting to halve the thing, I gave up and stuck it in a saucepan full of water, where it’s boiling now, like a soggy orange softball. I have no idea how long it’s going to take to cook through.

My mom always cubed hers. And I’m not surprised. She’s a very physically strong woman, a horse. When I was a teenager, you knew my mother meant business when she’d pound her bare index finger repeatedly and loudly on the table to emphasize a point (there were many, often). Do not try this. It hurts like hell! That shoe pounder over in Russia had nothing on my mom.

What are those?

Cashews

I don’t wike them. 

Oh, are you sure? Wanna try one?

Yeah. 

*pause*

Oh, yeah, um, I do wike em. 

*shaking head* yeah, and she’s the only person I know on earth who likes
canned cream of mushroom soup. Straight, not mixed with anything. Ew.