Tagged: recipes

One Friday Lunch Thought

Did anyone else notice how fast Crumbl pivoted? They storm into the nicest parts of town (or sides of the street) with some of the best cookies ever—but it turns out you have to take a lunch break while eating them. So now they have mini-cookies.

And these are cookie-sized.

New questions which are fascinating to consider include:

  1. How did they not know about the size issue?
  2. Did they have any data that suggested they would have been unsuccessful starting with normal size cookie?
  3. Would they change their initial strategy if they had to do it all over again?

Whatever the answers, I need to say: “Please don’t ever pivot on flavor! They’re wonderful!”

On the Perfection of the Bite of EMB

When the entire topping comes off the dough at once, the flavor is out of balance.

But let me be clear: when you bite into a slice of Little Caesar’s Extra Most Bestest Pepperoni and the sauce temp and amount is not so hot or plentiful as to give caution to the maneuver, I’m talking about the act of cleanly biting off a piece from the pizza slice, you are nearer heavenly rhapsodies than even the inspired writers of scripture could express in words.

In a word, it is perfection.

Quit Complaining About the Eggs

Quit complaining about the price of eggs.

How, you ask? Easy. Eat steak.

Now that the prices are comparable, I have been eating 1/2 petite sirloin steaks—perfecting a cast iron pan fry—for breakfast as the rest of the country questions themselves into lunacy.

And I like it! Who wants eggs, when you can eat steak?

I, 18CT Colorado Eggs vs. I, Government Commisioner

I am a 18CT Colorado Eggs—the ordinary packaged 18CT Colorado Eggs familiar to all boys and girls and adults who can open their refrigerator door.

I am a Government Commissioner—the ordinary imbecile Government Commissioner familiar to all boys and girls and adults who have come to expect nothing of value from any government official because of their ignominious utterances like the above idea that any economic experience is the result of only one factor.

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No pencils were harmed in the production of this post. But I can confirm with special and satisfactory delight that three chickens died to make this post possible.

Moms and Dads of School Children: Buy Their Lunch

It’s immoral to accept free lunch.

Reader: no one, not one person who genuinely needs charity will ever read this blog post. So calm down.

And then call the school and inform them they are not to serve your child(ren) lunch unless your child(ren) pay (or what is equivalent, you have set up the lunch account and it has money in it).

I am calling the school now. I will report back with how the conversation went.

Little Hands, Little Burritos, Big Memories

I needed some canisters for flour, sugar, brown sugar, and chocolate chips, and I have such fond memories of such ingredients coming from yellow Tupperware of the 1970s and 80s, that I thought, “Why not search for some ‘vintage’ canisters on Ebay? I bet they’d be in great condition and cheaper than new, flimsy versions to boot.”

I was right.

And like any search, I quickly detoured onto a search for another item—the yellow Tupperware drinking cups we used to have when growing up. All throughout my suburban childhood, one of these cups sat eternally beside the faucet as the “water cup.” All the family drank water from the faucet from this one cup. That seems bizarre and uncouth today (not to mention like the opening scenes of the next deadly pandemic), but the five of us did it for 15+ years.

And I found them, too. And ordered them.

Let me tell you that the experience of holding them again was priceless. Memory is usually faulty, but these cups felt more familiar than old t-shirts and jeans.

To be clear, they make excellent cups for young kids. To start, they are indestructible. The cups I now hold are at least 30 years old and do not have any distinguishing marks on them, nor would anyone guess they were not brand new—let alone 30+ years old. Beyond indestructibility, there are two other features that lead to their appeal for kids’/family use. Firstly, they have a subtle texture which allows for easy gripping. Secondly, while 12 oz cups, they are narrow enough for a 3 year old to confidently grasp with a single hand. Maybe it is only because the previous cups we had my 3 year old on were smooth and wider, but these vintage cups truly seem a godsend.

