I had a big day planned! It was going to require special (meaning already stained) clothes, a fancy hairdo (involving a hot pink clip I should never wear in public), and all of the math and organization skills I could bring to the kitchen counter...yes, it was Salsa Day! Am I a good cook? No. In my opinion a good cook is someone who can take an assortment of ingredients and create something delightful. I am an avid reader, with attention to detail, and the ability to follow directions. In other words, I can follow a recipe. About twelve years ago, my dear friend's mother was kind enough to share her salsa recipe with me (she was so not one of those "family secret recipe" types...and she treated everyone like family!). The card I wrote it on is spattered with my inevitable messes from each year since, and of course that's part of what makes it so special to me.
One might think that after so many years, I would have my system for this day down to a science...nope! All I know is that I buy a big box of tomatoes and a big bag of onions (no weight on either item is available for comment), and that is enough of those items for a few batches. Every year it is a game of catch up as I run out of certain things, while having a surplus of others. It involves many trips to the store and market. Some of the other typical queries are: What kind of hot peppers do I use? How many green peppers should I buy? Is it really OK to not process the jars in a canner?
Since I was running low on time and energy this week, I asked my produce company friend if she could just grab the items I needed, and I would pick them up from her house. I gave her my specifics on types and quantities of each item...that sounded like this "Yeah, a box of tomatoes...25 pounds? Um, is that the size you usually sell me? OK, and enough peppers for five cups chopped. Hot peppers? You have three kinds? Mix them up, and I need what will be two cups chopped." Would you believe that this information led to the best proportion of ingredients that's ever been on my counter for salsa-rama? Can you believe the size of these tomatoes in my 6 quart pot?
I do have a bit of a system as the whole event gets under way--it starts with notifying the children that I am not really available. (It is not as critical as the warning that goes out when I am making hard candy with 300 degree syrup, but any interruptions had better be important!) This is not to say that my system would appear terribly efficient to the outside observer, but it works for me. I do not use a food processor for the onions and peppers, and I don't really know why not. It is not as if I truly enjoy the tears streaming down my face, and trying to manage my nose with my shirt shoulder. I guess I find some peace and sanity in the chopping, oh, and I think it puts more love in the final product...and I'm pretty sure you can taste that...AND, my recipe doesn't mention a food processor. I have upgraded to using the assistance of an electric appliance for the hot peppers because the oil from those could kill (or burn) me. Although I caught some jalapeno vapor today that may have damaged my nasal passages. I use lunch bags for gloves when I am feeling particularly vulnerable to the heat beasts (this just adds another level to the beauty of my get-up).
This years planning snafoo came in the form of having purchased wide mouth lids, only to go to the basement to find pint jars with only tapered mouths. That resulted in an unscheduled trip to the grocery store for an exchange, but I was still chopping tomatoes by 9:00 a.m.
Did you ever notice how sometimes everything changes when you have even just one other person watching? A friend stopped by today with some lunch (thank goodness), and was visiting with me somewhere during batches one and two. Suddenly I realized that it may very well look like I had no idea what I was doing! Let's recap my scene at that point...kitchen a disaster with produce and dirty utensils strewn about and me a disaster with onion eyes, spattered clothing, hot pepper sinuses, and general mutterings about jar and lid sizes. I think there should be just one show on Food Network, once a week, that has a complete kitchen fool bumbling around, but turning out ok product in the end. Maybe it would be more inspiring to show that success can even come out of a mess.
My friend directed me back to whatever task at hand I had wandered off from a few times. Sure, I'd have found my way back on my own, but it saved some time. She now knows that I am afraid of my garbage disposal (and hot peppers). She learned that I like to clean everything up, but leave all of the newly jarred items on the counter as a visual of my accomplishment (also in hopes of warding off the dreaded "So what did you do today?" comment).
After everything was cleaned up (except for those items contaminated with hot pepper oil), she convinced me/we decided to just make a third batch and use up the rest of the potentially soon to perish ingredients. I let her use the big knives that I am afraid of, and let her turn the light on over the counter (see, my little knife in the bad lighting suddenly seemed ineffective). When I went to grab more jars, I remembered that I had returned those extra lids, and now had only six remaining for all of the salsa we were setting our sights on making. We solved our problems by using quart size jars--that's a bit of salsa for an evening, but I can pretend to have lots of friends.
When we were finished, she was able to depart looking like someone who could confidently be out in public. I, on the other hand... 
