Posts Tagged 'kitchen'

it’s not broken, just unmeasured

I guess I should have started a cooking blog or something.

Well, let me clarify:  one of those ones where all the things that aren’t supposed to happen…happen. I’m not someone you should ever take lessons from when it comes to the kitchen and events that are logically expected to occur there without incident  (exhibit a, b…I’m sure there are more). Things go very unplanned and off course and not measured in my kitchen. 

Granted that’s not always a bad thing.

“How much XYZ spices did you put in here? It’s really good!”

I have no idea?

Annnnnd there goes another amazing recipe unrealized and never to be exactly replicated because I don’t measure. I mean I guess I am pretty okay at cooking things. I can whip up dinner no problem these days.

Really it’s the baking where things go wrong.

Probably because I don’t measure. Damn that baking powder blowing up my cookies to the size of muffin tops or damn the whatever it is that happens when they end up so flat the chocolate chips are like giant mountains over a prairie terrain.

Chemistry. Mocks me every time. 

But measuring….measuring is such. a. pain. It means I have to actually get those little spoons out and find the right one and then two different things need the same amount but now that particular sized spoon is dirty and those spoons really are the worst dish ever to maybe cookie sheets because I’ll be damned if I somehow don’t turn the pan the wrong way and water either gets all over me or all over the counter.

I’m all about less dishes. Save the water. Avoid a mess. Whatever. Just no measuring. I guesstimate. Eyeball it. That pile I poured looks like abooouuut tablespoon. We’re good. Moving on.

Also about those spoons I don’t even like? I think we have five different sets. It’s probably so I didn’t have to wash a set in the middle of a project. But then that means there are multiple sets to man handle later and so really nobody wins.

And oh the irony….we BOTH still prefer to use the original set.

Anyway, so funny enough, the other day we were making tacos and I had taken out all of the spices and was putting them in the pan with the ground turkey (none of that packaged seasoning stuff here…making your own is so much better!) and I looked at Tim and said, “I don’t measure, just so you know.”

He just kind of nodded his head all Oh-I-know-and-there-is-no-sense-in-explaining-the-reasons-why-we-measure-because-it-falls-on-deaf-ears-I’ve-learned-to-pick-my-battles-and-this-is-one-I’ll-never-win-I’ll-be-over-here-saving-my-sanity-and-preparing-myself-to-choke-it-down-thankyouverymuch.

I continued about my extremely scientific ways, i.e. Eyeballing, and no one really says anything more about it until we sit down to eat. 

And then it happens. 

After Tim takes a bite, he is all, totally unprompted, “These are honestly the best tacos ever. The flavor of the meat is AH-MAZING.

Excellent to hear, dear husband.

She Who Does Not Measure will just be over here, doing what she does, damn all the spoons.


the weekend of fail

I’m not even sure where I’ve been the last…ohhhh…however many days. I feel like everything is coming down to the wire and there is so much still to do before baby sprout and OMG I’m so far behind…..anyhow.


Welcome to my world.

Wherever I’ve been, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t “online,” unless you count the Christmas shopping I did yesterday…all day. I *did* actually purchase a few things in a real live store, though. I think that kind of task – when going it alone, 31 weeks pregnant – deserves some kind of credit.


Remember how I said on Friday we had all these awesome things to do over the weekend?

Like go to a holiday party Friday night?

Or test drive a car?

How about that second work party on Saturday?

Cutting down my very own Christmas tree?

Grocery shopping so we have food in the house?


The Friday night holiday party turned into Smashburger and recorded TV.

(Smashburger…super delicious but not exactly super healthy. It gave me the Smashpoo the next morning…zero percent fun)

Saturday’s test drive was a bust because Tim and the car people couldn’t work out whatever it was they needed to work out to make it worthwhile to drive an hour to look at a car. Apparently, *my* car isn’t selling very well and so the amount we owe versus the amount the car people want to give us isn’t jiving.


We did, however, find out that Saturday morning would be the last total lunar eclipse in three years and that we were lucky enough to be in a really great spot to see (most of) it.

Tim and I love nature-y stuff like this and were willing to drag ourselves out of bed at five in the morning to capture these…at a dog park, no less.

(You can see the definition of the moon/eclipse better if you click on the picture and zoom in…)

(This is how the magic happens)

After freezing in 14 degrees, we grabbed a quick breakfast to fuel the chopping down our Christmas tree.


I was super excited about cutting down a tree watching Tim cut down a tree……..until we got to the tree farm and they pointed us in the direction of an open, empty field with like, seven trees, all under four feet tall.

