November's Pie: Pineapple Right-Side Up

Not really sure how this went down, but I think it went something like this:

Filling:
2 or 3 egg whites
2 cans pears
Ginger
Cinnamon
Nutmeg
Almond extract

Pie crust

1 can pineapple slices (those little ring kind.)
Butter
Brown sugar

Mix the filling shtuff together, crushing the pears into bite-sized chunks in the process. (Don't liquidate the pears. They're what keep the pineapple from falling to the bottom of the pie.) Pour enough into the pie crust to fill it about halfway - leave room for the pineapple. After you've got that covered, dot it with butter.

Now open your pineapple can. Make a cute little flower on top of the pear filling, or whatever looks good. Just don't stack your pineapple too high, or it'll leak all over. If you want to be really fancy, you can put a cherry or cranberry in the center of each ring. Definitely not necessary. Sprinkle the whole thing with brown sugar and bake at 350 degrees for about 40 minutes. (But check on it - I don't really remember how long it took.) You can test it out with a toothpick; it should be nearly the consistency of cake, and the toothpick should come out clean.

Siegecraft!

So, before I begin this epic tale, I must set forth a smallish amount of background:

First, you must know that I work at FedEx Ground. My job is essentially to stand on a tower, watch boxes go by, and sort them by zip code. This is called "sorting." Occasionally, it's called "splitting," but seldom is it called both at the same time. "Splorting"? Seriously, people. No.

Second, you must know that there are only three people who "splort." These folks are Jeff, Brett, and myself. Also, our manager, Rob - but he doesn't count. He has managing to do.

Third, you must meet Jill. Jill is a computerized scanning device that reads the barcode, sorts the box, and says (in an irritating female voice) the chute number we're supposed to send the box to. Jill is new. Brand spankin' new. We were given Jill in an effort to make out work more productive.

Fourth, we hate Jill. We know our load charts. We do not need Jill. Aside from being unnecessary, Jill actually slows us down, since we have to stop and scan boxes before sorting - and then wait for the irritating female voice to inform us that we've just sent the box down the wrong (identical) chute. By this time, whoever is sorting has already sorted five more boxes. In fact, the only reason we use Jill at all is to prove to the company that we use the equipment we've been given. Well done, Jill. We applaud your effort. Now kindly go and die.

Last Friday, Jeff and I were loading in chute 10 (the one that gets all the crap the splitter couldn't get off in time.) Our boss, Rob, came down to ask us if either of us wanted to split, since Brett didn't want to. We both gladly agreed, on condition that Jill first be sent to whatever mechanical hell from which she emerged. When we discovered that Jill was required, we both courteously declined. Having no willing sorters, Rob decided to test Jill's mettle by giving her to Tyler - who does not split. Surely Jill's lilting voice would be enough to get us through the night.

Although we realized that chute 10 was going to be ridiculous that night, Jeff and I decided it was worth the extra box-tossing just to be rid of Jill. As a bonus, Tyler would be doing our job, which was just too funny to pass up.

Monday was much the same; Brett and I were in 10, taking bets on who would crack first, Tyler from splitting or us from taking up his slack. The bet was about a week, and we eventually decided that Rob would crack before any of the four game-players did. The siege began.

And then it ended, quite unexpectedly, today at work. Rob cracked, apparently, much sooner than we thought possible - although I'm sure it helped that Tyler called in sick today. Whether Tyler was actually sick is yet to be determined; I wonder if that counts as him cracking first? Now the unloaders have to use Jill, just to prove she's being used. I am back to the scanner-less, old-fashioned load charts in my head. And chute 10 is back to its normal volume. The war is won. Sweet freaking day.

Swine Flu Makes Pigs of Us All...

I have discovered the worst possible way to start a Tuesday (with the possible exception of genocide.)

I woke up for my alarm, let it snooze, and suddenly discovered that it was 11:20. I don't have class until 1:30, thankfully, but I was supposed to meet my waltz partner to practice at 11. Oops. I put in my contacts, threw on some pants (essential!) and pulled my hair back on the way out the door. I ran to campus through the lightly drifting snow, sans jacket. Those who know me well may now be thinking to themselves, "Dag, no jacket? This demonstrates desperation!" And believe me, it does.

