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Let’s Try this Again

So I completely forgot to mention earlier, while I was busy distracting you with big, brown puppy-dog eyes, that I’m venturing back to Pinehurst again tonight for some more fanciful hob-knobbery.

Pinehurst Resort

Except this time, instead of having to fight off the grown-up advances of Assistant Golf Professionals and eye insulting Mr. Rodgers sweaters, I’ll be forced to mingle with high-ranking military types and their spouses.

The good news is that Justin is taking me to a pre-party so I can fully prepare for an evening of fake smiling ’till my mouth hurts. (aka. Get just tipsy enough so the fake smile appears real enough to be convincing, but not so much that I forget to address his superiors as “Sir” or tell his boss – again – not to refer to me as “Mom” when he’s talking about me in front of my face because I am most certainly not a mom and I find his use of the endearment to be offensive at worst and condescending at best.  Not that that’s happened before.  Ever.)

I would probably try to beg out of the event completely except for the fact that I am so craving contact with actual people that I almost hugged the cashier at Food Lion the other day when she looked me in the eye and told me I’d saved $1.73 by using my Very Important Customer card.  And I think she intentionally grazed my hand when she handed me my receipt.

Plus, I was told there would be a medley of buffet-style delicacies, including but not limited to: spinach and lollo rosso with cherry tomatoes, sweet onions and Roquefort cheese; oysters and clams on a half shell; carved sirloin with mushrooms and truffle crust; tequila and cilantro pesto crusted Atlantic salmon; buttermilk and Gruyère whipped potatoes; vanilla iced spice cake; and of course, Tar Heel pie.

And if you know nothing about me, know that I’m a sucker for decadent food I would not otherwise be able to afford if I weren’t a) attending a wedding; b) attending a work function; or c) stealing it off of the plates while waiting tables at a fancy restaurant.

So now, thinking about the food, I’m starting to get a little excited.

Although I suppose I’ll have to sew that blasted dangling button back on my peacoat before we leave.  Luckily I’m a self-taught expert at button sewing.  Oh, and I might need to scrounge up something to wear besides jeans, no matter how good they look.  The Pinehurst Police likely have a jeans-wearing photo of me from last time and there’s no way in hell they’ll let me get away with it twice.

It’s Pinehurst, baby.  Go plaid or go home.

Eating Cream-Laden Cotton Balls? It’s My Favorite Thing!

Remember how I told you that I could ask my dogs if they wanted to get a colonoscopy today, and they’d probably respond with, “Hell yes, that’s our favorite thing!“?

Remember how I told you that everything is their favorite thing?

Well, to the  list that includes tangling themselves up in blankets to the point where they can’t move, charming the pants off of guests by flicking snake-like tongues into their faces, and continuously escaping from the back yard with Houdini-esque flair, you may now add the consumption of creamer-infused cotton balls.

Say-wha?

It’s actually a trick I learned when they were puppies – back when I discovered they would eat anything.  See, Justin and I left a few toothpicks on a plate in the living room one day after devouring some meatballs for dinner (did that sound dirty?), left the room for a bit, and when we came back, the toothpicks were gone.  Gone.  And in their place sat two slightly uncomfortable looking puppies.

Like any good dog mother would do, I frantically Googled what one should do when one’s pets swallow toothpicks, and much to my relief, this was not the first time in the history of horrible pet owners that this had happened.

What I discovered is that I needed to follow the somewhat “woody” appetizer with something softer and more palatable to ease toothpick passage through the digestive system – cotton balls, of course!  It turns out that cotton balls, when dipped in a bowl of coffee creamer to make them easier to swallow, are more beg-worthy than Beggin’ Strips when it comes to the discerning tastes of my brilliant dogs.

Now, I am not a veterinarian and therefore not qualified to dish out home remedies when it comes to your pets – I can only tell you that thanks to cream-laden cotton balls, we experienced no ill side effects to the toothpick swallowing incident.

Or the remote control swallowing incident.

Or the chicken bone swallowing incident.

Or the other remote control swallowing incident.

And people wonder why I’d be hesitant to ever become a “real” mom.