Tim and I were all, “Seriously?!….Seriously?….You’re…this? These?…No….”

I wish I had taken a picture…but my mind was reeling something ferocious…like, “WHO CUTS DOWN SAPLINGS?!”

We tried looking for a few other places but those didn’t really pan out, either, mostly because the closest one we found where we didn’t need a permit required us to bring all of our own supplies and we would have to drive through the snow on non-roads into a forest to find a tree.


Probably not a very smart idea with a growing-by-the-second preggo wife.


Did you know that after you reach something like 30 or 31 weeks, your belly can grow a half an inch to an inch a week? A WEEK! OMG!


So…anyhow…we ended up……

….I’m almost embarrassed to even admit to this…

…we ended up…here.

And on the way here Tim was all, “I feel so bad. We’re not doing anything on your list from your blog!”

I just laughed all, “It’s no big deal…we’ll call it the weekend of fail…plus one add! The eclipse!”

Little did we know the “laughing” was only going to get…um…better.

When we got to the tree farm parking lot, we both looked at each other like, “You have got to be joking…

But, we resigned ourselves to, at bare minimum, go out to look at what they had.

Wouldn’t you know it? I ended up picking out the biggest Nobel Fir I’ve ever seen.

As in the biggest tree Tim and I have ever purchased.

As in it is probably at least seven feet tall.

When the guy working the tree place saw Tim pull up our car he was all, “Uhh…how about I put this on my Durango and deliver it for you?….”

We have a small, four door car.

(I guess this is the part where I tell you which car…because “small four door car” isn’t very descriptive…)

Our “small, four door car” is a BMW 325i. Sorry…I’ve been corrected. It’s a 328xi.


What his mouth didn’t say but his eyes were screaming was: There is no way in hell that tree is going onto your car without something catastrophic occurring.

Funny, though, Tim and I both had overheard another family, not five minutes before we picked out our tree, asking if they’d deliver.

Their answer?

We don’t do that.


Maybe it was because I was pregnant.

Or maybe it was because his daughter and I shared a name…minus a C, plus a K…

She’s a cheerleader, didn’t y’know and they just had their “Super Bowl” where she cheered on the big, high school field….

After we had our tree?

Operation Christmas was ON.

We may have failed at almost everything we had planned over the weekend, but we did a ton of other things, like decorate the inside and outside of the house.

Mini RANT: What the hell is wrong with Christmas lights? Tim and I tested every single strand and replaced every single blown bulb so everything was in perfect working order and 100% lit before we started putting them up outside.

And putting them up wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. Tim had to maneuver and stretch and teeter on the ladder while I had to hold his body weight plus the ladder on the areas where it was just snow and rocks and when we turned them on?






We had to replace the random single lights that, magically, no longer worked and then take down the entire we-worked-inside-but-just-kidding-we’re-broken strands and put up new ones.

This took twice as long as putting up the lights alone and by the end of it all Tim was cursing every step on the ladder.

I can’t really blame him.

We also made the little boughs + bows on the porch posts.

I love them…even though there were also a PITA to put up.

(I really have no idea why we torture ourselves like this every year. Tim says he does it because I like the decorations…so I guess it’s just me who likes the pain)

But, still. Lookit how pretty!

(We’ve since added a wreath to the front door and red bows to the lights on either side of the garage…)

And our tree!

(The mantle is like a feast for the eyes with all of the random…things…we put up there…including the freaky, bendy red-headed bald santa that we’re not entirely sure how we obtained)

And the puppies, Maddie and Lexi, with the tree!

(I had to coerce them with promises of “big treats!” while Tim took the picture)

We also started the Tim’s Direct Reports Holiday Gift Project. I made puppy chow (have you read my 4th grade mortification story behind this, yet?) while Tim made fudge.

We’re doing the baking for this project in stages because I cannot possibly make puppy chow, fudge, chocolate dipped pretzels and sugar cookies (including icing) in one day without wanting to murder someone.

The cookies are happening today…the pretzels + assembly of the treat tins tomorrow.

I’ll post the finished product when it’s all said and done…plus recipes.

Yay for high calorie holiday treats!

I’m also thinking of making some kind of “We’re the people who never really talk to anyone” goodie bags for our neighbors. Mostly so they know we’re not Satan and because if we have any leftover puppy chow, I’ll eat it with reckless abandon….like I’ve already been doing…it’s like I can’t stop…and the only way to quit is to remove the temptation.

