All Grown Up <<<your link to buy. Why can’t I DOOOOO this like everybody else???
Book of the Month finally got one right.
So I loved this. It’s written in a conversational tone and you feel ~or I did, anyway~ like you’re having mimosas at brunch on Sunday with one of your single girlfriends. It’s refreshing in a way that it makes you feel okay to be in your thirties and not have your shit together. Usually chick lit is about girls in their twenties that don’t have their poop in a group and that’s okay~nobody expects them to. They only ask that you remain bright and opinionated and slightly slutty.
In your thirties you get to be mad about it.
“Her life is architected, elegant and angular, a beauty to behold, and mine is a stew, a juicy, sloppy mess of ingredients and feelings and emotions, too much salt and spice, too much anxiety, always a little dribbling down the front of my shirt. But have you tasted it? Have you tasted it. It’s delicious.” That’s me. That’s SO ME.
{I changed my rating to five stars but wanted to include this. It deserved five, just because fours are seen as So. Much. Less. It’s not fair} It’s kinda written in short story form, which may have been how it started out, like a piece at a time for magazines, which works, but it felt almost condescending as she related how her father died a half dozen times throughout. It’s not something easily forgotten. Or how her mom went to stay with her brother. That was slightly irritating.
I would say don’t read this book if you’re looking for a deeper meaning, but you can find it if you choose to do so. I’m guilty of gliding along on the surface, enjoying books at their face value, but when someone points out the obvious parallelism, I’m like, “Oh yeah. So that was the point of that storyline.” Then I feel stupid. Which is why I was reluctant to join a book club. And why I don’t contribute to discussions on here. Leave me to point out the obvious with some bland, “I liked it!”.
There are no resolutions in this book either, but I don’t look for a sequel. That’s kind of the point with these drifting, loose end books.
She feels about art the way I feel about the written word. We are both failures at our true loves, Andrea and I. I get it: “I go to an art opening with Nina after work. I don’t stay long, because it is one of those days where it is hard for me to look at art. Sometimes it is hard for me to look at art because so much art is terrible and I can tell it is a lie, that the artist is lying, and I begin to hate that art/artist for wasting my time.”
This author ain’t lyin’. She ain’t makin’ it pretty, either. And I love her for it.
Jane Steele well, there’s supposed to be a picture there. That’s your link to buy, by the way.
The book ends with these wise words (don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare spoil it for you!): “We tell stories to strangers to ingratiate ourselves, stories to lovers to better adhere us skin to skin, stories in our heads to banish the demons. When we tell the truth, often we are callous; when we tell lies, often we are kind.”
That resonated with me, as I’ve always had a passion for the truth, and also why so many people can’t stomach me. Which is fine. I’m not gonna tell you I think your baby is cute (unless it really, really is. And they have to be something truly spectacular for me to remark upon it), or that you’ve a nice steed, or that you look good in that dress unless I really mean it. Naturally, this earns me more than a few enemies, as people are coddled and stroked and told all manner of lies all the livelong day.
I went into this book thinking it was going to read like Jane Eyre had metamorphosized (WordPress doesn’t recognize that spelling, but I googled it to make sure I was correct) into Stephen King. Unfortunately, that is not the case. All of her are murders are SUPREMELY justified, if I do say so myself. From the writer’s synopsis: “She has no strong objection to pretty frocks, good whiskey, large estates, expensive horses, or marriage to a brooding Byronic hero.”
“Reader, I murdered him.”
How can we not find this endearing? After all, she’s admitting to us her sins, and that is to be admired. Nothing wrong with the truth, I’ve always been told. Perhaps this review would best be told in quotes from the novel, as I didn’t particularly love the book, I did enjoy the writing. “I have always been wicked, but I was not always universally loathed.” “In short, my mother and I–two friendly monsters–found each other lovely and hoped daily that others would find us so as well.
They did not.”
“–and though I was wary of my cousin, I was not afraid of him. He adored me.” (this proves to be a near fatal mistake). “What sort of game?” “Trading secrets,” he rasped. “I’ve loads and loads. Awful ones.” I found that bit humorous, as he was thirteen and this was England in 1936 or something. Looking back, it’s more like an omen.
“I wondered over the unsettling notion of words running dry.” ~That sounds awful to me, indeed!
“…did I allow myself the highly literary indulgence of losing consciousness.”