Glass and Muffins. But Not at the Same Time.

So.  Yesterday I decided to temporarily give up my recently adopted hermit lifestyle (a lifestyle against which I would normally naturally rebel, but the recent and unusually frigid temperatures for this time of year have allowed me to adapt to it quite nicely) and brave the cold to make the hour-plus drive to Raleigh.

But Katie, why would you risk letting the perfect indent your ass has worked so hard to carve out for itself in the couch fill back in during your absence?

Well, the trip is something I’ve been putting off for quite some time.  Near the end of our stay in Costa Rica, I dropped my favorite camera lens (and I only have 2 lenses) in one, horrifyingly painful moment.  Onto a cement floor.  And in a battle of brute strength between plastic and cement, you can guess which one wins.

The glass itself didn’t break, but there was some clear damage done to the body where it mounts to my camera.  I’ve been putting off having it examined by professionals for fear of hearing the worst possible news – that my lens, my little therapeutic amulet of creativity, had officially bitten the dust.

I’ve taken most of my favorite pictures with that lens.

The answer, my friend… Is spittle in the wind….

So yesterday I grudgingly put on a long sleeve shirt (shudder) and a coat (double-shudder), climbed into the Tracker, and floored it all the way to Peace Camera in Raleigh.

I have to say that this place was the coolest little camera shop.  It was packed full of books, beautiful equipment, accessories, and cameras from old timey-times.  I probably would have thoroughly enjoyed it if I hadn’t just handed my precious baby off to some surly looking guy who took her into the “back room” to take a look at the damage – not without first shooting me a pitying and reprehensible look over the top of his glasses after I told him how she met her fate with the cement floor.  You know, the kind of look a mother gives her toddler when she asks him in the middle of a department store if he pooped his pants and he says, “No,” but he, she, and everyone else in a 15-foot radius knows it ain’t true.

That look.  It stings.

The next 20 minutes felt like I was waiting for a friend to come out of surgery.  I mean, it wasn’t like the time I had to wait for my sister to have a tumor removed from her pituitary gland.  Not like that.  That involved my heart clawing its way up my esophagus and sitting at the back of my throat for a few hours, just waiting to expel itself from my mouth and scurry across the waiting room floor of the hospital should it hear the worst possible news.

No, this wasn’t like waiting for a super close friend or relative, but a good acquaintance, nonetheless.  Someone I liked and who had thus far changed my life for the better.

I’ll cut the drama short by telling you the news wasn’t good.  He was able to fix it so it mounted to the camera, but the autofocus just won’t respond.  It’s like her legs are there, everything’s attached, but they just. won’t. move.  So I’ll need to send her into Nikon and pay what will likely amount to half the cost of the lens in order to get her back in full-on working condition.  And even if I do eventually get a job and send her in for the necessary repairs, I’m worried she’ll never be the same again.

So this morning I needed some comfort food.  Something to lift my spirits.  And in my experience, warm muffins on a cold winter morning are the perfect remedy for this little ache I have in my belly – an ache not only caused by the news of the near-irreparable damage I did to my lens, but also likely derived from the fact that almost all of my electronic equipment as of late has decided to give me one big fat middle finger.

I’m seriously about ready to chuck it all and move to an off-the-grid cabin in the middle of the jungle.  But then I probably wouldn’t be able to make muffins.  And these were good.

I didn’t take pictures of the process because – let’s face it – I was in a craptastic mood this morning and didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that it will likely be a long time before I can take any food pictures with my favorite lens again.  But they smelled so dang good by the time they were done that I had to snap a few.

The recipe can be found here (this girl is brilliant when it comes to making healthy food that also happens to taste good), and the only thing I changed was that I used golden raisins instead of regular raisins.  And here’s the thing about raisins – they taste good, but what is with that texture??  I’m not sure how I felt about the wrinkly little squishy things in my muffins.  But the good news is that you could leave ’em out if you’re not sure either.  The muffins would, however, be delicious with chocolate chips.