Reaching the Wilk in a very numb state, I searched high and low for my dance partner. He was nowhere to be found. Nor was his contact information on Blackboard, the BYU directory, or facebook. After about twenty minutes, I abandoned my elusive dance partner and discovered that I felt quite awful, physically. This could be due to a lack of breakfast. It could also be due to the fact that I ran to campus - I feel like Jack Sparrow when I run, so I don't generally force my body into that lack of dignity. Or, I suppose, I could be remarkably cliche, and actually have swine flu. Bah! My body, unfortunately, did not care to ruminate on the matter. I stopped by a public restroom to vomit. Not a choice experience. I do not recommend it.

So now what, Self? I am sitting at home, refusing to go to class, watching the snow, trying not to eat the mountainous pile of cookies on the table, not really wanting to eat anything else. Conclusion: snow makes me ill. But it also seems to bring cookies. Hmm.

October's Pie: Macaroni & Cheese!

Alright, y'all. I really don't measure things. Ever. So... here's what I think went into this:

Crust:
2 C bread crumbs
1/2 C butter

Blend with knives or pastry blender; add water a little at a time until it sticks loosely. Line pie pan; bake at 375 degrees for 20 minutes to prepare shell.

Filling:
1/2 onion, minced
1/4 C butter
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 C flour
2-3 C milk
2-3 C shredded cheddar cheese
Bacon bits
1 (16 oz.) packages shell noodles

Boil noodles. Make them done.

Meanwhile, brown onion and garlic in butter, add flour to make a roux (more flour if needed.) After roux has thickened, add milk and cheese; heat until cheese is melted.

Mix noodles into sauce, then pour into pie shell. (I had way too much sauce for my pasta, so I used a slotted spoon to scoop the noodles in, then saved the sauce for future connivery.) Top with bacon bits, then bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. If you want, foil the edges so the crust doesn't burn. When you've got about 10 minutes left, sprinkle some leftover bread crumbs over the pie. Or don't. I don't really give a care.

Remove foil before eating. Seriously.

Rachel: 1. Satan's Duck: 0.

I had a face-off today with a rather large duck. And when I say rather large, I mean half as big as me. Granted, I'm a very small person; this may mean it was a normal-sized duck. But I was coming home from one of three failed midterms of the week, and I was feeling none too tall.

And then I saw him: the Duck of Beelzebub rose up on his horrible, webbed feet and raised his head, nearly reaching my eye level. I thought of that old saying that animals can smell fear, and deliberately kept my pace as I came down the Stairs of Death, waiting for the duck to make the first move. From fifteen feet away, I saw the duck's chest expand as it filled its lungs and proceeded to quack aggressively in my direction. As I came closer, the duck's quacking became more obnoxious, and the fowl's eyes showed no hesitation to charge me, should I refuse to immediately acknowledge its dominance.

Which, of course, refuse I did. Not one to kowtow to such paltry poultry, and being rather angstful myself, I looked the duck straight in the eye. I filled my own lungs (larger, fortunately, than the duck's) and retaliated mercilessly, angrily quacking that duck to shame! He looked surprised and a little frightened for a moment, then sat down quietly and became very interested in his own feathers. I smiled at my accomplishment. Whatever else I may fail in, this I know: I am the Alpha Duck.

September's Pie: Avocado Cream!

Alright; I'd give this one 3 stars out of 5. All in all, too much vanilla, not enough avocado, and some weird texture differences. Next time, I'm definitely blending the avocados, and just making an avocado-pudding pie. But anyway, it was pretty successful, I think, and here it is!

1/2 C sifted flour or 3/4 C cornstarch
2/3 C sugar
1/4 tsp. salt
2 C milk, scalded
3 slightly beaten egg yolks
2 Tbsp. butter
1/2 tsp. vanilla
1 baked 9-inch pastry shell
3 ripe avocados

Mix flour, sugar, and salt; gradually add milk. Cook over moderate heat, stirring constantly, until mixture thickens and boils. Cook 2 minutes; remove from heat.

Add small amount to egg yolks; stir into remaining hot mixture; cook 1 minute, stirring constantly. Add butter, vanilla; cool slightly.

Slice 3 avocados and place around base of pastry shell. Pour pudding over top into baked pastry shell. Cool. Consume voraciously.

August's Pie: Grapefruit!

