Cookies and Other Signs of Life

Laughing hysterically in the grocery line, I was surprised when my father pulled me gently out of the way. "Go ahead, President Eyring. We only have two items." I kept laughing (a little less loudly) as I watched the apostle and his wife make their way good-naturedly in front of us, and was much relieved to know that they, too, enjoy chocolate-chip cookies.

My laughter returned when I realized that the two items we were buying at the moment were a bottle of cooking wine and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. I just can't help but picture the world's cruelest drinking contest.

I took consolation in knowing that I'm not the only person who encounters General Authorities in less-than-dignified moments. My mother, apparently, spent an entire evening unknowingly on the other side of a booth from President Monson in an ice cream parlor, laughing hysterically whenever somebody said, "Sheep's head." (This wouldn't have been nearly so frequent an utterance, had her friends not already discovered the reaction it would trigger.)

The chocolate-chip cookies, I feel, are what saved me. They served as a small reminder to me: whether or not this man is on speaking terms with the Lord, he's still just as human as I am. Which leads me to wonder why I consider chocolate-chip cookies as an indicator of humanity. But I suppose that's a meditation for another day.

Lessons Learned from Disney Sequels

So, Jenna and I had a weekend party. We're talking about the kind of party that ends in 5 Disney sequels in only 24 hours. It was epic. Here's what we learned:

The Lion King II: Even if your mother-in-law wants to kill you, you should still try to save her from falling to a watery grave.

The Little Mermaid II: Don't build walls and lie to your children. Also, feet are a plus.

Cinderella II: Be yourself. And if you get in trouble, blame the French.

Cinderella III: Magic explains everything. Trust the talking mice.

Lilo & Stitch II: If you put leftover meatloaf in your pillowcase, a buzzard will come into your house and trash everything. But only if you're Elvis.

Needless to say, Lilo & Stitch II was our favorite.

The Madness Begins...

So, this isn't on "the list" (see recent posts,) but I've just got to say...

When the cashier asks you, "Did you guys find everything you were looking for today?"

And you have the opportunity to slap a plastic banana down on the register and say confidently, "Yes, why yes we did,"

...It is a very good day.

Pasta Soup?

Alright, so the title needs some help. But it turned out pretty tasty, so I figured I'd jot it down here.

Again, I don't measure anything. Get over it.

Soup!

Fry up some butter and garlic. Yum.

Add spinach. About four handfuls. Large handfuls, and shredded daintily.

Fry 'em up, then add enough flour to make a roux (a doughy consistency - just soak up the butter.)

Now add about a cup of buttermilk, stir it for a while, then add flour again for roux.

Got that? Good. Now add about half a gallon of milk, a little bit of basil, a teeny bit of rosemary, and a few more handfuls of shredded spinach - as much as you want. Then add a package of frozen tortellini, and cook that until it's starting to get soft. STIR CONSTANTLY!!! Once the tortellini is nearly soft, add some frozen shrimp (already cooked,) and wait for all that to get hot and tasty.

Serve!

Summer Fun!

I found this list online, chock-full of things awesome. I've decided I ought to incorporate as many as possible into my summer experience, before I get to the MTC (and my life becomes much more focused.) My dear friend Ben has pledged his support in this endeavor, and I think the list should be pretty much neutralized by the end of the summer. Although I'll have to find something to replace such things as wine and coffee. Also, I'll have to find me some childrens. That could be interesting. Maybe Wal-Mart has them.

coloring (yes, grown-ups can do it, too)
crisp cotton sheets
soft skin
old family recipes
the first daffodils of spring

sleeping in
an exercise endorphin high
window boxes
a perfect cup of coffee
a genuine compliment (giving or receiving)
the way babies smell
a handwritten letter
waking up in a good mood...for no real reason
singing in the shower
finding a couple forgotten dollars in your pocket
doing something nice for your neighbor
a home-cooked meal
laughing
movie theater popcorn
playing hookey
a bubble bath
swimming
an afternoon nap
street musicians
your favorite song
saying thank you
helping someone in need
old fashioned photo booths
fresh whipped cream
inspiring blogs
a glass of wine
rainy afternoons
the funny things kids say
a novel you can get lost in
finding the perfect piece of clothing...on sale
clean laundry
the wind in your hair
treating the person behind you at the drive-thru
sharing an umbrella
the smell of lavender
a long walk that clears your head
a bear hug
The Beatles
smiling at a stranger
eating with chopsticks (Chinese food optional)
butterflies
staying in your pj's all day
singing along to the radio and knowing all the words
fresh herbs
ordering in pizza
happy endings...even if they're fictional
flying a kite
puppies
root beer floats
holding open the door...
...or having someone hold the door for you
fountain soda
white, fluffy towels
sunshine
spending an afternoon at a museum
really great advice
green lights all the way home
the sound of rain hitting the windows
sitting in a booth
holding hands
a great hair day with no effort
building a fort with your kids
when someone falls asleep with their head on your shoulder
fireflies
the perfect taco
geraniums on a windowsill
slow dancing
the smell of fresh-baked bread
cheesy, uplifting musicals

great stories
the smell of gasoline
the cold side of the pillow
love letters
old friends...
...new friends
a pull-through parking space
a baguette -- crisp on the outside, airy on the inside
when a dog licks your hand
sitting at the counter at an old-fashioned diner
using your favorite dishes
reading your child a bedtime story
Girl Scout Cookies
flossing
kissing someone you love
the smell of onions and garlic cooking
hot chocolate
jumping in puddles

old photographs
birds hopping on the sidewalk
Ella Fitzgerald
a spoonful of peanut butter straight from the jar
your softest t-shirt
a new magazine in the mail
fireplaces
having exact change
bacon and pancakes cooking on Saturday morning

Confetti Pie

Alright - it tastes like an uber-sweet bowl of Trix. But it's freaking awesome if you like Trix.

1 Pie crust +...

Filling:

2 C milk

1 banana

1 C shredded coconut

1 1/2 C sugar

1/4 C flour

Simmer (stirring like mad!) until it thickens, then add 1 tsp. corn starch.

Alternate layering Trix cereal and pudding shtuff. Chill for an hour or so.

Peanut Butter & Jell-O Pie!

Alright, I know what you're thinking. It probably starts with a "Gag" and goes on with a little "Hurp, bleurgh"ing. But, seriously - if you like PB&J sandwiches, you'll like the pie.

So, I didn't really measure anything. At all. But here's how I made it:

1 graham cracker crust (store-bought, 'cuz I'm lazy.)

4 oz. cream cheese or neufchatel

~1/2 C peanut butter

An amount of milk

1 package Jell-O (red or grape, preferably)

Cream together cream cheese and peanut butter, along with enough milk to make the mixture pour/spreadable, but not runny. Make sure to beat out the lumps. Spread said peanut butter/cream cheese stuff onto crust.

Prepare Jell-O according to directions, but pour carefully over peanut butter stuff to reach top of pie crust. (Careful not to destroy peanut butter layer. You may need to do some touch-up with a spoon.) Somehow, magically transfer the thing to the fridge with mad, mad ninja skills. Don't spill, whatever you do. Seriously. Who spills Jell-O all over the kitchen? Certainly not me. Refrigerate until the Jell-O sets.

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.