“There is no practice more vexing that that of authors describing coach travel for the edification of people who have already traveled in coaches. As I must adhere to form, however, I will simply list a series of phases for the unlikely reader who has never gone anywhere: thin eggshell dawn-soaked curtains stained with materials unknown to science; rattling fit to grind bones to powder; the ripe stench of horse and driver and bog.
Now I have fulfilled my literary duties…”
“Ye’ll learn a plentiful heap o’ facts, if all goes well.” “And how if all goes ill?” “Then ye’ll not need to worry yerself–“he coughed “–as it’s prodigious difficult to trouble a corpse.” This intelligence was punctuated by the stomping of boots as the coachman returned to his high post, a friendly cry of, “Damn you, Chestnut, you bloody useless sack o’ glue!” and we were off again.
“If you don’t remember the others, remember me.”
Oh, there are twists and there are turns, designed to pull the most cautious reader into a ensnaring trap of war and lust and greed. I liked it just fine. I just wish it wasn’t quite so correct in language, as it takes awhile to get to the heart of the matter, due to all the lace and flowery overtures. If you like this type of thing, by all means, read this. I give it a 3.5
“So often the way…with books.”
You may or may not have noticed I’ve taken a brief hiatus from this blogging thing for a few weeks. As some people post every day day, I may have taken liberty with the word brief. Well, whatever, I’m on here now.
Here’s the thing: I dearly-as in truly, madly, deeply- love to write. But this blog sucks the enjoyment from it. I feel the need to have a topic, which was never an issue on Facebook, then the pressure of pictures-not just any ol’ snap-as-you-go shot, but a thoughtfully plotted and executed image that thoroughly summarized whatever the devil I’m waxing poetic about. Then the links. Dear Lord, the links. I’m an Amazon Affiliate, which means I get about half a cent from every dollar you spend on Amazon if you click via one of my oh-so-convenient links. You don’t have to buy what I’m advertising, but make your way to checkout from starting where I put you.
I haven’t made one red cent yet, so y’all ain’t bought nothin’. And they’re firing me.
Here’s the latest thing I want, in the event you feel sorry for me and want to buy me something to make me smile. http://amzn.to/2mfTTYp See, I don’t even know how to do it, it’s supposed to have my words there…oh, bother.
I applied for Google Ads on the day I set this website up and they’ve been suspiciously mum on the subject. I think I got lost in the shuffle but I’m too lazy to contact them about it.
Then there’s the email. My well meaning readers have been asking where to sign up so that they don’t miss a word. That’s real sweet! However, it presents a new burden-I mean, pain in the as—I mean, challenge. You’d think it would be simple enough. And I suppose it is, if you know what you’re doing. Before doing anything, I have to figure out how to do it. Enter the WordPress forum, the bane of my existence, where they use all these technical terms for everything. Once I’ve waded through that (and screenshot the most helpful instructions) I understand I need to get a “plug-in”. Translation: App. I like the free ones, so MailChimp it is. Then you set up your account. No problem, other than time consuming. Then you select a template and transfer your stuff over. This is where I began my downward spiral. I need a new logo, a smaller one, more pictures, but then to understand where I want “negative” space not to overwhelm the reader. Then my message, with title, in the desired font and size. I didn’t get very far, after I realized this was just for a test audience, that was compiled of emails I add. And then they only send it to a selected few of those. I never understood that part, either.
Without going into further boring details, I gave up after learning that I needn’t have acquired an email service, as I already had one, but I didn’t even click into that mess to see what I lacked.
So I am reminded of all these inadequacies when I manage to open my blog (Another feat in itself, as my computer restarts after so many days of inactivity, therefore logging me off. So I have to Google how to get back in to my own website.) You can see where I have become frustrated.
So here I am, reading all weekend to hopefully make goal of 60 books this year. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but when was the last time you knocked out over a book a week? Yeah. And all I want to do when it’s this cold is eat. And I’ve done quite a bit of that this weekend, as well.
So that’s where I’m at.