Grapefruit Pie:

1 pie shell

1 can sweetened condensed milk
1/2 C grapefruit juice
4 egg yolks
1 or 2 drops red food coloring

Beat egg yolks and add sweetened condensed milk. Mix. Add grapefruit juice and food coloring. Mix. Pour into pie shell and bake at 350 degrees for approximately 23 minutes. Let cool one hour while the pie sets, then refrigerate until cold.

Eat that goodness!

The Maltese Trousers

A Story of Crime, Pants, and Other Family Affairs

It was the height of some low, low times in downtown Provo – a city that never sleeps, never drinks, and never says die. I was sitting at my desk when she walked in, five feet, two inches of fury in a Latin skirt. She was a brunette, though I didn’t know it yet. I put down my work to listen; a dame like that never comes in without a good case.

She was in a spot of trouble, as her kind usually is. She’d ratted the wrong information about the wrong man, and now she was paying the price. She was at a wedding when she got the call. The man on the other line was a baritone, with eyebrows so wiry she could hear them through the receiver. He said he had something of hers, something she needed. She’d left her things at an old motel, where she’d been staying for a fling - a short marriage with an Armenian who’d left her for a bottle of Jack Daniels. Now her wardrobe had been stolen, held at the local landfill against her will. The plot grew thicker – turns out, the main man responsible was her brother. I began to wonder just how involved I wanted to get. What kind of sick family was this?

Most dames in a fix like this would be crying up a storm, but not my client. Somehow, no wardrobe to her name but the clothes on her back, she was laughing. Laughing like a jackal. I won’t lie; I was a little unnerved by a woman who found that kind of entertainment at being left without pants. In the end, I decided not to explore the implications, and got to work.

My first stop was to visit this brother of hers. He lived on the far reaches of town, and it took me some time and a good map to find out where he lived. I found him sitting on a porch swing, screaming incoherently at small children and cackling to himself. He didn’t seem like much of a talker, and after narrowly dodging a right hook, I decided I might get better results from the neighbors.

I spoke with the landlady first. She was a small woman, even shorter than my client. She didn’t look like trouble, but I still figured it was best not to let my guard down. Turns out I was right to suspect; our conversation led me to believe she was one of the brother’s henchmen. She’d bought him a couple pair of pants just the other day, she said, but they weren’t good enough; had to be altered. By hand. The day of the wedding – the day my client had gotten the call – he’d come home late, tossing her a pair of khakis. “It’s tar, Toots,” he’d said. “See what you can do about it.” The woman said he’d sat in the stuff at the wedding, and it was a royal pain to get out. Just a few hours earlier, he’d brought her a different pair, all covered in sick. I didn’t ask for details. Both pair were brand new, she said. Seems this man had a thing against pants.

Next morning, I got a call from my client. The violence had escalated: her truck’s back window had been shattered, run through with a wooden beam she lugged into my office and threw down on my desk. I was irritated when the wood chipped the finish on my lamp, but I recognized the wood. It was a piece of an old shed down by the car wash, a part of an old floor someone was tearing out. That narrowed my list of suspects quite a bit. While she was in my office, the phone rang. The man on the other line had the voice of a baritone with wiry eyebrows. I let the dame lean close to listen.

“You’ve got exactly ten minutes to get down here,” the man said, “or the kitty gets it.” Then the phone went dead. The girl looked shocked. “Not the kitty,” she whispered. With an innocent feline in danger, I knew we had to act fast. I pressed thirty dollars and a small tape recorder into the dame’s hand and told her to catch a cab. I needed a search warrant and a good weapon before I arrived; she was to take the long way to the old shed, hopefully arriving just before me to get some evidence to bring to court.

I pulled my end of the bargain and showed up at the old shed. I was shocked to find it was no longer standing; even the staircase had been carted off. There was nobody there, and the dame never showed. After asking around, I found out the shed had belonged to a big man with graying, wiry eyebrows, and that his son and daughter had been pulling crazed pants schemes for years, posing as the victims of horrible crimes. I got a description of the two: the son fit the profile of the porch-sitter perfectly, and it sounded like my “client” had been in on it all along. Seems I’d been swindled out of thirty dollars and a tape recorder, not to mention a pair of pants I’d loaned her. The family didn’t even own a kitty. I walked away slowly, a bit wiser. I didn’t mind the money so much, but I swore I’d never be conned out of a good pair of pants again.