I’m a little bit of a late bloomer when it comes to getting ready for Christmas. I'm kind of like those bulbs you have to plant in your flower garden in the dead of winter to turn into flowers come spring. Or maybe it’s the seeds you plant. However it goes, Father Christmas won't be seeing my bloomers til half past Valentine's Day.
But for the first time since the Power Ranger incident of '02, I started shopping before Christmas this year. I was going to wait, but the operators were standing by and I had to call right away to get the Ginsu knives.
Although I don’t go full out in the decorating area, you can tell it’s Christmas around my house by subtle changes in the décor. Just keep an eye out for mutations in the dust patterns on the coffee table.
I’ve moved the nativity scene that I forgot to put away last Christmas from the shelf in the laundry room to the top of the entertainment center, dusted off the baby Jesus, and removed the dryer sheet from the shepherd’s staff. The shepherd isn't quite as festive without his lint-free banner, but now it smells a little more like a stable and less like the Snuggle bear.
What appears to be stray tree limbs connected by lumps of fur in one corner of the living room is actually a small Frasier fir holding up under the strain of the investigative processes of two Labradors, three cats, and an inquisitive Dachshund sporting a Christmas tree skirt. Occasionally the tree gives a shudder and deposits various small animals on the floor. If it lived in the Hundred Acre Wood, my tree would be Eeyore.
There are 1,497 gift bags of assorted sizes and heritage covering every available flat surface, along with several containers of used bows that are perfectly suitable for family gifts if you affix them to packages with a loop of Scotch tape. There is no Scotch tape anywhere in the house. There are several dozen wood screws of assorted sizes in the junk drawer, but repeated attempts at giftwrap show that the wood screw is not a device that is effective for this purpose.
The kitchen table is covered with bits of burned sugar cookies and ingredients for partially assembled gelatin salads and casseroles that will bear offerings of melted cheese and Ritz crackers come Christmas day. This is not considered untidiness in the kitchen, but rather food preparation with holiday flair.
There is a wreath on the outside of the closet door instead of the inside of the closet door. The wreath boasts a giddy Snowman who is on the verge of bursting into the songs of the season just as soon as the Captain tells me where he hid the batteries.
There is a car in the driveway awaiting new tires, a replacement windshield wiper, and a brake job. Nothing says Merry Christmas at our house quite like "there's a front end alignment with your name on it just around the corner."
So for all of you folks who have every Martha Stewartesque napkin folded into snowflakes, don’t judge me on my lack of handmade ornaments and scented candles. Christmas at my house might have a different flavor and a smell that tends more toward PineSol than pine branches, but the spirit is the same.
I might deck my halls with takeout boxes instead of tinsel, but I still have the hope that good will is not just a store where you can get half off every Tuesday.
Merry Christmas!
Laugh
Showing posts with label casserole. Show all posts
Showing posts with label casserole. Show all posts
Monday, December 12, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Multi-Taxing
“Why all the questions? I haven’t had to come up with this many answers since I broke curfew.”
“No problem. Unless you’re as creative with the government as you were with me.”
Son One is filling out tax forms with the same hearty appreciation he musters for cleaning the litter box. He was finding the two jobs alarmingly similar. I’m in the kitchen weaving bits and pieces of leftovers into something that resembles supper.
He frowned at the paper. “Tips? I don’t get tips. I found a penny on the floor once and the boss claimed it was overtime pay and made me mop the floor.”
“That reminds me. It’s your turn to do the laundry. I get half the change you find, but you can have 100% of the dog treats. No questions asked.”
“This line says Subsistence Allowance. Is that the money I lose in the school vending machines trying to get a Twinkie to hold me til lunch?”
“No. The government isn’t interested in the state of your state of being until you graduate.”
“Just as well. Whatever you’re making in there would probably count against us. Are you mixing things? You know I don’t like my food to touch.”
“Sometimes you have to have to be creative, remember?”
“What about Contributions to the College Investment Program?”
“Put zero.”
“But I paid enough in college tuition to make everyone in the county smarter than a fifth grader.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“Railroad retirement?”
“Six seasons in front of Thomas the Tank Engine? No.”
“HazMat? I can sign up for HazMat?”
“You don’t get to make hazardous materials," I said, layering asparagus with eggs and cheese.”