By 4:30, there were twenty-nine jars of salsa on my counter. I could write down how many/much of each produce item I started with...I could, but I probably wont. I just hope Santa was listening when I told him I needed new jar lids and bands for Christmas...there was eye contact made, with a hint of information registering...I think.
We are vacationing in Orleans, Cape Cod--spending some quality time with family at Nauset Beach. Our trips to the beach must be planned (according to the kids) according to the tide chart. Years of practice have made this a near perfect science for us. In the five days we have been here, I have already learned some new lessons to be filed away for future reference.
As an avid user of sunscreen, hence my ivory (versus bronze) glow, I thought I had mastered this task. However, I had more to discover. First of all, it is important, when wearing a swim skirt and applying sunscreen, to consider the height that skirt will rise to if one sits in a chair. I got some fabulous high-thigh burn on day one. I had protected myself to right above the knee. I also realized that on windy days, one should take into account that using a barrette to keep hair out of one's face also keeps it off of her uppermost forehead. As a result, the sunscreen applied in typical fashion to my face, left about a half inch line of burn at my hairline. (Luckily these two areas are well hidden in everyday life.) Believe it or not, I was still considered qualified to apply spray sunscreen to my brother's back when he decided to grab a quick snooze at the beach. I really thought I was doing an adequate job...really, I did. It wasn't until later in the afternoon that we noticed the white scallop pattern down one side of his back, where I had artfully sprayed...then there was a pink middle section, and a more even whiteness on the other side. he did not appear to be in any discomfort, so I saw no need to alert him to the situation.
I am pleased to report that, according to me, it is easier to "sight-see" at the beach through the zoom lens of a camera than binoculars. I was expressing my fascination with the hairline of a man frolicking out in the waves, when it was suggested that "it" was a tattoo. Hmmmm, interesting choice of style...true t-shirt borders--including short sleeves. There didn't seem to be a way for us to get to the bottom of things, short of me freezing my feet off in the ocean. Then I realized, with the kids nearby, I could snap some unsuspecting photos (binoculars would've seemed out of place, as there was nothing fascinating going on that far off shore...except this guy). We were still uncertain, until I magnified the photo...then I was just in awe of what he'd grown.
I also found myself googling "beach etiquette" yesterday to find out "Is it just me?" or were other people concerned with issues beyond seeing more skin than necessary. The general rule is that common courtesy rules apply. This is always a sticky situation as it assumes all of those involved also have common sense.
When we arrived at the beach early yesterday, we found a crater that had been dug out (and clearly washed away a bit by high tide at 4:00am...in other words, not freshly done), so we dropped our things an appropriate distance from the two lawn chairs to the left and the couple of scattered towels behind. After we got all of our stuff spread out, a gentleman from the chairs came over, into the crater of our goods, kicked at a shovel in the sand, and walked away...OK, whatever. Then, he just sort of paced a bit. The six of us in our group headed down to the water, about 50 feet away. Chair-man was then joined by a small child, who started digging right next to the crater. Their subtleties led me to believe that we had inadvertently taken part of their spot (CLEARLY claimed by a stray shovel). I knew I was not going to be able to comfortably return to our blankets and chairs knowing I had spoiled anyone's fun, so my husband (with the reigning title of Ocean Treasure Collector...seriously he does it like it's his job) and I moved all of our stuff downhill, a little to the right, a little closer to the water. I told the boy we were sorry if we accidentally planted our stuff in his digging spot, and we'd move it out. The Chair-woman then rose to say "Sorry, we aren't usually so spread out, but we have nine more people coming." Well, they shouldn't have been left in charge of staking out real estate if they were just going to pout and not say anything BEFORE we put our stuff down. Two chairs and two blankets are not ample items to "reserve" beach space for thirteen people. This was not a movie theater--it's a beach!!! The Chair-man paced around for the next three hours like he was hosting guests in his yard. I am pretty sure it was a different family who smushed their five chairs right in front of the crater.
A couple of hours later, we had returned to our blanket and chairs to hydrate and enjoy the view of the ocean. With the rising tide, we were now about twenty feet from the water's edge, when a group of fifteen people decided to congregate about fifteen feet in front of us...standing...in a side-by-side line. It was so weird! They didn't even have their feet in the water. Their positioning was not only completely inconsiderate of us, but to anyone else who wanted to walk along the shore. "Down in front!" After awhile, there were just three obstacles left, and they did sit down. As a rogue wave came in, and got them wet, they did notice us when they went to move their chairs back, and sought higher ground. Thank you Mother Nature!
