a killer ride

I once knew this girl. I met her at a math/science summer camp just before my freshman year in college (I know, I'm way nerdy).

There were 21 girls in that camp. (Also known as ACCESS.) Near the beginning of the summer, we all sat in a circle and played a getting to know you game. We were all supposed to name our dream car and why.

I only remember two things about that day. I remember what I said, and I remember what one other girl said.

I said my dream car was a Saturn. This had nothing to do with the car itself, and everything to do with the name. I wanted to be an Astrophysicist, after all. But mostly, I just didn't know anything about cars beyond the world of Pontiac and Oldsmobile that my parents supported.

Then there was the other girl. She was into meteorology. She was goth. And she said her dream car was a Hearse. You know. A Hearse. I forget if she said why. But we all sort of looked at her closely in that moment, wondering if she had some internal conflict or teen rebel moment going on. No one made any comments.

Then this morning (8 years later) I saw this article on sfgate.com. Apparently, lots of people own Hearses. You could probably live in one. Or die in one.

My favorite line is at the end of the article, when the author says this: "When the time comes, it's going to take me for that last ride."

pickles: an attempt at domesticity

This portion of the post was written August 18, 2009.

It was not many weeks into marital bliss that I discovered DH has a great love of pickles. If I buy pickles, he eats them. No languishing forgotten in the fridge. He eats about two pickles a day, on average. One before leaving for school, another after getting home. Pickles (the "good" kind), are kind of a lot of money though. And I only ever saw them on decent sale ONCE. (I bought 8 jars, and they were gone in the blink of an eye! I should have just cleaned out the store.) So I buy a jar here and there when a lesser brand would go on sale, but the sales aren't much of a deal.

Poor DH. He does not have enough pickles to eat.

And now, the seemingly tangential story that will transition smoothly back to the world of pickles:

DH and I ate at a friends house last Saturday night. The lovely lady of the house, Karina F, had just finished canning some peach jam. In awe at her domestic skill, she pointed me toward the counter where I saw her homemade pickles. I tasted some too, and they were yum. I then determined that I MUST make pickles for DH. Especially since small cucumbers are in season and cheap.

So. I attempted to make pickles. I sort of followed this recipe. Except I have no idea what a "head" of dill weed is, so I ignored that. And I didn't have any ice (or ice trays for that matter), so did not do the ice bath. Then, I got to the part where I tried to sterilize the quart jars in boiling water. It turns out my biggest pot was not tall enough to submerge the jars. (Drat!) So I tried to make do. I sort of "processed" half of the filled jars for 5 minutes in boiling water, and the rest I didn't bother since I didn't think it would seal anyway (and I of course googled it and somebody random on chowhound said it wasn't necessary to process them.

Here is the result:

I am supposed to wait two months to allow for mixing of flavors, but we'll see.

-------------

October 24th:

So, there are only 2 jars of pickles left. David began eating them after about 2 weeks. And they are really good! Pretty crunchy too. I think the ones I did NOT boil fared better. Next time I do this, I will try a canning method that is specific for keeping pickles crisp. No more submerged boiling, but perhaps steaming? Not sure yet. I sort of don't have any canning equipment. I'll do more research next year:)

PS. Janie the magnificent has a lovely post about her family pickle rule. No more than two per person per day. I think we might need this rule in my house eventually as well!

more on twinkies: the Weird Al celebration

I've already posted about DH's antics on cinco de Mayo. Or, rather, twinko de Mayo. My husband is somewhat obsessed with Weird Al, you see. And yesterday was Weird Al's 50th birthday. DH celebrated the occasion by consuming a twinkie wiener sandwich. (So named in the movie, UHF. See this video clip).

This is so gross.

First, here is Weird Al consuming his twinkie wiener sandwich.

DH is now preparing the elements of his sandwich. First, he is microwaving the hot dog. (and dancing a jig)

Note the hot dog. It has been cooked.

See the twinkie. He had to make a special trip to the store to purchase the 3 sandwich elements required, by the way.

See DH cut the twinkie in half.

Note the hot dog is now inside the twinkie.

This is the worst part. That yellow stuff is NOT mustard. It is cheese whiz. YUCK.

And here he goes. He eats it. And he claims it was quite tasty. Eeeewwww.

David says this is an annual tradition. So for the rest of my life I will have to endure him eating twinkies twice a year with disgusting toppings. Someday our kids will do it too I'm sure. And I will hide.

Rolos

So I was buying fish. (Yes, DH, you're getting trout for dinner. Lucky you.)

Behind me in line was this little girl buying two packages of rolos. The grocer guy starts off talking to her saying, "Van Blyck? Van Boren? Van __(fill in the blank)___." He lists off 7 or 8 Van Something names.

Little girl: You didn't guess Van Halen.

Grocer guy: Well...They're kind of before your time.

Little girl: (silence).

Grocer guy: But I liked them better when it was David Lee Roth and not that other guy. You know what I'm talking about?

Little girl: No.

Grocer guy: Good. Let's keep it that way.

I think I missed something crucial in understanding this exchange.

poem of fall

Fall is like a rag

It's still smelly from last year

sticking on your face.

Is it:

a) Fall. the season of cooling.

b) Fall. where rocks fall on you.

c) Fall. where you get sick and fall over, and never get up again.

.

.

.

Correct answer: C. Alas.