I’ve given up Facebook for Lent, and let me tell you, I sure do feel lonely without telling y’all every little aspect of my day and flittering random thought that floats through my brain. It’s a wonder I haven’t exploded. In place of Facebook, I have been devoting a few hours to TV. It’s a fresh new diversion for me, and I’ve recently been familiarized to Swamp People. If I understand correctly, they were the predecessors to Duck Dynasty. And I luuuuurve DD. I like Swamp People. I like Troy. I kinda like ‘a way he talks, ya? Some people might believe he’s a mite slow, but I would hazard to say he’s one of the most brilliant people around. He’s built an empire, after all. So I finally know what all the cries of “Choot ’em, Lizzabuth!” are about. 🙂 Choooooot ’em, indeed. They’re terrifying, all those gnashing teeth and swamp mud splashing everywhere. And why izzit the alligators are perpetually male? There must be plenty of females around, for the abundance of new generations. Surely some of what dey choot are of the fairer sex.
I have just returned from a rescue mission for Shug and his newly acquired POS Ford. I should enclose a picture, but I don’t want y’all waving and attracting attention in the event I’m ever caught dead in it. He took it directly to the shop within days of it being relocated here from Newport. That should tell you something. In the few short days it was here, it did manage to lower our property taxes by three percent. And several complaints from the neighbors. I jest. Anyway, after spending several weeks at the local mechanic’s, it was returned here to the Plantation to haul wood and a source of transportation to the monthly Campout. It idles pretty high and sucks gas like the Arabs are giving it away, but I attribute that to just being a pickup. It broke down yesterday in the bottom, and Shug had made plans to go get a new battery for it, even though it had tested good. Uncle Dale talked him out of it and they charged it and set off again. Then arose problems with the chainsaw. Johnny finally declared it a day and began to drink beer from the comfort of the couch instead of the woods. Today he went off with the agenda of acquiring a battery and having the alternator checked. I sat here, typing away, anticipating a call that he was broke down at the light.
Sure enough, about ten minutes after he left, here his face was on my android, explaining that Advanced’s alternator checker was down (seems there’s problems all over in the mechanical world. And yes, that is the technical term) and that now his not-so-trusty truck wouldn’t crank, their little charger wouldn’t bump it, and could I please bring Patsy and the jumper cables?
Why, sure, I would just love abandoning my blog after being away from it for so long to come to your aid on a truck brand that I loathe. (Actually, I didn’t mind much, I just want to know if he reads these or not).
I could not tell you how many people Patsy has rescued. As I begin to tick them off on my fingers, it prompts stories of how I knew the people, or came to be their acquaintance after my services were rendered. I still to this day have no idea how to hook them up, but the people in need generally do. With the exception of my good friend Brenda, who required a boost after a hearty meal at Holston’s a few short months ago. Here we were, two curly headed short women, freezing to death in the parking lot of our favorite restaurant, while no doubt Yankee men strode by without so much as the tilt of their head in our direction. Finally a cook on his smoke break came to our aid. Psssh. And I wrote him a glowing recommendation on their Facebook page and they never even responded! Well, he’ll get a star in his crown if I have anything to do with it.
As I’m dressing for my Mission: Rescue Shug it occurs to me my little hometown has no less than four car parts stores and although my astute husband has stated he’s at Advanced Auto, methinks it’s best to ascertain that that is indeed his location. “Across from Food City or next to Zaxby’s?” I text. “Food City,” came the reply.
Let the record show that the business in question is an Auto Zone.
But nonetheless, I managed to get the toolbox open on Patsy (always tricky business) and withdraw the often used jumper cables, which Shug attached, and within seconds, the ol’ Ford fired to life from the lifesaving juice of a CHEVROLET. 🙂
We returned home, although I gently suggested the shop.
I do believe I’m due a snack.
Perhaps some Nabs.
Nabs, you say? You’ve never heard of them? Oh, allow me to introduce you. Dear Reader, Nabs are the fancified way of saying peanut butter and crackers. In all actuality, they’re the shortened form of Nabisco, which is the abbreviated version of National Biscuit Company. Who knew?!?!? I did, after Googling it. What did we ever do without Google? After all, it isn’t something you could look up in the encyclopedia, if you even knew where to start. My coworker is from Southwest Virginia, and evidently that little pocket of Earth calls peanut butter and crackers Nabs.
But nowhere else. Even Amazon doesn’t know what they are, as they provided this object: Nabs
I was thoroughly confounded last week when she announced that was what she was having for lunch and then pulled out a lowly pack of crackers. And yogurt, if memory serves. So I got my lesson for the day, and now you have yours.