Whole Wheat Pumpkin (Raisin) Muffins

You will need:

  • 1 c. whole wheat flour
  • 2/3 c. white flour
  • 1/2 c. sugar
  • 1 tsp baking soda
  • 1 tsp ground cinnamon
  • 1/4 tsp. nutmeg
  • 1/2 tsp. cloves
  • 1/2 tsp baking powder
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1 c. canned pumpkin (not pie filling – just plain pumpkin)
  • 1 large egg
  • 1/3 c. water
  • 1/4 c. olive oil
  • 1/2 c. raisins (optional)

Directions:

1.  Preheat your oven to 350-degrees F and spray a 12 cup  muffin tin with nonstick cooking spray.

2.  In a medium bowl, mix together the dry ingredients (first 9 ingredients).

3.  In a small bowl, stir together the wet ingredients (last 5 ingredients).

4.  Very gently stir the wet ingredients in with the dry, just until everything is moist.  (Erin will hate me for using that word, moist. It disturbs her.)  The point is to not over-work the batter.

5.  Spoon the batter evenly into 12 greased muffin cups.  Then bake at 350-degrees F for 22-25 minutes (or in my crazy-hot oven, 20 minutes at 345-degrees).  They’re done when a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

Whole Wheat Pumpkin Raisin Muffins

6.  Let them cool for about 10 minutes in the pan, then dump them out onto a wire rack.

Oh my.  These made my kitchen smell like Christmas and hugs.  It didn’t even matter that I was the only one eating them this morning – they were pure comfort in the convenient form of little round muffins.  And they’re fairly healthy, so I didn’t even feel bad that I ate 6 of them.

*cough*

Okay!  Don’t give me the look the mom gives the poopy pants kid!  I only ate 2.

So far.

Only a Flesh Wound

You know that feeling when you love someone like crazy, but you’re embarrassed to be seen with him/her in public?

Don’t tell me you don’t.  ‘Cause I know you do.

Hell, I’ve been that person to someone else on many, many occasions.

And I realized today I feel that way about my dogs.  Remember these monsters?

I had to take them to the vet today to get some shots.

THE VET.

The problem is not that my dogs were scared to see the vet.  Nor were they scared to get their shots.

Oh no.

The problem is that going to the vet is their absolute favorite thing in the world, along with going for walks, going for car rides, getting treats, getting baths, going to bed, going to the kennel, eating food, eating bugs, sniffing butts… get my point?

I could be like, “Hey guys, do you want to go get a colonoscopy today?”

And they’d be like, “OMG, hellz yah we do!  That’s our favorite thing!”

Knowing the vet visit was upon us, I tried to tire them out in the yard this morning.  But it was useless.  When I brought them in and pulled out their car harnesses so they wouldn’t be bouncing off the walls of the Tracker while I was trying to drive, the excitement ensued.

They tried so hard to be good and sit still while I put on the harnesses.  But their little bodies wiggled uncontrollably as adrenaline coursed through their systems.  The ride itself was fairly uneventful, thanks to these godsend harnesses.  You can see them here (although when they wear them, my dogs don’t look quite so… stoned.)

But when we got to the vet’s office… wow. Let’s just say that when I finally managed to get them across the parking lot, into the building, and safely to a seat in the waiting area, I had no less than 3 new bruises and what felt uncomfortably close to a broken finger (turns out it’s not – I’m just a baby).  And I’m sure it was hilarious to the uniformed military guys standing outside the military police dog training area right next door.  Hil-frickin’-arious.

They were so bad that when one of the receptionists started to call me to the front desk to fill out some paperwork, she took one look at me and said, “You know what?  You just stay sitting right there.”  She did not say it with a smile.

I was that person.  That horrible person who can’t control her pets.  And that receptionist was judging me, dammit!

But here’s the thing.  My dogs are wicked smart.  When we’re alone, just hanging out, shooting the breeze, it’s nothing but this:

And this:

And I can’t handle the cuteness.  And they know I can’t handle the cuteness.

And then we go out.  And the cuteness is gone.  And other people don’t see what I see when we’re home.  Oh no.

