Menage a happy

Briefly thereafter...

I had the greatest Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, ever. And I want so much to tell you all about it, but I don’t have the time (and who would, really?), to properly expound on the delights of oyster stew in yard-sale dutch ovens, tall, skinny trees and piles of presents, each and every one just perfectly chosen, lox and bagels and Truffulas, both pink and purple, holding hands here and there and everywhere; kids, rambunctious pups, the search for Tina (found where we both thought we looked), and love, love, love, love, until I nearly burst with happiness, and did, slightly, once, because, like I said, it was just that kind of Christmas.

I hope yours was too.  

           

Twice as Nice

It’s wonderful enough to be put to sleep by the sound of rain and distant thunder percolating from speakers, but doubly wonderful to wake to both the manufactured rain and the patter of the real deal at your windowpanes. 

On Being a Late Night Snack

I think Baker has a girlfriend, or boyfriend, I’m not entirely sure which way he swings. 

          But that’s not my point. My point is that he’s out all night, and he’s white, mostly, an easily spottable tidbit for Wile E. Coyote and friends to devour, and it was pursuing similar amorous adventures that all of my other boy cats exhausted their nine lives. 

          He’s been warned, but such are the ways of young men. 

The Art of Being Adorable

On CAPTCHA's and Crock Pots

CAPTCHA’s... 

          Am I the only one who feels as though I’m going through someone’s underwear drawer, or as if I’ve ratted out a best friend to save my own hide, when I key in CAPTHCHA figures that are obviously the photographed address numbers of god knows whose residence?

    If you knew me—and you kind of do, but not this well—you would know that I hate Crock Pot food. Hate. It. And I’m not a picky eater. Well, I wasn’t. I’m not now either, not really, as long as whatever I’m served is whole, minimally processed, with no egg, sugar, oil, or animal involved. That’s not too picky, is it? I do gluten.

          Anyway, I’m guessing you love your Crock Pot. Most do. Thing is, every meal I’ve ever had from one seemed just shy of baby food, mush. Especially meat. I don’t know, maybe mush is the point. I mean, mush would seem easier for the stomach to convert to... well, mush. But I’m a gnawer. I like chewy. I like crunchy. I don't want a meal that comes with the option of being taken intravenously.

         That said, it was nothing short of bewildering for at least one human to learn that I, Hater-of-all-things-Crock Pot, recently purchased a 4-quart slow cooker. No, not like the one in the picture. Please.

          But here was my thinking: Beans. The musical fruit.

        I had planned to cook beans in the Crock Pot. Throw them in. Turn it on. Leave. Come back. Voila! Beans enough for a couple of day’s worth of meals. Minimal effort. No worries. Genius.

          Think again.

          Crock Pot Hints and Tips

         ‘Beans...’

         ‘Dried beans, especially red kidney beans, should be boiled before adding to a recipe.’

          ‘Boiled’. As in: on a stove, where I can forget them and scorch them permanently to the bottom of yet another pan.

          Stupid Crock Pots.        

                              

Yesterday I drove through a rainbow tunnel. 

          Seriously. A perfect arch over Highway 52. Two lanes and a bit of gravel. That’s it. Just me. Out in the country. A shaft of sunlight hits this patch of fog, and there it is. 

          At first, there was no way I was going to drive through it. Too beautiful. I’d ruin it. Then I’m like, The hell with that. We’re talking once-in-a-lifetime here, with possibility of Unicorns. 

          Woof! I’m in. 

          Woof! I’m out. 

          I look in my rear-view. Nothing but a hole, widening in the pale fog. 

          I look ahead. 

          Far, far ahead.