Yesterday evening, the neighbor invited our kids over to watch a movie at night in their backyard, so I figured the least I could do was make some kettle corn. I was already in the kitchen making cookies, so I figured I'd dirty a few more pans. After much trial and error trying to come close to the quality of my dear friend's kettle corn, I have settled on some measurements that yield a decent enough product (I know she has the golden kernel touch and can just magically get things to work out without measuring spoons). I insist on looking at my three ingredient recipe every time, but I also need to follow the stove top recipe on the bag of popcorn, even if I am not adding the secret kettle corn ingredients. I have been a little bit cocky lately thanks to several successful batches. I guess one of last night's lessons was that I need to pay attention to what I am doing, as opposed to just periodically gazing longingly at my scribble notes, pretending to follow a recipe.
Part of my process for making kettle corn is to completely expect that I will burn one batch somewhere along the line...make three batches--throw out one is my usual (and yes, that counts as success). It isn't even always the first batch that burns...I can't explain. Through the past few years, I must've unknowingly developed "popcorn ear". The trick is that it only works if I am listening. My cooking space had been infiltrated by someone taller than me, for a change (yikes, my son is actually in that category now, but it wasn't him). I felt compelled to engage the intruder in friendly conversation. Suddenly, I realized I didn't know how far apart the popping sounds had gotten...critical error #1. So, I opened the lid very slightly to check on things...critical error #2. I should've let that baby burn, because that popcorn wanted OUT--I got hit in the neck, on the hand, and there were some zingers around the immediate kitchen area. Clearly not done popping. I had completely lost my rhythmic popping momentum, and a minute later, had to check the status AGAIN! Another shot to the neck, one to the finger, and more stray fire. Usually by the time I lift the lid, there is one kernel left to pop, and it leaps out of the pan joyfully, unlike the hostile enemy fire I was experiencing this time.
It is important to add that kettle corn has not only hot oil in its arsenal, but also, molten sugar! A tidbit of scalding sugar stuck itself to one of my fingers--ouch! Not only was my skin suffering from the schrapnel , but my impatient quality control instincts kicked in, so I was also burning my mouth conducting taste tests (I am both thankful and slightly disappointed that I do not have video of this to share with you). The only being in the house interested in helping was the dog, but I didn't need him involved in my situation. I was finally able to coerce someone into getting me a bowl to pour the well-done product into, as not to taint the salvaged portion. A few more kernels flew before I let the pan rest. Burn, rinse, repeat. I did make two more batches, so I suppose this was the norm in some ways.
This is what was not the norm...
Now I realize that these wounds are nothing to whine over (well actually they were, as they did sting for a few hours). However, there shouldn't be any first aid at all needed for popcorn making. I am considering having a popcorn dickie knitted so that I can confidently pop my corn on summer days when turtle necks are too warm. I should probably opt for some sort of safety goggles next time as well. I should also get out more than one bowl. Most of all though, I should double check what night the movie invite is for BEFORE making the snacks...oops, the outdoor cinematic adventure is tonight...and I can be rest assured that the children will tell the tale. I might be better off eating that treat myself and just sending them with candy...in hopes they forgot!
Every time I see a pregnancy test commercial on television, my first thought is "who is asleep at the controls that I am being forced to watch something other than my show?" My next thoughts involve aggravation and slight offense. Why, why, WHY is so much money and technology being spent to make pregnancy tests "easier for a woman to read"? Fourteen years ago you had to look for pink lines, and I do not recall myself, or any of my friends, being so baffled by the findings on the stick that they had to call for backup. Even if you weren't clearly convinced that the color in the window was pink ("oooh, is that more reddish-orange"), there either were lines, or were NOT. The ads don't claim to be making the tests "more reliable"...just easier to read. Then, I am forced to ponder whether the insinuation is just that a female would have trouble reading the results--either due to some emotional component, or intellectual deficiency. That makes me feel even better that the other gender, stereotypically thought to be unable to read road maps, might be able to follow any other colored lines. I just don't want to meet the folks who have tried deciphering the magic wand pregnancy test, and threw their arms up in defeat. How far away are we from a voice chip proclaiming the news?
Last night as I was getting dinner ready, I saw some information on my bag of raviolis that further suggested that consumers are viewed as total idiots.
"Keep frozen"--ok, good to know. "Ready to cook"--well, I'm not sure what else I'd do to them, but ok. "Sauce not included"??????? It is a clear plastic bag. The photo does not even show sauce (blasphemy to suggest I might enjoy them without). Where is the disclaimer that I will have to provide my own plate?