I believe that’s all for now, I have exhausted myself imparting my struggles with you, and am now entitled to a hot dog.
This is the first time in many years the thought of spring doesn’t fill me with dread.
Spring doesn’t mean EXACTLY the same thing in Co-op circles as it means for most people.
For the majority, spring means warmer weather, maybe thinking about planting a garden, or putting in a pool, going to the lake, planning barbeques.
Spring at the Co-op means an absolute onslaught of people, demanding grass and vegetable seeds, fertilizer, herbicides, pesticides, you name it. Spring means a season of calves brought in thunderstorms by heifers, the constant nuisance of flies, and the persistant worry of when the rain’s coming-will it be soon enough? Can it hold off till you get this last field spread?
Old men and new farmers haggle over buggies and sprayers and sod drills. They raise Cain that the price of chemicals are cheaper by three dollars the next county over. They gripe and complain about being subjected to “all these changes” and “you about can’t make a livin’ anymore, with you a-robbin’ us blind!”
Yes. Clearly, I’m the one to blame.
There’s the warehouse screaming on the radio to quit sellin’ Kennebec seed potatotes, how many times do they have to tell us we’re out till Houser gets back from Tenco? The phones are ringing with people wanting to know when the farmers market is starting and why won’t the damn tire shop won’t answer the phone.
It’s wanting to go pee so badly but having to wait until one of your regular/ favorites is before you and you can whisper to them to hold on, or perhaps while running to the back to check and see if some wire came in-because the warehouse is too busy to answer you- you can nip through the restroom. It’s calling your supervisor in tears because some jackass threw a 5# bag of $30 dog food at you because you were taking too long to ring up a prepay ticket for $30,000- more than you make in a year-to one of the locals so he won’t have to wait on a ticket and blend sheet five times a day.
It’s ordering merchandise in the 8:30-9:30 hour, that sweet moment between madness when everybody is out in the sunshine, weeding and working before it gets too hot. You know you’ll have to use some newbie to hopefully stock your shelves once it all comes in, because there’s no hope for you to get a “break” to do it. And it won’t be dusted and fronted but it might be in the right place.
You’re never fast enough, or smart enough, or friendly enough to suit 75% of shoppers.
It’s frantic phone calls to Lavergne, where is the 10′ tedder you promised would be here today, or what do I do for a horse that has an eye infection, or is the generic Roundup ever going to be available this year? It’s 500 baby chicks delivered three times a week waiting to be squeezed to death by some little snot nosed kid whose parents had the misguided notion that poultry are pets.
It’s standing on your feet on concrete for ten hours and smiling at every person you see and wishing them good luck on their endeavor and praying you’ll have the energy to do it again tomorrow.
No, I don’t miss all that. That’s the definition of spring to me.
Be kind in your journey, today and all days.
I love American Pickers, in case you didn’t know. I hope they stay current on their tetanus shots.
We watched the entire season (except the season finale) of Alone yesterday. The History channel makes this cable business worthwhile. If we forget to DVR the last episode of Alone Thursday night, I will potentially inflict harm to something. I don’t know what yet.
There is a bottle of Texas Pete on the coffee table. Johnny has forgotten about it, but will remember when he reads this.
Why are they called coffee tables, reckon?
I googled a lot of stuff today. It started with Excel taking my numerical data out of cells and replacing it with the date. I was all for blaming a poltergeist but turns out it’s programmed that way. Weird. Then we came across a social security number that started with “003”, which sounds fake, or George Washington’s social, but with the aid of Google I learned that that is what people who are born in New Hampshire are branded with. Also, the 000’s, 666’s, and 900’s are not used. Neither are some 700’s, because they were retired after something happened with the railroad. (??)
I mean, you just never know what you’re gonna get with me.
I celebrated 8 months at my current job today. That’s quite the feat, considering I didn’t think I’d make it eight days.
Sometimes I’m not sure I’m gonna make it eight hours…..today was one of those days. But at least I can use the copy machine almost flawlessly these days.
Almost.
I also had my second Leggings Transaction today. It went smoothly. I wasn’t even scared. I feel so much lighter with my least favorite purchases gone from my life. I should probably sell some books.