All they see is this:

And this:

And OMG this:

Running Dog

And so they judge.  And I guess I can’t blame them.  Because I’m never going to be a “dog whispering” type of person.  I’m always going to be more of a “let-them-drag-me-across-the-gravel-and-hope-it’s-no-more-than-a-flesh-wound-so-I-can-laugh-it-off” type of person.

That’s just the kind of girl I am.

Craigslist, You So Crazy

Occasionally, whilst surfing the Interwebs for job opportunities, I’ll find myself naïvely drifting into the murky, frothy, danger-filled waters of Craigslist.

Might as well just take a quick peek-a-roo to see if there’s any worthwhile prospects, I think to myself.  What’s the harm?

And on these rare occasions I happen to forget why I ever stopped visiting in the first place, Craigslist is always more than happy to refresh my memory.

What the internet would look like if it were an old-timey map.

Because once I’ve started perusing Craigslist, I’m quickly reminded that it is a teaming cesspool of internet goblins, illegitimate business ventures, sad personal ads, kinky-weird (and not kinky-fun) fetishes and a truly preposterous number of letters to strangers who’ve crapped on someone’s personal property.

Here’s the kind of thing you usually find…

Typical Craigslist Post #1:

Dear Person Who Took a Crap on the Hood of My Car While I Was Stopped at a Red Light on 5th and Main,

Why did you do that?  Seriously, why???  I mean, honestly, who DOES that?!?

In conclusion, I did not appreciate it and think you are a jerkface.

Sincerely Hatefully,

Guy in the Toyota Celica (a.k.a., the Cleveland Steamer edition)

Typical Craigslist Post #2:

Dear Girl with Brown Hair Wearing Some Sort of Patterned Shirt in Line at Starbucks in the Greater Baltimore-Washington Metropolitan Area,

I was standing in line behind you and you glanced meaningfully back at me as if to say “I recognize a kindred spirit in you.”  Or it might’ve just been because I stepped on the back of your shoe.  Either way, I felt a connection.  Let’s get married, ok?

I’ll Die Without You,

Guy with the Ironic Glasses and Emo Haircut

Typical Craisglist Post #3:

****LQQK HERE!!!!  BUY MY USED CRAP FOR WICKED EXPENSIVE!!!!1 SUPER SWEET DEAL!!!  $$$$**8**

I’M SELLING MY **MINT** CONDITION, SLIGHTLY USED TOOTHBRUSH FOR ONLY $199!!!

STILL HAS ALL IT’S ORIGINAL BRISSLES!  HANDEL BROKE OFF BUT OTHERWISE IN ***A1 PERFECT CONDITION***!!

LIKE NEW!!!! ONLY BEEN USED FOR A YEAR!!

SERIOUS INQIRIES ONLY!!  IF U ASK A QUESTION AND DON’T END UP BUYING IT, ILL COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND STAB U IN UR SLEEP!!!!!!!

CALL ME (FRIBBLEJAB HUMDINGER) BETWEEN 3 AM AND 5 AM MONDAY OR THURSDAY!!!

Typical Craigslist Post #4:

W/M/40 looking for a partner to engage in some sensuous bicyexuality…

Are you a well-maintained 10-speed Schwinn??  If so, I’d like to have sexual relations with you.  Meet me at the dumpster behind the elementary school, lover.  I’ll be the one in the vinyl bodysuit and clown mask.

And the job board is just as soul-stabbingly sad.  For instance, here are the recent gems I came across while searching for jobs today…

(**Note:  Sorry about all the random black bars but I decided to do the “ethical thang” and block out any information I thought would likely land me in civil court.  So sue me.  Or, wait–don’t.**)

Sneaky-sneaky!  This ad slipped in the “adult chat” part so deftly, so subtly, that I almost believed that maybe this wasn’t some sleazy operation being conducted out of this guy’s mom’s basement.  (Ha!  Kidding.  I knew all along.)

Please note in the description that “hard-working” is a must.  What isn’t required is a sexy phone voice or even the ability to speak English, mind you.  Because we here at Bob’s Basement Sexy-Time Phone Factory don’t tolerate any slacker-ass phone sex operators lazing around on their couches, surfing the Web, eating bonbons and living the high life on our generous $10 compensation package.