“Why not? I’m a natural. I’m exposed to hazardous materials every day.”
“In what form?”
He sniffed the air and made the yukky face.
“Casseroles.”
“No problem. Unless you’re as creative with the government as you were with me.”
Son One is filling out tax forms with the same hearty appreciation he musters for cleaning the litter box. He was finding the two jobs alarmingly similar. I’m in the kitchen weaving bits and pieces of leftovers into something that resembles supper.
He frowned at the paper. “Tips? I don’t get tips. I found a penny on the floor once and the boss claimed it was overtime pay and made me mop the floor.”
“That reminds me. It’s your turn to do the laundry. I get half the change you find, but you can have 100% of the dog treats. No questions asked.”
“This line says Subsistence Allowance. Is that the money I lose in the school vending machines trying to get a Twinkie to hold me til lunch?”
“No. The government isn’t interested in the state of your state of being until you graduate.”
“Just as well. Whatever you’re making in there would probably count against us. Are you mixing things? You know I don’t like my food to touch.”
“Sometimes you have to have to be creative, remember?”
“What about Contributions to the College Investment Program?”
“Put zero.”
“But I paid enough in college tuition to make everyone in the county smarter than a fifth grader.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“Railroad retirement?”
“Six seasons in front of Thomas the Tank Engine? No.”
“HazMat? I can sign up for HazMat?”
“You don’t get to make hazardous materials," I said, layering asparagus with eggs and cheese.”
“Why not? I’m a natural. I’m exposed to hazardous materials every day.”
“In what form?”
He sniffed the air and made the yukky face.
“Casseroles.”
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Festive Fish Stories
I can’t think why I gain weight during the holidays. I’m sure to eat a balanced diet from every food group: food made with cream soup, food made with Cool Whip, food that combines fruit with marshmallows in a creative way, and food that distant relatives make. And I’m always careful to use garnishes, such as triple chocolate cake in hot fudge sauce, with discretion.
But here I am again, straining the seams of my purple puppy dog pajamas and forcing the elastic in my stretchy pants to call for reinforcements. To take the stress off my seams, I generally go easy in the “food that distant relatives make” category.
What is it about seeing people only once a year that makes them think they can try out their experimental recipes without fear of retribution? Everybody has an aunt on a health food kick that makes everything with soy milk or an uncle who specialty is peanut butter casserole, but my family members have a special place in the Food Terrors Hall of Fame. (Their motto is “Smell This!”)
In honor of family unity, I have always suffered through the asparagus jello of a forgotten time, but from now on, I’m taking a stand on the Spinach and Raisin MangoTomato Balls.
I find that I can resist:
1. Any dish that combines candied cherries, chipped beef, and spices I can't pronounce.
2. Any dish that blends chocolate chips with any type of canned fish product.
3. Any finger food that leaves a residue on my hands that requires turpentine to remove.
The Captain always tries to find a way to avoid the experimental food festivities. Last year a friend asked him to go fly-fishing over the holidays, but instead he spent time in the local emergency room where they applied a topical medication that smelled like trout.
But now I’ve concocted a secret weapon. So next time I’m faced with Sauerkraut and Strawberry Casserole or Better Than Roadkill Chili, I’ll whip the top off the mason jar I’m keeping for such an occasion.
“What’s that?” the Captain asked me when the mixture etched a skull and crossbones on the inside of the jar.
I grinned and waved the jar tantalizingly under his nose. He jumped back. It takes less than that to make hardened criminals spill the details of their secret stash.
“Whoa. What IS that? Your great-grandaddy’s moonshine?”
“Better than that. My brother’s carp bait. He got the secret from Uncle Bud.”
“What’s in it?”
“I can't tell you,” I said, resealing the lid and cushioning the jar in a box lined with packing peanuts to insure the integrity of the solution.
“It’s an Old Family Recipe.”
“Oh.”
“As a matter of fact, that’s what killed Uncle Bud.”
“What did he do, eat it?”
“No, he went fishing on Christmas and Aunt Edna found out.”
But here I am again, straining the seams of my purple puppy dog pajamas and forcing the elastic in my stretchy pants to call for reinforcements. To take the stress off my seams, I generally go easy in the “food that distant relatives make” category.
