*Or you might, actually, but I never went, so how would I know?
One of the things I love about my very stylish stainless steel side-by-side refrigerator, is that it has an ice maker, and a chilled water/crushed ice/cubed ice dispenser.
One of the things I hate about it is that a family of two humans and two small dogs cannot possibly use as much ice as said ice maker is capable of creating, which means, if we don’t remember to empty the ice maker once a week, it overfills, jams the dispenser and while we can still get chilled water, if we attempt to have it dispense any form of ice there is a sad grinding not unlike what I imagine the Titanic sounded like when it became intimate with an iceberg.
Today, I wanted ice.
In the past I’ve spent the better part of an afternoon defrosting the dispenser, and while I recognize that this is something I do need to accomplish sometime soon, I don’t have the time or inclination for such a thing today. Also, it’s Fuzzy’s turn.
Instead, I used a hot knife to remove the crust of snow-like stuff from around the edges of the ice maker, pulled it open, moved my hand around to break up the ice, and basically treated the storage section as a really expensive ice-cube bucket.
Thankfully the grinding part of the ice maker is not inside the bucket, but the dispenser, and unlike the garbage disposal, a kitchen device that still scares me sometimes, you can’t accidentally stick your hand in and have it shredded into bloody pulpy bits.
I have the most expensive ice cube bucket on earth.
Go me.
I don’t usually write about this here, but I’m psyched because despite having a really horrible couple of days, migraine-wise, and not wanting to even do walkies with the dogs, I’ve lost three more pounds, for a total, over five and a half weeks, of seventeen.
I’m three pounds from my first goal.
This experience has taught me a lot. First, it’s taught me that whether you’re using a cream, a pill, or a diet patch, those external helpers are just that – HELP. They’re support, but the real work comes from you, from inside.
I’ve also learned that sometimes it really is better just to have the chocolate bar (or, in my case, a third of a chocolate bar) because the stress over wanting something, and feeling miserable about it, is often worse than just having it. But only sometimes. Not every day.
I’ve re-discovered my love of cooking. It helps that we bought a George Foreman grill, because I treat it like a toy, not a boring kitchen appliance. I’ve learned that I don’t have to be impatient with the dogs because they want to sniff every tree, because we’re having a mild summer, and if I wear shorts on our walkies (which, I admit, is a juvenile spelling, but it’s not a trigger to the dogs when pronounced that way, and it sound so much more upbeat and positive than “walk.”) I can work on my tan and be active at the same time.
And generally, I’m a much happier person, and sleeping better, since I started all this.
Happy Friday.
Happy Me.
I was watching Kate and Leopold earlier today because I often have movies on while I’m writing, whether it’s for work or my own stuff, and because a friend recently told me he left a university job seeking more money while he finally finishes his dissertation, and is soon to be taking a job involving market research.
I was watching the scene where Leopold (Hugh Jackman) storms off the set of the commercial Kate (Meg Ryan) hired him to make because he actually tasted the product, and found it to be revolting.
I really wish that instead of her tirade about how she needs a rest and had to pay dues and everything, that she’d have grabbed him by the lapels, and said, “It’s not about the margerine.” Because it’s not. It’s about the image.
I mean, who wouldn’t buy something – anything – that Hugh Jackman was selling?
Yeah, including me.
Cool:
Various weather folk were warning of temps around 103 today, but the weather.com indicator in my system tray never made it beyond 101, and when I stepped outside just a bit ago, to supervise the dogs’ post-dinner elimination excursion, the wind had picked up and the sky was veiled in mackerel scales. Weather.com warns of thundershowers tomorrow and a very rainy Friday (My birthday! Yeah!) and it’s as if even Nature is gifting me this year.
Crunchy:
Today on our morning walk, Miss Cleo the Ever Talented managed to ensnare a small dead tree-branch with her tail. It made a satisfying crunching sound when we finally untangled it from fur and leash, and I stepped on it to prove to her that it was really and truly dead.
Crumple:
There’s something really satisfying about crumpling used aluminum foil and pitching toward the recycling bin. It’s not quite as amazing as crumpling an aluminum can, mind you, but in terms of cheap pleasures, it’s at least on the list.
Cool:
Fudgcicles are small plastic-wrapped frozen miracles on sticks. 40 calories, less than a whole gram of fat, and they satisfy the need for ice cream AND the craving for chocolate.
Crunchy:
I’ve never been a fan of lettuce on sandwiches. Lettuce is great for wrapping tuna salad, or making a salad, but on sandwiches I prefer a bit more crunch. Proof it’s really my birthday this week? For the first time since we’ve been here, the neighborhood grocery store actually had alfalfa sprouts when I had Fuzzy stop for groceries on the way home last night. My turkey and muenster on multi-grain bread was so much better with the addition of sprouts and tomato slices. Yes, that was lunch.
Crumple
If you have not visited Crumpler‘s website to look at their groovous array of funky laptop messenger bags, you should. I don’t actually own one (I want the The Dreadful Embarrassment in red or olive very badly), but my good friend Rana turned me onto them. Aside from the actual product though, there’s this option for PLAY CATALOGUE, and what ensues is the Crumpler ABC’s, and it’s hilarious. Go. Look.