Nay, we expect you to knock out at least three sets of 25 squat-thrusts and 50 leg lifts during each and every phone call.  We’re all about discipline and dedication and, inexplicably, intense physical conditioning here.

The Upside:  (1) You and your significant other would have a common interest to bond over.  (2) No taxes are deducted from your paycheck.  Super-duper hooray!

The Downside:  (1) Everybody on the internet gets to watch you bicker over which of you was supposed to pick up paper towels on your way home.  (2) While naked.  (3) Seriously, paperwork?

It’s always nice to get the verbal abuse thing out in the open early because I hate when jobs wait until after I’m hired to condescend and mock my abilities to perform to their unreasonably high expectations.

What I gather from this ad is that, essentially, this position would require you to run this man’s news business for him while he stands behind you, screaming and heckling you with vaguely misogynistic schoolyard taunts.

For some reason, I get the impression that this guy is into some extreme shit.  I imagine he wrote this job description at 3 a.m. in between snorting a variety of narcotics and running to the bathroom mirror to slap himself and yell “BE A WINNER, DAMMIT!” while “The Final Countdown” blared on repeat in the background.  When he finished, he high-fived everything in his apartment and then set his coffee table on fire.

What Your Holiday Greeting Says About You (Hint: Probably Bad Stuff)

I don’t know if you guys have noticed at all, but there’s a lot of pressure on everyone to not act like their normal jerk selves around the holidays.

From the gifts you buy your relatives last-minute at the corner gas station, to the party invites you choose to accept or decline based on the variety and amount of booze being served, to the mall parking spaces you steal from the handicapped, all of these seemingly inconsequential decisions you’d regularly make without second thought any other time of year are now major opportunities to come off looking like a thoughtless, insensitive Christmas jackhole.

Unfortunately, the same also goes for how you greet people during the holiday season.  Which is why it’s important—nay, imperative—that you choose your words wisely, because everyone is judging you by them.  And by ‘judging’, I mean ‘writing down your license plate number to report you to mall security’. 

Lucky for you clueless people, I’ve already taken the time to decode a few of the more common holiday greetings based on my personal experience with humans so that you know what you’re really saying from now on.  Granted, not everyone uses a greeting for the same reason, and I acknowledge this delicate intricacy by providing helpful variations.  Simply choose the one that applies to you.

So here goes:

“Merry Christmas!”

What You’re Really Saying: (a) “Merry Christmas–I hope you can appreciate the sentiment even if your cultural or religious beliefs happen to differ from mine!”  or (b) “Merry Christmas–Kiss my ass if you don’t celebrate it, sinners!”

“Happy Holidays!”

What You’re Really Saying: (a) “I hope you enjoy whatever religious and/or cultural traditions you participate in this month!”  (b) “I actually have strong religious convictions but would rather not risk facing some sort of makeshift mall Tribunal for crimes against  intolerance just because I dared to use a vaguely religious greeting in public.”

“Season’s Greetings!”

What You’re Really Saying: (a) “Being that I am politically correct to a crippling extreme, I find ‘Happy Holidays’ far too controversial for my taste.  On a side note, I enjoy wearing beige, patternless sweaters, refer to white people as ‘Caucasian-Americans’ and listen only to the jazzy, non-confrontational musical stylings of Kenny Loggins.”  (b) “Hi there!  I work for Hallmark!  Please stop me before I kill again!”

“Happy Kwanzaa!”

What You’re Really Saying: (a)  “I know for a fact that you celebrate Kwanzaa and wish to extend to you your traditional greeting.”  (b) “I know for a fact that I celebrate Kwanzaa and wish to extend you my traditional greeting.”  (c) “I don’t celebrate Kwanzaa and I’m not sure if you do either, but I’m just going to assume so anyway because of your ethnicity.  Feel free to punch me repeatedly in my silly, presumptuous face now.”

“Happy  Hanukkah!”

What You’re Really Saying: (a)  See above, except substitute”Kwanzaa” for “Hanukkah”.

“Happy Al-Hijra (Islamic New Year)!”

What You’re Really Saying: (a) See above, except substitute “Hanukkah” for “Al-Hijra”.