I just don't seem to be commanding the kind of respect I desire around the palace here. Oh sure, I am probably getting the respect I deserve, but that is besides the point. The latest round of cackling among the minions was this very blog. Needless to say, the children are not followers. I am not sure my husband has read more than the two requisite posts, after being informed that not knowing the blog address was NOT a substantial enough reason to not check it out. Perhaps his apparent lack of interest has something to do with the live technicolor version of my musings that he is subject to during my waking hours.
My latest business idea was being discussed (by me) at the dinner table, and the kids asked if I'd have as many customers as blog followers...(snicker, snicker). The son felt compelled to remind me that my goal was twenty followers (very lofty, I know)...the daughter, in turn, felt obligated to announce that there were currently only fifteen followers. Sure, they don't read it, but do make sure to take note of how many little boxes exist under the heading "followers" as they pass by.
I was not aware that my ego had become so inflated that I needed this kind of taking down. If you have any interest in helping me regain some clout around here (or in this blog in general), and one of those boxes over there on the left does not belong to you, please consider becoming a follower. Does membership have its privileges? Of course! I'm just not exactly sure what they are...yet. Monthly drawings for homemade chocolate chip cookie shipments?
So how do we measure success? Is it best defined by those who set actual personal goals, and reach them? Is my hope of getting out of bed in the morning, having had at least seven hours of sleep, setting the bar too low?
It seems this tale needs to be told. I have been waiting for it to be amusing...to me. However, I am ready to claim defeat, and this story will remain as one of those things that really highlights the crux of the matter--the reoccurring communication breakdown--the "why the what"?
It all started early this past spring with our annual conversation about whether to just have the lawnmower serviced, or "treat" ourselves to a new one. That is when we pretend my husband is Lord of the Lawn, and he gets supreme power in related decision making. Once he decided we would get a new lawnmower, he put his faith in Consumer Reports. The magazine's snazzy charts and symbols helped him narrow his choices to two lawn mowers. I felt compelled to weigh in on some bells and buzzers I'd like to see in a new mower (trade in the pull cord for a slight turn of key)...In other words, I felt it was time to remind him that I cut the grass seventy-five percent of the time, and our son had made some mumblings about how he could make some money around here.
The first mower (oops-spoiler alert!) came home looking so fine and shiny. When my aunt mentioned that her lawnmower wasn't working, of course I offered her our old one because we had a candy apple red beauty in our garage. (I should mention here that legend has it that she has the strength of ten men, and had in fact pulled the pull cord right out of her mower.) The new beauty really did turn on easily (once I actually read a little of the manual). I wasn't winded before even starting the job. It was self-propelled, but apparently at a factory of the slowest walkers to roam the land! There was no override to the self-propelled mode, and the machine itself was so heavy and clunky, I might've ended up going even slower operating on my own power. I was willing to work out the kinks of slow and steady winning the race, but it was also very difficult to maneuver. I could've blazed a very nice, straight path, but you see how impractical that would be considering the more square'ish shape of our yard. I reported this information back to the Lord of the Lawn, and his eyes only looked slightly glazed over, so I thought the message was conveyed. I tried the lawnmower again, with similar results, and again promptly reported my findings. The third outing for that mower was conducted by Lawn Chief himself, and his findings were apparently so significant that it was agreed that a return must be made.
Consumer Reports had that alternate suggestion for us, but I had to give up my turn key ignition...fine. Our son got the glory of the maiden voyage with lawn mower number two...and I got the glory of running outside at least six times to PULL THE DEVILISH CORD when the machine kept stalling. (Let me add here that my cousin--clearly inheriting his mother's strength--pulled the start cord out of our mower, so they had both in the shop. OK, this part of the storyline is amusing.) Now I looked outside and did not see cows grazing in our yard, nor was our short dog getting lost in the tall grass. I determined that the lawn was not of a height significant enough to warrant such gagging and choking by the mower. I more grumbled my findings, than simply reported them this time. When I had the pleasure of doing the lawn myself the following week, I more yelled my findings...to anyone in the vicinity who might've been outside or had their windows open, and only slightly more calmly reported them to the Lord of the Lawn.
I am sure I mentioned the issue a few more times as the grass was approaching its next cutting. Now that two out of three of us had been ruled out as worthy opponents of "the staller", the man of the house headed out. I thought I detected a swagger that said "The grass will bow down to the Lord of the Lawn. The mower will rev its battle cry, and all will be right in our yard!" The only thing I liked about that machine was that, as it claimed its defeat, I'm pretty sure I heard it say "You should've listed to your wife! I suck...and am not a vacuum cleaner!" I sprinkled a few inquiries here and there about what would happen next in Mowergate 2010.