I just don’t see myself sneaking into the neighbors home to take back my puppy chow all stealthy like.

For one, I’m not that brave.

Two? Pregnant does not equal stealthy.

Pregnant equals dropping your iPhone in a bowl of cereal.

(I’m so not kidding)

(I totally did that last night)

(I don’t even know how it happened)

(It wasn’t my fault)

because your reader didn’t tell you…

That I posted a gift guide. And it’s awesome.

(The reader kinks…we’re still working on them…which is why I’m posting this…so you aren’t left out. You’re totally welcome 🙂 ).

you should be here, already. like, now.

What happened today? Well, today I was retarded.

And today you should be visiting booshy’s new home. Yay!

if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s entertaining myself

I wasn’t able to get a good picture of “the cougar,” since I was in the seat behind her…and my middle school note-passing attempts between seats didn’t convince Tim to take one of her with his iPhone. I kept writing: “Just say cheese. SHE’LL KNOW WHAT TO DO.”

He finally turned around and gave me the “Seriously. Stop. We’re IN A PUBLIC PLACE. REMEMBER? YOU PROMISED.”

So I had to make my own fun. And if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s entertaining myself.

I started writing random sentences on my book draft like, “did you know reading me is a crime?” and “your dress is on fire” for The Snoop on my left.

I took sky pictures


I made myself some free advertising.



When the flight attendant came around to inquire about my “snack selection,” I tried to ask him for the “cookies that started with a B.” They are my most favorite cookies IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. I’ve also decided that these cookies only exist on airplanes, because I’ve never seen them in a sensible place like a grocery store

The flight attendant just stared at me like the altitude was affecting my ability to communicate. I was trying to explain via bastardized sign language what I wanted, because he was too far away to actually converse with and there is just no yelling on a plane. It’s like taboo or something.

Finally, we connected.

Or he’s just really good at charades.

And he brought me a stack of these:


Other than the cougar trying to prey on Tim, The Snoop next to me that kept trying to read my book and would look away all, “WHAT? I was just looking out the window.” Um…window’s closed, missy. So unless you have like, X-ray vision…I think not…and the dude who almost dropped a massive suitcase on a poor old lady while he was putting it into the overhead bin and almost caused a brawl…a fairly calm flight.

When we got off the plane and made our way to the security doors that separated ‘those with a ticket’ and ‘those without,’ Tim’s parents weren’t waiting for us, smiles plastered on their faces

And since FOREVER, his parents have picked us up from the airport. There has not been a SINGLE INSTANCE where they weren’t waiting RIGHT OUTSIDE the security area.

So, when they weren’t at-the-ready and in position, Tim was all, “What the hell? Where are they?”

He sent them a text message and I was all, “Why not CALL THEM?”

Tim: This is just as fast.

Me: No, calling and having someone pick up is faster.

Tim: Well, my dad’s usually really fast responding.


Not today, he isn’t.

We sat around baggage claim for a few minutes, with no bags to claim…because we refuse to PAY TO CHECK A BAG if we don’t have to…I can find a way to do without the five extra pairs of panties and twenty-eight shirts.

Anyhow, Tim finally decided to call his dad…when out of nowhere, Tim’s sister, Kristen, walks up with her newest little addition, Colton.


And of all the things that happened from the moment we left the airport to the time we spent at her house visiting, nothing could top the last five minutes, except maybe Kristen’s two doves that chuckle like humans.

I didn’t even know doves could do noises other than cooing.

Right, so the last five minutes…Tim was holding Coltwith baby-googly eyes that plainly said I WANT ONE. And at that precise moment, Colton decided it was time for a little exclamation of his own – shot it right out the back end.

Little is actually being nice. Tim said later he felt the reverberations run all the way up to his shoulder and the resulting steam left little droplets of moisture on Tim’s forearm.

The remainder of the evening centered around food (Italians, remember?).

And how do you say “Welcome to America!” to full blooded Italians?

You make pasta from scratch.

Well, YOU as in Abbie, Martha Stewart Junior, who is married to Tim’s younger brother, Josh.

Abbie knows how to MAKE JAM and KNIT SCARVES and can probably do the whole macramé feathers into gold bit.

I will never be an Abbie.

Obviously, that is not my hand making pasta, as I am not allowed near appliances.

It’s Martha’s Abbie’s.


no one told me that basters were stupid

The house must be like, mad at me or something.

Or, I’m finally going to admit I lack the ability to anticipate cause and effect.

I’m going with the former.

No sense in beating around the bush…never been very good at it anyway…

I burned Tim’s fingers last night with hot sugar water.