“Happy Boxing Day!”

What You’re Really Saying: (a) “I’m Canadian!” (b) “I’m Australian!” (c) “I’m from one of those other countries that celebrates kooky holidays!”  (Kidding, my Canuck/Aussie/other kooky country friends!)

“Festivus for the Rest of Us!”

What You’re Really Saying: (a) “I’m a sad, aging hipster unable to deal with my grinding progression into adulthood, so I bury myself in the stale witticisms of early 90s TV reruns.  By the way, what do you guys think’s going to happen between Ross and Rachel?”

“Yule Greetings!”, “Yuletide Cheer!”, or pretty much anything with the word “yule” in it.

What You’re Really Saying: (a) “I’m a character from a Dickens novel who’s somehow been magically teleported into this strange and impossibly modern era.  Won’t you please help me return to where I belong?”  (b) “I’m a pretentious asshat with a flair for theatrics and a crippling need to appear unique and unconventional, even at the expense of my own dignity.”

“Phyllis Diller is the Pterodactyl Queen!  All Hail the Flapjack Revolution!!”

What You’re Really Saying: (a) “I am completely batshit insane and will likely throw feces at you if you come close enough.”

So there you have it, folks.

I recommend you pick one of the above phrases and start practicing now.

Happy Phyllis Diller is the Pterodactyl Queen Day!

…And Then I Got In A Fight With Jesus.

So several years ago around Christmas I got into this insane argument with one of Justin’s aunts about charitable work.  Really.  It was crazy.  Crazy because this particular aunt IS the very definition of a charitable person.  Even her career – and that of her husband – is about providing comfort and support and a means for those less fortunate to navigate through this confusing system of ours.  She is compassion incarnate.  Or something.

So what was the argument?

It basically stemmed from the fact that I tied the act of giving to the idea of karma.

Huh?

Allow me to explain.  We were talking about charity and random acts of kindness and such.  I said the beauty of any giving act is that while it certainly does some good for the recipient, it also instills in the giver a feeling of happiness, and… dare I say it?… pride.  And the reason this is a good thing is because this feeling is likely to inspire the giver to give again, thus perpetuating the cycle of good deeds and good feelings.  The design is flawless.

Or so I thought.

The problem with the correlation I made is that Justin’s aunt is devoutly religious.  She was deeply and personally insulted by my apparent insinuation that people only do good deeds in order to reap karmic rewards.  (And I assure you that is not what I said.)

Moreover, she would never dream of leading a charitable life simply because it made her feel happy.  (Again, not what I said.)

In fact, it was her duty as a Christian to help those in need.  (I can hardly argue with that, now can I?)

I tried to explain that I meant a nice “side-effect” of showing kindness towards others is the inevitable little warm fuzzy that nestles up in your face, your throat, your heart.  It can’t be helped.  It’s there, whether you want it or not.  And, whether you realize it or not, it encourages you to continue to feed it by doing more nice things.

What’s wrong with that?  Sounds like a win-win to me…

So you’re saying there is no such thing as a selfless act???

Sigh.

Of course not.  All I’m saying is if a “selfless” deed just so happens to make you feel good about yourself, what is so wrong with that?  The worst that could happen is it will inspire more selfless deeds.

Why do you think we like this guy on HGTV?

Mike Holmes

Or this guy on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition?

Or this woman, doing what she does best?

Because they perpetuate the good.  But no one can say they don’t get anything out of it.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter why a person does something nice.  It’s just that he/she does it.

Which brings me to Part 2 of my personal Christmas reformation project.  Part 1 started here, when I realized there is no possible way for me to make everyone I love happy over the holidays.  Even so, I shouldn’t let that deter me from getting as much enjoyment as I can out of the things it will be possible for me to do.  Is that selfish?  Perhaps.  But I’ve noticed over the years that the happier I am, the happier it makes people around me.  Try it.  You’ll see.

My next selfish step (aka. part 2) was to get myself a Christmas present.  The gift of a warm fuzzy.

(Now before you stop reading because you’re afraid I’m going to ask you for money, don’t worry!  I know these are tricky times for everyone.  I will include a link at the bottom in case you are interested, but that’s it.)