I’m sitting at Food City waiting for my first ever swap meeting. I’m a bit skittish. However, I have Annie safely tucked in beside me. I’m sure there are some perverts or sex trafficking conartists who seek out especially girly Craigs List ads to prey upon young women.
My social media adept cousin set up this rendezvous for my sunny leggings I had aimed to wear with my UT orange. Turns out the only color that looks worse on me than white is yellow.
We’re meeting at the grocery store because, for my part, it’s well lit and busy. I reckon the lady’s son works here and she gave him the cash for the goods. He sounds young, pimply, and harmless. So I backed in out here by the highway by an old red Ford pickup. I’m early. Before long, here comes this stocky teenager loping across the parking lot towards me with purpose. This is it, I think, ready to hop out with my reject lularoe and a winning smile. I bet he embarrasses easily, and it’s probably a pain for him to pick up his momma’s purchases all the time (I could tell she was experienced from the way she made arrangements via text). Maybe he gets a dollar or two to do her bidding. Maybe she upped the ante since it’s Superbowl Sunday.
Just as I’m reaching for the door handle, I see he means to go to the passenger side of Patsy. Since I was backed in, and so was the rusty Ford, this meant he wasn’t my guy. I blushed, thinking of how that would have went. “Hey, I’m here with your mom’s new leggings,” I would have chirped. He would be all wide eyed and backing away with his hands and eyebrows up.
I’m too high strung for this kinda work.
Advancing now, and almost upon me, is a tall, dark headed teenager. I avert my eyes. I’m not gonna make the mistake twice. But this is it. I flash my most charming put-everyone-at-ease smile. Hey, I’m a salesman. Or I used to be.
I force the leggings on him as he fumbles for the twenty.
My first transaction is complete! My feet were sweating. But I did it! And I didn’t get stabbed!
Now if I could sell all the rest of my impulse purchases so effortlessly. Y’all interested?
Not sure if you’re even allowed to solicit business on here, but why not? I paid for this website.
Well, I gotta go bake a buffalo chicken casserole to eat whilst I watch Brady get his butt kicked. Hope they’re watching his inflation. Ego and ball, I mean. You can see where my loyalty lies to this day.
Since the Broncos aren’t there, goooo Clydesdales!!!
My black cashmere sock has resurfaced after a good year and a half. You are perhaps wondering what would possess me to hang onto one mismatched sock for so long. Well, the reason is threefold.
One, it’s cashmere. It was expensive, as far as socks go. And I knew that if I were to ever buy a replacement pair, I would undoubtedly, at some point, lose one of them. So then I would still have a complete pair. But look at THESE. So cute and affordable.
Secondly, things have a way of disappearing and reappearing around here at a somewhat alarming rate (as you may have noticed). I’ve learned to roll with it. Usually they don’t stay missing for long. This particular sock must have been having a really epic adventure. I guess the rich really do have more fun. And no, I have nothing to do with these possessions that come and go like mosquito bites. It’s merely a hazard of living with a scatterbrained writer.
And finally, I mean, how much room does one sock take? Hardly any. It cost me nothing to leave it when I organized my sock drawer last weekend (no, really, it’s true. Don’t envy my crazy rockstar lifestyle).
So anyway, it magically appeared tonight when I went down to the laundry room and gathered up some odds and ends from the table. I know my darling husband didn’t have a thing to do with it. Really, I don’t have the slightest idea where it has been all this time.
I’ve had a bit of bloggers block for the last little bit. Honestly I don’t have a lot going on to write about, and I’m too busy trying to reach my Goodreads goal to write. My goal this year is 60, eight more than the unattainable goal of 52 from last year. I only fell short by ONE measly book, if you recall. I’m off to a good start. I’m on number six already. But The Grownup was less than a hundred pages….whatever, I’m still counting it. Here’s a link for your own copy: The Grownup if you’ve never tried Gillian Flynn, you really should.
Currently working on The Couple Next Door, which wasn’t nearly as thrilling as all the Instagram posts had led me to believe. {I won’t bore you with all the bookish details here, I plan to put all my reviews in their own category eventually}.
Friday nights at the Johnson Plantation have been reduced to taco soup from the freezer and watching Rocky. Which is fine by me. I just wish somebody could deliver oysters like they deliver pizza. Until then….
When Donald Trump announced he was running for President, people scoffed. His earliest supporters were shushed, intellectuals informing America that he was a pompous ass and not to debase themselves by publicly approving someone who was so clearly a joke.
