Tag - humor

Mrs. O’leary’s Cow

Mrs. O’leary’s Cow
photo by NASAWt: 154.4 (1.1)
Mood: Laaaazy. But hey, it’s Saturday.
Breakfast 24 frosted Mini-wheats in 1/2 cup 2% milk = 270 calories
Homeowner’s Docket: Laundry, light cleaning touchup, trip to Lowe’s to look into wallpaper liners.
Lunch/Dinner: Unknown.
Exercise: Was supposed to go to the gym this morning, but I slept in. Will probably settle for 20 minutes of Dance Dance Revolution.

Last night, my groom and I dined at Swanky Bubbles on Front Street in Philadelphia, I put a lot of effort into looking goood — wore the one-shouldered top from this hostess shot and made my hair more voluminous than it’s been since 1989*. Swanky Bubbles is a small restaruant with a “Pan-Asian” menu and a champagne bar. Brick walls, candles, techno-ish music. Little city restaurant. Dinner was fabulous, and when it came time for dessert we eschewed the usual suspects (chocolate cake, creme brulee) for chocolate fondue.

I’ve never done fondue before, so I was delighted when the waiter arrived and put the dish down in front of us. A small, blue bowl with chocolate sauce rested above a tea-light sized candle. This contraption was in the center of a large, round plate that was filled with small chunks of fruit, tiny squares of pound cake, and mini marshmallows. We were given two long and skinny forks with which to skewer the morsels and plunge them into the chocolate.

Me: This looks great!
Waiter: And this is if you wish to toast the marshmallows first.
(He then sets the top of the sauce on fire and walks away) No, let me type this again: He. Set. The. Fondue. Sauce. On. FIRE.
Me: Good God, NOW what??

The flame made for a pretty sight, so I gamely took the waiter’s suggestion and stabbed two mini marshmallows. I flashed Thor a “look at what a sophisticated and elegant wife you lucked out upon” glance and delicately extended the fork over the flame.

The marshmallows promptly caught on fire.

Me: “Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God they’re on fire! Fire!”

As Thor dissolved into laughter, I frantically started waving the fork around in an attempt to put out the blaze. But Oxygen FEEDS fire, so that didn’t work. I blew on my little fork-come-torch but to no avail. Finally, remembering the Dick Van Dyke “Stop, Drop, and Roll” PSAs I saw as a kid, I plunged the flame under some fruit on the dish and snuffed out the fire.

As I pulled the now-charred marshmallows out from the pile, I realized that in my haste, I had also blown out the candle meant to keep the fondue sauce warm and smooth. And I really didn’t want to call back the waiter. He may have set the tablecloth on fire to impress us.

“Why don’t you just set the marshmallows on fire again and use it to relight the candle?” Thor said in between hearty laughs.

While flashing Thor a “look at what a sophisticated and take-no-prisoners, you-making-fun-of-ME??? wife you have” glance I did exactly that.
Setting my jaw, I skewered two more marshmallows, plunged them into the pyre and relit the candle.

After I snuffed out my latest conflagration, the flame on the sauce (no doubt caused by a wee bit of alcohol on top) burned out, and we enjoyed our fondue.

Thor: You need to blog this.

So I did! This post will be enjoyed twice as much by people who have met me in person, no doubt.


*Hairstyles have been mostly straight and limp since 1991. For over a dozen years now stylish ladies have flatironed, blown out, and chemically straightened their hair. My hair is meant for bigger things. It was made to be curled, teased, and sprayed into action. It is meant to brush against the ceiling of the car as I drive to work. I don’t know how much longer I can get it to conform with this repressive style. Bring back big hair!

How I know I’ve arrived

cheesy!
“So, Kim,” you begin after the waiter brings each a creme brulee at the end of our meal. “Look at you. You have a house, a Saturn, some animals, lots of gadgets, a good marriage, and a somewhat-respected job. How do you know you’re doing well?”

“Easy!” I reply. “Velveeta!”

You look at me quizzically, unaware that a piece of the crunchy sugar topping is stuck to your lip. “Velveeta?”

Smiling, I begin my explanation.

I grew up in the 1970s, when economic times were tough. Money was tight at home, but I never really knew it. And when the wallet is light, your grocery shopping habits have to be meticulous. So we’d buy store brand stuff. Or that “No Frills” brand that seems to have become obsolete.

Enter Velveeta. Velveeta made the BEST grilled cheese sandwiches ever. Velveeta had that beautiful orange color. Velveeta was a rectangular brick of sunshine! Velveeta wasn’t presliced — you had to use the special grown up cheese cutter with the wire to cut it! Velveeta was class!

Velveeta was also a couple of bucks per box. Which made it a luxury item. When we had Velveeta in the house…times were good. Velveeta was definitely NOT a weekly staple.

Years pass, and I get married. The first 6 months of BvP’s and my marriage were tough. We were flat broke. And when I grocery shopped, I faced the same dilemma my Mom faced 20 years prior. Get the Velveeta…or spend that money on something more practical. Practicality almost always won.

And if I did splurge, it was on the pissy small brick of Velveeta. The small brick which said: “I’m too poor to buy the big brick. Alms for the poor?”

Tonight I’ll drive my 1-year old car to my lovely, just-purchased home. I’ll slide in my socks across the Pergo flooring of the kitchen. And I open my refrigerator door (which makes ICE!!) , I will see the large, 2-lb box of Velveeta, prominently placed on the shelf.

And I will smile and say a silent prayer of thanks for my good fortune.

Kim makes Sweet Tea. Sweet Tea wins.

It all started innocently enough. I was lurking on gmailswap.com with a few gmail invites ripe for the giving. A poster on the message board was willing to swap a recipe for sweet tea for a gmail invite.

I liked the swap. Firstly, it was something useable, unlike those stupid Orkut invites (where the blogsnobs live…you know…the ones who do nothing but blog about blogging day in and day out?). Secondly, I have a spouse from the South — land of Sweet Tea (though I call it iced tea) — and I’d like to be able to make some once in a while, you know?

So I respond to the gentleman, he sends me the recipe, and I send him a gmail invite.

It’s a hot, sunny Saturday. Thor decides he’s going to mow the lawn. Nice! I decide to make some sweet tea for him! And so it begins.

Printed recipe in hand, I head to the kitchen. Start some water boiling, then start unwrapping the Lipton tea bags. Carefully, I place the 29 tea bags (funny…I could have sworn I opened 30 bags) into the boiling water, leaving the tags hanging over the edge of the pot. For easy removal of the bags, right?

Wrong. Instead, a tag hits the electric burner eye and ignites. The other 28 tags also catch fire. The flames of HELL shoot up about 8 inches high. With great alarm, I take the pot by the handle, take it to the sink, and run cold water over the flames. Fire extinguished.
scorched
I return the pot to the stove, making sure that tags are nowhere near the eye. Unfortunately, my hands were shaking from the trauma, and I sloshed tea all over the cabinets.
slosh
And the stove.
sloshslosh
Undeterred, I finish the recipe and pour the results into a kicky plastic pitcher that I bought at Target. The WD-40 makes Sweet Tea go down easier*.
finished!
End result: Thor loved it. I have about an hour of cleaning ahead of me. And as for tea bag 30…let’s just say that Max found it for me. (sigh)
ugh




*This is a joke. I do not put WD-40 into sweet tea. Nor should you, OK?

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