In order to get my warm fuzzy, I made a donation to a charity I’ve read a lot about in recent months – one I’m confident will make the most of my meager contribution.  And trust me, it was meager.  And, just like I predicted, I now want to do a little more.

What I have decided is that no one will be buying me a wrappable gift this year.  I’m tired of trying to think of something easy and affordable that someone could buy for me that I couldn’t just as easily buy for myself (because let’s face it – no one I know really wants to buy me this, andMark Zuckerberg has yet to accept my friendship request on Facebook).  So if anyone asks, I will send them to my charity.  It will literally take them 30 seconds to buy my gift, and they can spend as much or as little as they’d like.  Then, if they really want to go above and beyond, they can email me (katie@domestiphobia.net) or leave me a comment  here to tell me about it.  I want them to get the warm fuzzy too.

Everybody wins – and really, I don’t mind if they feel good about it.

I realize this is not a groundbreaking idea.  It’s not even a… um… ground tapping idea.  But it’s new for me.  And even if just one person gets me what I want this year (*cough*mom*cough*), I can honestly say that it will be the best gift I’ve received in a very, very long time.

To cross me off your Christmas list, click on THIS LINK to read about the GOD’S CHILD Project and then click the yellow “Donate” button.  You can also read more about the GOD’S CHILD Project on this website.

Don’t forget to send me an email (katie@domestiphobia.net) or leave a comment on this post if you make a donation.  And even if you don’t make a donation but like the idea or are doing something similar, please share!

I Tart You.

Sometimes being part of the military means you can’t always visit family for the holidays.  But it also means you have family wherever you happen to be.  Thus, we celebrate Thanksgiving with other military families almost every year.  We can gather with friends, fry up a couple of turkeys, and everyone contributes one or two dishes.  It certainly beats cooking every part of the meal, and it’s definitely better than our Pizza Hut Easter tradition.

Ahem.

My contribution this year was a combination of 2 recipes:  Pecan Pie Tarts and Whiskey Maple Cream Sauce.  The tarts were delicious and bite-sized, and they tasted even better with this rich, creamy sauce drizzled over the top.

Since the sauce is supposed to be chilled, I started with that and made it the night before.

You will need:

  • 1 1/2 cups of heavy cream
  • 5 tablespoons of pure maple syrup
  • 3 tablespoons of light corn syrup
  • 1 tablespoon of whiskey

Easy peasy!

1.  In a sauce pan over medium-low heat, combine the first 3 ingredients and stir them constantly for about 20 minutes.  The mixture will bubble and thicken.

Whiskey Maple Cream Sauce

2.  Remove from heat, add the whiskey, and then put the pot back on the heat for another 5 minutes or so.

3.  Put in the fridge overnight to chill and thicken.  Doesn’t get much easier than that!

Now for the Pecan Pie Tarts.  I doubled the original recipe and used a bit more cream cheese than called for because I wanted to use the entire brick.

To make about 40 tarts the way I did, you will need:

  • 8 oz. cream cheese, softened
  • 1 cup butter, softened
  • 2 cups flour
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 2 eggs
  • 1 1/2 cups packed dark brown sugar
  • 2 tablespoons butter, melted
  • 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
  • 1 1/3 cups chopped pecans

1.  Beat together the softened cream cheese and butter until creamy.  Then add the flour and salt, and mix until it forms a dough.  I used my hands for this part.

Cover the dough and chill in the fridge for about an hour.

2.  While the dough is chilling, mix the eggs, dark brown sugar, melted butter and vanilla extract together in a bowl.

I cannot tell you how much I miss my broken low-light camera lens right now.

3.  Chop up the pecans (even smaller if they came pre-chopped), and mix those in as well.

4.  Now comes the fun part.  Okay, it’s tedious.  Very, very tedious.  But it’s worth it, I promise!  Preheat your oven to 325-degrees F.  Grease 2 mini muffin tins (this will make about 40 tarts) and press the dough into the bottoms and sides of the greased cups.  Then fill each one with the pecan mixture to just below the edge (these will rise a bit, so don’t fill right to the brim).