What is it about seeing people only once a year that makes them think they can try out their experimental recipes without fear of retribution? Everybody has an aunt on a health food kick that makes everything with soy milk or an uncle who specialty is peanut butter casserole, but my family members have a special place in the Food Terrors Hall of Fame. (Their motto is “Smell This!”)
In honor of family unity, I have always suffered through the asparagus jello of a forgotten time, but from now on, I’m taking a stand on the Spinach and Raisin MangoTomato Balls.
I find that I can resist:
1. Any dish that combines candied cherries, chipped beef, and spices I can't pronounce.
2. Any dish that blends chocolate chips with any type of canned fish product.
3. Any finger food that leaves a residue on my hands that requires turpentine to remove.
The Captain always tries to find a way to avoid the experimental food festivities. Last year a friend asked him to go fly-fishing over the holidays, but instead he spent time in the local emergency room where they applied a topical medication that smelled like trout.
But now I’ve concocted a secret weapon. So next time I’m faced with Sauerkraut and Strawberry Casserole or Better Than Roadkill Chili, I’ll whip the top off the mason jar I’m keeping for such an occasion.
“What’s that?” the Captain asked me when the mixture etched a skull and crossbones on the inside of the jar.
I grinned and waved the jar tantalizingly under his nose. He jumped back. It takes less than that to make hardened criminals spill the details of their secret stash.
“Whoa. What IS that? Your great-grandaddy’s moonshine?”
“Better than that. My brother’s carp bait. He got the secret from Uncle Bud.”
“What’s in it?”
“I can't tell you,” I said, resealing the lid and cushioning the jar in a box lined with packing peanuts to insure the integrity of the solution.
“It’s an Old Family Recipe.”
“Oh.”
“As a matter of fact, that’s what killed Uncle Bud.”
“What did he do, eat it?”
“No, he went fishing on Christmas and Aunt Edna found out.”
Monday, February 9, 2009
Anything But Tuna (AW Blogroll for February)
The February Blogroll on Love vs. Romance is reflecting more opinions than a poll for the best Superbowl commercial (I’m a softie for the Clydesdales). But for the most part, Love is ahead in the count. If this were a tennis match, Love would be at Game Point and Romance would have Love. Funny, that’s how it’s worked out for me, too.
We’ve heard from Ralph Pines, Razib Ahmed, Kat Frass, and Benjamin Solah. I’d like to turn from Benjamin’s political perspective toward more personal politics. Then we’ll be off to Scribbletown to see what’s happening there.
Anything But Tuna
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Nope. I think it’s fine if you choose to shave your legs only in months containing an ‘R.’ Pull up your socks and nobody will notice.”
Bill threw a wool jacket over one arm to have ready in case my hot flashes wore off before we got home. A man who overlooks legs that would choke a weedeater and remembers to bring along an overcoat when the temperature is topping 70. Who says romance is dead? All the same, for my fiftieth birthday, I’m hoping someone will give me a working thermostat.
Romance when I was 20 meant heels, hose, a revealing dress, and a delicious dinner with a date fueled by hormones. These days I keep my hormones in a bottle, and wearing heels means a good chance of spending the evening in the not-so-cheap seats in the Emergency Room draped in a hospital gown that reveals more than any dress I ever owned. I don’t consider it a date if I have to pay the deductible on my health insurance.
I’ve known Bill Dear since he was married to the Tuna Casserole Maker and I was married to the Salesman. That was back before home computers, but right after hand-held calculators became such a hit. Having already surfed the Marital Blissless superhighway with a sweet talker, I was suspicious of Romance, a slippery devil I couldn’t count on when the going got tough or long division was involved.
But these days I recognize Romance for what it is when it grows up: Love in action. So Bill doesn’t try to sell me on the idea of an electric razor for the Mohawk on my shins. And I feed him pot roast. Or barbecued ribs.
Anything but tuna.
Remaining Blogroll:
escritora
ChaosTitan
Cathy C
harri3tspy
truelyana
tatkinson
We’ve heard from Ralph Pines, Razib Ahmed, Kat Frass, and Benjamin Solah. I’d like to turn from Benjamin’s political perspective toward more personal politics. Then we’ll be off to Scribbletown to see what’s happening there.