Abruptly changing items, but not themes, what is not a godsend is the shrinkage of Chipotle burritos. Am I the only one who has always thought these Colorado burritos were huge—essentially too much for one meal? I mean it takes at least two hands, and arms, to raise the things. But we all went back for them again and again, partly because the $10 price seemed like a steal for such an abundant meal.

Skip to the end; the other night I grabbed one after a couple month hiatus and it seemed like my same 3 year old could grasp the thing with one hand. I appreciate an inexpensive dinner as much as anyone, but I would’ve rather been seen switching from debit to credit card by the general public at the unexpectedly higher total than have the other option unfold, which did occur, having arrived home, ate, and still been hungry. Bummer.

Oh, and US military aircraft were shooting Iranian weapons headed for Israel out of the sky.

I Love My Wife’s KitchenAid Artisan Mixer!

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Today we have a post from a guest blogger. Today, Captain “Is-There-Really-a-Difference-Between-Half-a-Teaspoon-and-a-Teaspoon?”, call sign, “I-Don’t-Care-If-the-Internet-Says-There-Is-a-Difference-Between-Baking-Soda-and-Powder-I-Can-Plainly-See-They’re-the-Same” will be taking controls.

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That’s right, Pete. And I am excited! Let me tell you why!

First, I need to set the stage, as it were, for our readers. Picture this: a handsome devil, about 6 foot in height, adorned, from bottom to top as follows. Faux fur-lined, real Native-American-tribute moccasins connect him to the spiritual earth. (Cabelas.) Boot socks add enough insulation to his keep-warm feet. (Cabelas.) An odd type of heavy fleece sweatpants, nylon knee reinforcements and all–Gore Windstopper to boot (Cabelas–discontinued)–keeps two strong legs warm between innings. Up top, a baby blue, v-neck pajama shirt hangs out of a 1/4-zip desert green fleece (Cabelas) and together the core stays kindled.

Now, onto the main course. The recipe for mom’s Peanut Butter Blossoms Christmas cookies calls for mixing 1 3/4 cups flour with 1/2 t salt and 1 t baking soda as the first step. Then, separately, you’re to cream 1/2 cup butter and 1/2 cup peanut butter. After this, add a mix of 1/2 cup sugar and 1/2 cup packed brown sugar. And at some point an egg, 2 T milk, and 1 t vanilla come to the party. Four bowls for one cookie? No, thank you.

Breaking things into those clean cut groups might have worked in the 90s, sure. But this is 2020. And doing dishes is still a chore. Plus, I have my wife’s new, red, KitchenAid artisan mixer at my disposal.

Segue: Most husbands love this item because they love how their wives finally stop complaining. I mean, what part of life is hard after obtaining the Kitchen-Aid mixer? Not me. I love the item because I get to rebel while baking cookies.

I don’t doubt my mom. I don’t. I need to be clear about that. What I doubt is that she really intended to be so an-, I mean, particular as to limit in which order I add the ingredients. So, in the bowl (before attaching the proper tool), I began with a stick of butter (directly from the fridge) and the peanut butter. I just put them in the bowl, added the paddle-outline looking deal, and set-it-and-forget-it as they say.

Next, I, after only stopping the machine–no other adjustments–added an egg, the milk, and the vanilla. I just cracked the egg on the side of the mixing bowl and plop. Only slightly doubting whether I should have stirred the egg a bit before adding it, I figured introducing the liquid elements now might help cream up the chunks of butter that seemed resistant to my will.

Measure sugar, add. Measure other sugar, add.

Finally, I stopped the machine, and took off the paddle thing. I measured the first cup of flour, not packed, into one cup and then for the other 3/4 cup of flour–instead of using the 3/4 cup line on the same 1 cup cup, I used an entirely separate 3/4 cup cup. Did I tell you how refined I am? (You just have to rinse dry measuring cups to clean them, anyhow.)

Now, here’s where the salt and soda issue unfolded.

Finally, I pressed my luck, because, ‘Why the eff not? It’s Christmas!” and carefully prepared to visually note any detrimental changes to the consistency of the cookie dough as I by feel increased the speed from 2, to 4, and then 6–but only for a second!