I don't imagine my husband felt much joy at having to come home to tell me that Home Depot has a 30-day return policy...and his visit was on day 34. I also don't imagine that you think I was terribly exuberant at this notification. While he seemed annoyed with the store, I can assure you I was directing my lasers of dissatisfaction right at his forehead while announcing that I had sent up red flags at day 7!! He followed Home Depot's directions and took the mower to a licensed repair place for that brand. They service them there, but don't sell them anymore because of their performance...thank you Consumer Reports!
We finally got the mower back after they replaced the mulching portion of its program, and it worked...no better! An email was sent to the company (but not by me) explaining the situation, and the one in return ended with "we must respectfully decline your request for refund or replacement." I pondered whether I should unleash myself on the unsuspecting customer service reps there, but figured it was not my battle to fight...yet. They said he needed to bring the mower to a licensed service place (as in the same one we'd already told them we brought it to) and we'd be instructed how to proceed, once they talked to the people there (and probably told them not to talk trashy about their product--wah wah wah!) So now we've been without a mower again for a week, and have heard nothing.
(Note: Aunt's mower is now not working again, but our rejected one is getting the job done just fine. No, I don't want her to bring it to us!)
I would like to be able to tell you that I have much to report after my blogging absence...things like how well my quasi-exercise program is going, and the results it's achieved...or my success in the quest for better posture...the secret to grocery shopping for meals that might actually get cooked AND be appealing, but no. Sure, I experienced some things that made me go "hmmmmm", but I felt more like I would have been channeling Andy Rooney's curmudgeon spirit, than actually looking for the humor in anything. Then it happened! The blog gods shined back down upon me and threw something so divine in our path, that I had to return to the keyboard.
My daughter and I were walking thru the mall on a bustling Friday afternoon, not in an attempt to stay cool like most of the other people, we actually had things to DO!!! For starters, there was a fabulous wedding to prepare for, and once again I was faced with the reality of my son having no dress pants that fit! The reason he had not concerned himself with such things was that he was under the impression he'd be wearing a tux..."Um, that's what I wore to the last wedding I went to"..."Yes, that was 5 years ago, and you were in that wedding"...(mumbled under breath) "well I thought I was wearing a tux". I have a sneaking suspicion, based on the sighs over trying on a pair of pants, that there'd have been moaning if he'd been dragged to the measurement man to get fitted for a tux. OK, back to what we saw at the mall...
It wasn't even so much what we SAW, as it was what we nearly tripped over. There was a woman getting her face threaded...right there...in the walking part of the mall...as in, NOT a store front--or preferably a store back! Now I admit that I was eerily drawn to gawk at the scene, as I have heard of the process, but have never witnessed it. However, since mall traffic was swimming upstream, I'd have been hard pressed to leap out of my spot for further inspection. I also would have had to practically stand next to the "threader" (or sit on the lap of the "threadee". I should also mention that the customer's daughter, who looked about 3, was in the mix as well, just kind of hanging around the chair...where her mother sat...reclined...with her eyes closed! As reported previously, I have my own issues with appropriate eyebrow maintenance techniques. My brief glimpse in to this fascinating world of threading was pretty much as I had imagined-tying thread around a hair and yanking it out-but I still can't fathom the dexterity it must involve. I also imagine it must still hurt, as the end result of a hair being yanked out of one's face still applies. I did not hear any yelps of pain, but I know she was crying on the inside.
The woman swimming behind us had to have the situation explained to her by her twenty-something daughter, as I was explaining it to my ten-year-old daughter. The part neither of us could explain was why...why this was going on in the middle of the mall. "Do I want coffee from Dunkin Donuts in those chairs...or to admit my facial upkeep needs to the general public in that chair over there?" I don't even make eye contact with the people who want to rub lotion on my hands, or the old school perfume sprayers. How did that sales pitch go? "Excuse me, would you like me to get my sewing kit and pull that unwanted hair off your face?" or "You didn't really mean to come out in public with your eyebrows so unshapely, let's fix that!"
Seriously, I was in need of some facial tlc, but I preferred to operate under the assumption that I was the only one who knew it. Yeah, I know, I wear my face right out there well, on my face, but I like to pretend that nobody gets closer than ten feet to me. I am not sure why it is that I cannot understand that my bathroom mirror is not from a funhouse...objects are not farther than they appear. That is what I look like even when I walk out of that space! I would have burst into flames just from the red hot embarrassment of some stranger suggesting I take a few moments in her magic threading salon chair at the mall!