Anything But Tuna
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Nope. I think it’s fine if you choose to shave your legs only in months containing an ‘R.’ Pull up your socks and nobody will notice.”
Bill threw a wool jacket over one arm to have ready in case my hot flashes wore off before we got home. A man who overlooks legs that would choke a weedeater and remembers to bring along an overcoat when the temperature is topping 70. Who says romance is dead? All the same, for my fiftieth birthday, I’m hoping someone will give me a working thermostat.
Romance when I was 20 meant heels, hose, a revealing dress, and a delicious dinner with a date fueled by hormones. These days I keep my hormones in a bottle, and wearing heels means a good chance of spending the evening in the not-so-cheap seats in the Emergency Room draped in a hospital gown that reveals more than any dress I ever owned. I don’t consider it a date if I have to pay the deductible on my health insurance.
I’ve known Bill Dear since he was married to the Tuna Casserole Maker and I was married to the Salesman. That was back before home computers, but right after hand-held calculators became such a hit. Having already surfed the Marital Blissless superhighway with a sweet talker, I was suspicious of Romance, a slippery devil I couldn’t count on when the going got tough or long division was involved.
But these days I recognize Romance for what it is when it grows up: Love in action. So Bill doesn’t try to sell me on the idea of an electric razor for the Mohawk on my shins. And I feed him pot roast. Or barbecued ribs.
Anything but tuna.
Remaining Blogroll:
escritora
ChaosTitan
Cathy C
harri3tspy
truelyana
tatkinson
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Attack of the Killer Alfredo
My husband thinks fully cooked meals spring ready-made from the oven like Venus rising from the foam, but with gravy. I don’t know how he survived eight years of bachelorhood before he met me, but I do know why he wore pants that would be relaxed-fit on Paris Hilton, and why his eyes glaze over with that faraway look when we drive past Burger King.
These days he’s making up for all the meals he missed by hanging out in the kitchen, waiting to see if the Pillsbury Dough Boy appears from the swirling mists in the freezer. It’s like watching a toddler get ready for a visit from Santa.
“What did you eat before we got married?” I quizzed one day as he stared into the empty tea pitcher like a motherless calf.
“Tuna casserole,” he answered, prodding a package of frozen hamburger in hopes it might turn magically into meatloaf.
“You ate tuna casserole for eight years?”
“No, I had the same tuna casserole in the freezer for eight years. I got custody in the divorce. Every night I had to figure out what to do so I wouldn’t have to eat it. I know the nutrition and pricing information for every item on the fast food market.”
At least I don’t have to worry about any fond feelings left toward his first wife. The woman did things to tuna that I couldn’t do to scrap metal without heavy-duty equipment. She didn’t use serving spoons. It took the jaws of life to separate the one that didn’t get away from the casserole dish.
It makes my life easy. If I defrost cinnamon buns in the microwave, he thinks they’re homemade. I hate to tell him, but if I can’t get it out of a can, jar, or economy size shrink-wrapped package, I’m not going to be serving it for supper. There was a time when a woman’s dreams were fulfilled by spending enough time in the kitchen to bake biscuits lighter than an angel’s wing, put up enough tomatoes to last the winter, and memorize the recipe for grandmother’s heirloom pickled poundcake.
That time is past.
When I discovered Alfredo sauce in a jar, I was more excited than a Brownie Scout on cookie delivery day. While I understand that I’m not going to find fettuccine Alfredo tacked up on the doctor’s bulletin board as one of your top ten heart healthy foods, it’s part of a meal that everyone in my family will eat, which goes a long way towards making it the star atop the food pyramid in my house. Add some grilled chicken, and everyone from Finicky Fred to the dog next door is happy. At the grocery store, I deviated from the list and popped a couple of jars of the white stuff into my buggy. Then I wheeled innocently down the aisle, full of the peaceful conviction that comes from providing a good meal for a loving and happy family.
Later that evening, while my back was turned, the beast, heady with the freedom that comes upon release from captivity and applied heat, shattered the air with a mighty blast and attacked. I screamed.
The children ran to the kitchen like the population of Tokyo pouring in to see Godzilla get the big one.
Kid One: “Did you start another fire?”