In the end, what I am most happy with myself about is that while back in the prison of the index card recipe, as I rolled the dough into balls, I, through some sort of ESP, thought, “Shouldn’t I be rolling them in sugar before placing them in the over?” And, sure enough, I was right. Can you explain that?

Speaking of extra sensory perception, I’m using caramel Hershey kisses this year.

The only problem now is that I feel guilty. No–not for resisting my moms dictatorial recipe. But because my perfectionist personality is pretty positive that with all these changes to order and decor, I cannot claim to have baked my mom’s cookies after all.

What kind of son have I become!?

Ear Sugar

Playfully hopping around the kitchen, H- didn’t miss the opportunity to stop and look at her reflection in the back door’s glass. She then bounced, no, danced her way over to her father.

“Oh. My. Goodness,” he said, import coming from his staccato. He did not look up as he walked the butter wrapper to the trash can.

“What?” she asked, curiously.

“Can you calm down just for one minute?” he returned.

The laptop monitor had an image of James and Lars as they sat in the studio. The “making of” documentary H-‘s father had been showing her during dinner was now paused as he mixed the cookie dough.

Still attempting to solve the present energy riddle, he shook his head and mused, “It’s not even like you had any sugar.”

Her expectant eyes quietly suggested that no solution was in sight.

Looking down at her, he again noticed the screen as he returned his attention to the mixing bowl.

Proud of his ability and with a subtle cock of his head to the left, he concluded, “I guess Metallica is kind of like sugar for your ears.”

On One Woman and One Other Thought

I sought work at the gentlemen’s club, in part, because I had never worked with women. Right after college it was Air Force pilot training (mostly men), followed by the last male-only Air Force flying squadron (must have balls), then several odd professions to include a car wash (mostly fellas) and the oil fields (oil rigs being the last bastion of actual men on the LORD’s good earth).

Despite, or in spite of, being married for six years, I had never really been around women, nor really even desired to be around them. It’s been three years since big-P-I-M-P-in and in a most unexpected change, these days I often seem to find myself around only women. Don’t get the idea that I am one of those creepy, sinewy older guys we all know at work who aren’t quite gay, but somehow are only able to be friends with women. For good or bad, that’s not me. With me, the situation is manifest in other ways.

For example, my beloved toastmaster’s club is gaining women by the droves. Six years ago it was the only place I knew of which had about a 50/50 make-up. But recently I went to a off-day meeting where the ratio was more like 80/20. The official roster has it 60/40–or 31/19 to be more precise. Where have all the cowboys gone?

Then there’s the last time I was asked to teach at church. Naturally, each Sunday I notice that most of the regulars are of the fairer sex, but that did little to diminish my astonishment as I was totally unprepared to speak to a group of two men and thirty black women. In answer to my reactionary inquiry, my pastor said, “Expect more like 80/20 in the future,” but that, “Yes, it’s more women than men.” Me, teaching women? Ha. What do I know?

Here’s what I know. After much deliberation on the matter and many years in school, I’m calling it quits on trying to learn about women. To me, from what I’ve seen and from what I believe I have been purposefully shown, that goal would be no different than trying to learn about the ocean. I don’t mean learning about the elements of one of Earth’s oceans that we can observe with our five senses. I mean that, for me, women as a group are like the ocean that is eternally beyond the ocean that we presently perceive. What’s more, even if I could learn about women, not one reason comes to mind as to why I’d want to.

Instead, I’m going to focus on learning about one woman. That’s right. My mind is resolved. One of you lucky women will soon gain a suitor. Get excited. And since I’ve recently also concluded that shame is probably the deepest sensation felt during the acquisition of knowledge, I’m pretty sure that my upcoming education will be exceedingly difficult for my prideful self.

As far as the other thought, I lost it somewhere by the ocean part. It’ll return some other day, I guess.

I will give you this, though. Just now as I walked by the dumpster in the darkest hours before the dawn, I saw the regular raccoon but also two smallish ones. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a raccoon family before. What about you?