As it became clearer he was no joke, and in the very least not one to be counted out, collective America was still stamped down. Don’t waste your vote to someone who doesn’t have a chance, we were told.
But when the polls opened for early voting and they were packed from daylight till dark, and the plastic coat hanger signs popped up in yards, and the campaign tour wore on, it became obvious he did have a chance. And blue collar America had a voice. And they were screaming.
America turned out day after day to stand in line to cast their ballot for their best chance. Their only chance. And maybe their last chance.
And by God, he won. He actually won. And we couldn’t believe our luck. So we rejoiced. And again, we were silenced. We were told it was over, to stop celebrating, whatever. In four years, they’d show us. We think it’s gonna be so great, but it’s gonna be a train wreck.
And on Inauguration Day, Trump made yet another rousing speech, and it wasn’t a sugar coated backpedaling of all his promises from when he was lobbying for votes. Once again we were told to hush, nobody wants to hear it, it’s over and he’s not “my President”. Well, bullshit. As long as you live in The United States of America, he’s your President whether you like it or not. The liberals are scared. They’re scared of the people they think they’ve made friends with. That’s why they made friends in the first place, because they’re too scared to fight. He may have not been your pick. You may have disliked your choices. But you have to look at the long term: who is going to be seated on the Supreme Court, who means business when it comes to terrorists, who has a better understanding of business.
When you look for a political candidate, I think it would serve us well to look at whom the military supports. The candidate who believes in our front line of defense. Because that’s who protects us. It ain’t the celebrities. It sure ain’t the sports superstars, or the shopkeepers, or your momma. It’s the men and women overseas, tromping through the desert with their M-16 strapped to their back. That’s who I believe in. Those who seek out evil, look it in the eye, and blow its head off, then march off on their next quest looking for the next one. Not some panty waist sitting safe at home, spewing their personal poison while refusing to eat Monsanto’s.
And the next day, the day after the Inaguaration, women marched. They marched because they’re oppressed.
What’s that, now? I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood. I thought you said oppressed.
There’s your definition of oppressed. Obviously, they’re using the wrong word. A mistake, I’m sure. I know I’m not oppressed. Because if I was, I couldn’t post this. I couldn’t read whatever I wanted and I couldn’t go outside and sing at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t have a career, or vote, or get married to who I choose. And if I choose wrong, or changed my mind, if I were oppressed, I couldn’t get divorced. I couldn’t wear shorts or show my toes or leave my hair unbound. Hell, I wouldn’t be able to go without a bra if I were oppressed. (Although, that is oppression…by an inanimate object. But I’m not a free loving hippie, either, so bra it is).
You know I’m not a fan of children. I never had any, nor do I want any. But guess what? I never had to have an abortion to achieve my childless adult existence. I PLANNED for it. I dutifully took my birth control pill every day of my adult life. That’s after I marched my ass to the doctor, then I marched my ass to the pharmacy, so when I marched my ass out to the bar baring my cleavage and fat legs proudly, I didn’t have to march my pregnant ass to a “Planned” Parenthood baby killer two months later.
I’ll tell you something else while I’m on it. I know that women are consistently underpaid and overlooked for promotions in a workforce where men are in control, men who are often undeserving in their position. I know this because I was one of those women. I waited patiently for things to get better for me. I waited for change. I blamed the manager. I blamed the board. I blamed everybody but myself. And it was my own fault for staying when it was evident nothing would ever change. If you look, if you will open your damn eyes and really look, you will find someone who appreciates you and pays you what you’re worth. Often they’re standing right in front of your face. You just have to say yes.
So yeah, I’m gonna celebrate. And I’m gonna write about it. And you don’t have to like it. You don’t have to read it, either. That’s your right as an American. You know, the non-oppressed country.
So there’s my piece. I’m able to say it from the comfort of my home, thanks to a fearless line of leaders who have protected my homeland my entire existence in this world, and our great military, and the women suffragettes who really did make a difference.
I don’t make any plans beyond what to eat and what to read when there’s snow on the ground. Usually it’s soup or chili. Something hearty, you know. Yesterday was no different. While eating breakfast, I was plotting supper. I decided on chili. And I like Mexican Cornbread with my chili when I have time. So much more savory than crackers. But it is a bit of a pain. It involves lots of dirty dishes. But first things first: snow cream.