Oil lamps left an eerie yellowish glow on the false fronts of each building, a glow that was at once comforting and strangely foreign, as we dashed from doorway to doorway, arc of light to arc of light, along the uneven cobblestone street in the old part of town. We knew, of course, that they were there just for show, that each of the buildings we passed had all the modern conveniences hidden away beyond the parts the public could see, but somehow in the sudden storm, they made the shadows appear to live, giving chase to us as we searched for the cafe that had been so highly recommended.
“What’s the address, again?” my husband asked, impatient with me for not being able to keep up, though he tried to hide it, as he always did.
“Four-twelve,” I said. We looked up at the doorway where we’d paused. The numbers were blurry, but we could tell we were in the three hundred block. “Almost there,” I added, although it was obvious.
Another few buildings, a dash across a rain-slick brick street, and we were opening the door into warmth and light, wood smoke, and the scent of something amazing.
The chimes on the door brought an old woman bustling from the back. She was wearing one of those skirts that could have just as easily been from last year or a hundred years ago, and a crisp white blouse, with a red shawl tied around her waist. Her hair was glossy black; her eyes a rich brown – she looked, in fact, very like my great-aunt, except that Aunt Maria would never have been caught dead in lipstick that shade of orange.
“You are Mireille’s friends?” It was technically a question, but there was no doubt in her tone. We nodded, as she continued, “Welcome, welcome, the cassoulet is ready, and the wine just needs to breathe.”
We joined her other patrons around a single, round, butcher-block table, and ate while we watched the rain continue to fall beyond the plate-glass window, and the green-painted door.
In my Friday’s Feast post this week, I was asked about my favorite pie, and I answered “olallieberry,” which is apparently not a terribly common berry.
In the interest of
The olallieberry is a cross between the loganberry (blackberry x raspberry) and youngberry (blackberry x dewberry), and tastes a little darker and a little tarter than any of them, with a little more complexity to the flavor. In the store, if they weren’t labeled, you’d mistake them for blackberries, most likely.
But they’re ALWAYS labeled. Why? Because while they aren’t rare, they do have a limited growing season. In fact, in Northern California their growing season is mid-June to mid-July, and they’re pretty much only grown in California.
The best time to eat them is in the first three weeks of June, which, coincidentally, is about the only time Olallieberry pie is ever offered in restaurants. They’re a coastal berry. If you’ve never sat in the sun in Santa Cruz or San Luis Obispo, tasting the salty tang of the breeze and sipping coffee while eating a slice of Olallieberry pie, you have missed out on a “perfect moment,” at least food-wise.
Olallieberries are sometimes marketed as marionberries, which is not correct, since marionberries are a cross between olallieberries and Chehalem berries, as per this chart.
Olallie, by the way, is the Chinook word for “berry.”
1. Last weekend, I was thinking that I actually enjoyed playing Five Things when usually I’m afraid of it.
2. If the weather continues like this, I won’t mind, since it hasn’t yet reached 100. I prefer these afternoon rainstorms to unrelenting sun, actually, though I could live without the mosquitoes.
3. Will my peach tree ever grow? I hope so. It took a beating in the severe storms earlier this year.
4. Often, on a summer’s night, I think skinny-dipping would be fun. Also, I miss the ocean.
5. Right now, I could use a good strong cup of coffee.
6. My favorite summertime meal is Grilled turkey burgers on onion rolls, corn on the cob, and tomatoes marinated in an Italian vinaigrette.
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to getting to sleep before dawn, tomorrow my plans include welcoming Fuzzy home from his trip and Sunday, I want to see a movie and catch up on correspondence!
Like this meme? Go visit my friend Janet and tell her!
…is what Fuzzy and I just had.
Friday night, when he finally got home, and I’d finally decided that even another minute at the computer would be a Very Bad Thing, we ate dinner (spinach tortellini with this really amazing pasta sauce that, I confess, not only came from a jar, but was purchased because I liked the shape of the jar) at the kitchen table for a change, and then played the 2-person version of The Starfarers of Catan until bedtime.
Saturday, we each puttered on various projects, after sleeping pretty late. I played with the dogs, and surfed Blogathon sites, and made a few pledges. Later, we went to Dallas because I was on the liners for ComedySportz. I made stupid choices/mistakes in Blind Line, but overall it was a great show. The crowd was totally into it, our ref rocked – he even let us play one of the new games he brought back from tournament – and I had fun. Afterwards, we all went to Fridays, where several of us made a pact to never go to Spaghetti Warehouse again, and I had a delicious margarita that was only slightly smaller than a swimming pool as we sat under the stars. (I also had a burger and a salad, but it’s the margarita that matters.)
Today, I’ve already posted about – shopping in the rain, puttering at home, froufrou coffee, grapes, flowers, and during dinner we watched the first night of SHARK WEEK (Ocean of Fear). Any moment now, we’ll be turning out the light.