Exactly. The house hates me.


NOTE TO SELF: “Oops” is not the correct response when you’ve managed to melt skin off someone’s hand WITHOUT EVEN TOUCHING THEM.

You know, it’s not my fault I wasn’t given a tutorial on how to use all of the “appliances” in the kitchen.

And when I say “appliances” I mean basters.

And when I say basters I mean this one:


We may as well call it a bastard. Stupid thing got me in trouble.

See, it all started when I was microwaving a mixture of water and sugar to put on a peach crisp that I was baking. I was convinced the peaches would not produce enough “juice” and would instead be all dry and hard (here’s the recipe).



Anyhow, the microwave started to make these clicky noises and Tim was all, “WHAT DID YOU PUT IN THERE?!”

Me: “A measuring cup.”

Tim: “A WHAT?!”

He thought I meant like, the metal kind that makes microwaves explode and rushed over to take it out.

As he was climbing over the baby gate (we have to contort all cirque du soleil to get in and out of the kitchen. Thanks, Lexi), I’m all nonchalant like, “The glass kind. Geez, dude. Put your pants back on.”

Tim: “I thought you meant…whatever…DUDE.”

He decides to take precautionary measures, stops the microwave and removes my boiling concoction.

I didn’t want him taking over my little project, so I rocketed over the gate and grabbed a baster out of the utensil jar.

Tim stood there, watching me and questioning my motives (technically, dear husband, that was really your first mistake. Whenever I’m in the kitchen, you’re supposed to duck and cover).

I opened the oven and then sucked up some of the hot sugar water in the baster. Tim was on my right, the oven on the left and the hot liquid between Tim and I on the counter.

As I start to lift the baster from the measuring cup to put the liquid on the crisp, Tim goes, “You can’t do that. You have to get closer.”

Ok, people. Let’s just stop. Right there. Mistake number two.


I have a problem with patience and I also tend to take instructions literally.

I thought he meant that I HAVE TO GET CLOSER, so I bend my legs and get lower to the ground to get closer to the crisp sitting in the oven.

As an inadvertent side effect of my body movement, the baster went from a vertical position to a horizontal one, squirty end towards Tim, who was still standing there all, “NOT YOU! THE CRISP! TAKE IT OUT!”

And then…


No one explained to me that basters are stupid.

That basters don’t HOLD THE LIQUID INSIDE until squeezed.

When you turn the damn thing landscape direction it’s like you’ve unlocked a secret weapon.

Landscape direction equals ALL CONTAINED CONTENTS will rocket out with shocking velocity without any pressure on the little squeezy end.

As Tim was screaming and getting his fingers burned off, I just sat there, staring down at the baster all, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS THING? IT’S BROKEN.”

No, not broken.


missing: sour cream

On Tuesday we made a taco-style salad for dinner – minus the actual “taco” part…everything BUT the taco part, actually…

My job was to pull out all the “sides” like sour cream, cheese, salsa…and put them out on the counter.

I was fine with that.  I can do that.

Until I couldn’t find the sour cream. 

And I DO NOT like asking Tim to find anything I’ve been searching for because I usually just overlooked the missing item and he will inevitably ask me, “Did you even LOOK for this?”

Of course I did.  It wasn’t there before.

So I searched IN VAIN for the sour cream…I even looked in the vegetable drawer and the cheese drawer and behind the milk…in the freezer… it wasn’t anywhere. 

And I KNEW we purchased some because I JUST SAW IT the other day.

But, of course, today… it is missing.

I had to ask.

And to my amazement, Tim couldn’t find it, either. 

It was gone.  Disappeared into the great void.

So we mourned our loss and puzzled over where it went and then used greek yogurt instead.

In my book, case closed.  I didn’t give it another thought.  Things happen.  Stuff gets lost.

Then, this morning when Tim called me on his way to work,  the first thing he says to me is, “that whole sour cream thing was driving me crazy last night because I KNOW we had some.  I KNOW I wasn’t imagining things.”

Now, you have to understand, when Tim is certain of something, his brain will not rest until the answer is found.

Me: “I know.  It just vanished.  Weird.”

Tim: “No, I found it.”

Me: “Where?”

Tim: “On the dining room table.”


Tim, ignoring my shock: “Remember when I was taking pictures for the grocery app?  Well, I took out the sour cream and never put it back.”

This grocery app picture taking thing happened on SUNDAY.

We had sour cream SITTING OUT for two days.


this is where you ask those burning questions

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