It surprised me a few years ago when we got about 7″ of snow dumped on us and so many of my Facebook friends were asking for the recipe. Recipe? I’m pretty sure that was the first thing I learned to “cook” because it didn’t involve an oven and the secret is you just add more sugar till it tastes good.
Step 1: Gather snow.
It’s best to get it somewhere your dogs haven’t been, for obvious reasons. But you might want to think about birds, too. Typically the hoods of cars provide unblemished snow. Get more than you think you’ll need. And if this is the wet, heavy stuff, you really gotta hustle.
Step 2: Reserve about a quarter of the snow to another bowl unless you don’t mind going back out or can send a minion/ husband/ child. Add milk, LOTS of granular sugar, and a few drops of vanilla. Taste frequently to see if you’ve got it where you want it. Health nuts might add coconut or blueberries. The possibilities are endless! If you add too much of an ingredient, that’s where the reserved bowl comes in. See how smart I am?
Step 3: Pace yourself. Snow cream gives the worst brain freeze headaches ever in the history of the world. Johnny sticks his in the fridge and picks at it all day. Drives me nuts, but his way is the smart way. Don’t tell him I said that. The powdery kind isn’t conducive to snowmen (this is my friend Rhonda’s, isn’t he precious???) but it’s perfect for snow cream.
After binging on snow cream, I was ready to relax with my current read, The Snow Child. I’m taking part in a read-along on Instagram and somehow managed to drag my friend Liz into it with me. It was a wonderful companion for the weekend. It only lulled me to sleep once.
After a while, I decided I better get started on supper. I put the hamburger meat in the sink to thaw and returned to my nest. I was quietly content for awhile then Johnny announced his plans to go camping.
I mean, what?
It was all of sixteen degrees outside. It was going to be six overnight. SIX. Like, no one or two or three in front of it. Six.
It’s not unusual for him and his buddies to camp in the rain. I’ve come to expect them to head out in the mosquito ridden months of summer. Of course, you can’t keep them out of the woods in fall. But…but….there is actual snow on the ground. There was no talking him out of it, so I set to work grilling the meat, chopping onions, and getting the beans out of the cabinet. I also assembled the fixin’s for the making of the cornbread. I was concerned about having enough eggs for breakfast because the cornbread takes four (!) but I had plenty. The blackberries had already thawed, and I briefly considered just fixing that and calling it a day. But alas, the love of my life was playing Walden tonight and needed something substantial in his gut.
I preheated the oven.
I greased my pan.
I measured out my sugar into my mixer.
I melted my two sticks of butter.
I searched for a can of creamed corn.
And searched.
And searched.
Hmmm. Peculiar. I vividly remembered buying a can not too long ago. I certainly hadn’t made any Mexican Cornbread since the purchase, and that’s all I use it for.
Well, I’d figure something out later. I could always use a can of whole corn and blend it (I’ve made this mistake before). I reached for a tiny can of green chilies. I KNEW I had those, because I bought three cans after the last time I went to make this dish and didn’t have any and I already had my butter melted and my pan greased and I had to rush to the store because obviously the nearby gas station doesn’t see them as a staple.
Wait for it….
Seems that Amy the Chef strikes again. Are you freaking kidding me?! I can’t even make an impromptu trip to the store because I am snowed in. Patsy may be 4 WD but Amy isn’t. Sometimes I am quite the helpless female. I need a fainting couch, like this one. OooooOoooOOoo.
To Google I go. I’m too far involved now. There has to be a substitution. HAS to be. I am not disappointed. Turns out, you can substitute canned green chilies for-get this-fresh green chilies. Now why hadn’t I thought of that???
IF I HAD FRESH GREEN CHILIES WHY WOULD I BE USING CANNED ONES?!?!?!
After I recovered from that head explosion, I eventually found something I could use that didn’t involve weighing, roasting, and skinning poblano peppers. Chili powder. Of course! So simple.
I couldn’t find a ratio (the truth is I quit looking as soon as I saw I could use it as a substitute and was too lazy to go back when I realized my blunder) so I figured a heaping tablespoon would work just fine and dumped it in.
Back to the corn issue. I never did find that can of creamed (but I did find two cans of sloppy joe mix and a mess where the honey had set…it’s a wonder we haven’t been carried off by ants), so I broke out the blender.