5.  Then bake these puppies at 325-degrees for 25-30 minutes.  Cool them in the pan on a wire rack, and then pop them on out.  They should come out fairly easily if you greased the pan well.  When you’re ready to serve them, drizzle them with some of the chilled whiskey cream sauce.

Wow.  This sauce puts these things way over the top on level of divine, splurging deliciousness.  WowWowWow.

Now I realize this is decidedly Thanksgiving-y-ish food, but I could definitely see this whiskey cream sauce making a comeback around Christmas.  Even if I have to pour it over my sugar cookies.  Even if I just have to drink a bowl of it for breakfast.

Would that be bad?

Or bad in a good way?

Deck the Halls, If You Must.

Okay, I’ll admit it.  In case you haven’t figured it out already, I’m not one of those, “Oooh I’m SO excited that the holidays are almost here!!!” kind of people.  Which I realize makes me a bit of an oddity because I am (usually) a chipper morning person who enjoys engaging in social activity (with people I like).

Stipulations aside, I think being a socially-engaging morning person would normally also qualify me as someone who just can’t wait to dig out the ol’ Christmas decorations and tune the radio to one of the 24-hour holiday music stations and pull out my Frosty-the-Snowman-meets-Rudolph greeting cards to fill out, address and stamp while sipping hot cocoa and eating snickerdoodles in front of a crackling fire.

But I’m not.  In fact, the very idea – aside from the hot cocoa and snickerdoodles because those sound delicious – inspires a giant lump of un-enthusiasm to well up in my soul.

I think it might have something to do with coming from a broken family. (As a child of divorce, I’m so fortunate that I will always have that excuse to fall back on for any of my own personal failings.)  You see, no matter who we go visit for the holidays, there is always someone who doesn’t get a visit, and the inevitable guilt-inducing remarks are made, feelings get hurt, and rather than just enjoying the company I’m with, I end up worrying whether I’ve made someone halfway across the country feel isolated and alone by not gracing him/her with my presence this year.

And the thing that I (and apparently they) keep forgetting is that I have a guest room too, you know.

If you come visit me, I can pretty much guarantee a stress-free time.  The house may not be in perfect order and filled to the brim with Christmas decorations; I may not have 32 different varieties of fresh-baked Christmas cookies on hand; I may not be sporting a 12-year-old red and green knit Christmas tree sweater; however, your sheets will be clean and your wine glass will be full.  And against my better nature, I might even cook.  (Drink enough wine, and it will taste just dandy.)  If you want cookies, we can bake them together.  It will be fun.  We will have fun.  And we won’t stress if the cookies burn or the pups knock over my 3-foot-tall Christmas tree because c’est la vie, you know?

And if you don’t come visit, it’s no big deal.  I won’t make you feel guilty.  Why would I make you feel guilty?  That just means more wine for me.

But really.  Isn’t that the point?  Celebrating the life we have?  Sure, we can get all deep and thoughtful and say the holiday season is about giving, about family, about love.  Which is true.  But since we seem to have such a hard time with all that, let’s just take this in baby steps, shall we?

When you feel the holiday stress start to get to you because you haven’t finished gift shopping or the grocery store is all out of your favorite eggnog, here’s a revolutionary thought: enjoy it anyway. When it’s all over and you have nothing left but 3 trash cans full of multi-colored wrapping paper and a carpet full of tinsel, people aren’t going to remember that you had an $80 wreath on the front door.  What they will remember is whether or not you smiled.  Whether or not you laughed.  Whether or not they made you feel happy because they chose to visit you this holiday season.

Stressing during the holidays defeats the purpose.  Whether you live for the holidays or would rather crawl under the covers until tax season, they’re coming.  Your mission, should you choose to accept it – and it IS a choice – is to take a deep breath, another sip of spiked cider, and love the crap out of all of it.

It sure beats the alternative.

What Are YOU Thankful For?

Today, just like any other day, I’m thankful for the usual:  my family, my friends, my health, my home.

But I’m also thankful I’m not my neighbors.

Happy Thanksgiving!