That’s right. It can be done. I don’t know if you’re supposed to drain it when you do this, but I do, then add back in milk. It just seems more savory. I came up with this all by myself a few years ago, but turns out everybody knows. I saw it on Pinterest not too long after I considered myself the ingenious inventor.
All that was left was mixing my dry ingredients and then putting both mixtures together. There’s where I struggle with baking. I’ve never understood that business. But all my stuff comes out much better now that I heed those directions.
When I took it out of the oven an hour later, it looked really weird, due in part to the lack of chilies and the addition of the powder, which changed the appearance dramatically. Shug even noticed. “What’s up with the cornbread, babe?” It looked like a sad pumpkin bread. And it sunk in the middle because my baking powder is out of date but I can’t remember to buy more, so I just keep using it. I bought one of those great big containers at Sam’s because the little ones are just as much as the giant one (and also because all reasoning goes out the window when I’m at Sam’s), and they don’t seal back, so they go bad even quicker. Whatever. It was edible.
Obviously, since I couldn’t be bothered to take a picture until after we’d hacked into it.
I didn’t get around to making the blackberry cobbler, they’re still chillin’ in the fridge. Maybe tomorrow.
I did, however, find time to buy several more pieces of Lularoe.
Clearly, I can’t be left unsupervised.
I’ve been craving fajitas since Christmas Eve. I wanted to make tacos for Christmas dinner and Johnny said it was sacrilegious. I think we had chicken pot pie instead. Like, I’m totally sure Jesus would prefer tacos on his birthday, but whatever.
Anyway, since he’s camping with his buddies this Saturday, I get whatever I want on Friday. Usually I make him take me to Maryville for Chili’s or Cheddars, and maybe peruse Hobby Lobby and the bookstore while we’re at it. I rarely push my luck for a movie, but it does come under consideration on occasions when I’m particularly vexed.
So it was decided early in the week that we would finally satisfy my fajita famine this Friday, unless an oyster craving took over my life between now and then. No, I’m not pregnant. I just like food.
So after two full days worth of snow advisory warnings and twelve hours of on again/off again snow showers, we bundled up and set off, he in his camo, and me in my Lularoe.
We take note of the specials and settle into our booth, making conversation with our favorite waitress (her kids are already hoping they won’t have to go to school Monday, nevermind the snow has yet to stick). We enjoy our drippy cheese dip. We make fun of the Yankees in the booth behind us.
Our tiny mousy waitress brings us our pitcher of frozen margaritas. With two glasses of ice.
Johnny makes the best of the situation and goes ahead and pours himself a helping over the ice, making for “very extra cold margaritas” while I try to scoop my ice cubes out with a fork to transplant into my water glass and dirty napkin. Yes, it would have been easier to ask for extra glasses…or new glasses…but then what would I have to write about?
We talk about work and this and that while we sip. Our cheesy rainbow fajitas come out quickly and we dig in. Everything is going great. The food is tasty, the margaritas are cold, I’m wearing some of my favorite leggings with my new Matilda Jane sweater, and my date is especially handsome. ☺ Thoughts of Polar Vortex 2017 are far from my Friday evening brain.
Chatter around us dies down and soon there is only ourselves and one other couple left in the restaurant. We get up and push open the tinted front doors to be confronted by a snow covered parking lot.
“Oh,” I said, stopping dead in my tracks on the sidewalk like it’s acid. “How long were we in there?”
Maybe an hour and a half, at the most, but East Tennessee had been transformed. The only thing that was on the road when we left were piles of salt. So much for that. So we thawed the windshield and set off down a slightly-more-treacherous-than-usual Chapman Highway. It looked worse going into Knoxville, more traffic seemed to be flowing on the southbound side. At least we didn’t have far to go. We eased off the highway into our turn.
“Look at our road,” Johnny murmured, like I wasn’t wide eyed and alternately gripping my seatbelt and door handle. There was one car in the distance and its tracks were almost covered already. It was around this time I began to despise Neil Young. (The current CD in the player. I never really liked him anyway, but now it’s by association as well).
So here we are, almost home. The snowflakes made me feel like we were in the Starship Enterprise, as always.
Obviously we made it, as I lived to tell about it, but next time I might pay more attention to the weather and less attention to my Mexican craving.