Alfredo covered the front on the stove like a dust ruffle. I had spatters up my sleeve and a striking Picasso-esque design smoked on my Snoopy sweatshirt. "Not yet sweetie, but stay tuned."
Kid Two: “Is supper ready?”
Kid One with conviction: “Supper can’t be ready. The smoke detector’s not going off.”
Suddenly the beast attacked again, rising from the depths of the superheated Alfredo like a milky Kraken surging to the surface from the ocean floor. This time I was prepared. No towering wall of Alfredo is going to threaten my family without me beating it into submission with a serving spoon and the lid to a two-quart boiler. “Run, kids, run!”
Heating supper from a jar should not require escalation of the National Defense Warning System.
Bill sauntered around the corner, hands in pockets. “Need some help?”
“Sure. Do we have Chef Emeril or the Marines on speed dial?”
The lid on the pot rattled like a teenager’s knees at quarter past curfew. He whisked the pot off the stove, poured the contents into a bowl, added a paper plate lid, then tucked the whole thing neatly into the microwave. Slamming the door with a flourish, he performed the beep-boop medley on the keypad that told the machine to cook Alfredo sauce.
"Very nice. I guess all those years of bachelorhood prepared you for anything."
He grinned. “Once you’ve been face to face with an eight year old tuna casserole, everything else is easy."
These days he’s making up for all the meals he missed by hanging out in the kitchen, waiting to see if the Pillsbury Dough Boy appears from the swirling mists in the freezer. It’s like watching a toddler get ready for a visit from Santa.
“What did you eat before we got married?” I quizzed one day as he stared into the empty tea pitcher like a motherless calf.
“Tuna casserole,” he answered, prodding a package of frozen hamburger in hopes it might turn magically into meatloaf.
“You ate tuna casserole for eight years?”
“No, I had the same tuna casserole in the freezer for eight years. I got custody in the divorce. Every night I had to figure out what to do so I wouldn’t have to eat it. I know the nutrition and pricing information for every item on the fast food market.”
At least I don’t have to worry about any fond feelings left toward his first wife. The woman did things to tuna that I couldn’t do to scrap metal without heavy-duty equipment. She didn’t use serving spoons. It took the jaws of life to separate the one that didn’t get away from the casserole dish.
It makes my life easy. If I defrost cinnamon buns in the microwave, he thinks they’re homemade. I hate to tell him, but if I can’t get it out of a can, jar, or economy size shrink-wrapped package, I’m not going to be serving it for supper. There was a time when a woman’s dreams were fulfilled by spending enough time in the kitchen to bake biscuits lighter than an angel’s wing, put up enough tomatoes to last the winter, and memorize the recipe for grandmother’s heirloom pickled poundcake.
That time is past.
When I discovered Alfredo sauce in a jar, I was more excited than a Brownie Scout on cookie delivery day. While I understand that I’m not going to find fettuccine Alfredo tacked up on the doctor’s bulletin board as one of your top ten heart healthy foods, it’s part of a meal that everyone in my family will eat, which goes a long way towards making it the star atop the food pyramid in my house. Add some grilled chicken, and everyone from Finicky Fred to the dog next door is happy. At the grocery store, I deviated from the list and popped a couple of jars of the white stuff into my buggy. Then I wheeled innocently down the aisle, full of the peaceful conviction that comes from providing a good meal for a loving and happy family.
Later that evening, while my back was turned, the beast, heady with the freedom that comes upon release from captivity and applied heat, shattered the air with a mighty blast and attacked. I screamed.
The children ran to the kitchen like the population of Tokyo pouring in to see Godzilla get the big one.
Kid One: “Did you start another fire?”
Alfredo covered the front on the stove like a dust ruffle. I had spatters up my sleeve and a striking Picasso-esque design smoked on my Snoopy sweatshirt. "Not yet sweetie, but stay tuned."
Kid Two: “Is supper ready?”
Kid One with conviction: “Supper can’t be ready. The smoke detector’s not going off.”
Suddenly the beast attacked again, rising from the depths of the superheated Alfredo like a milky Kraken surging to the surface from the ocean floor. This time I was prepared. No towering wall of Alfredo is going to threaten my family without me beating it into submission with a serving spoon and the lid to a two-quart boiler. “Run, kids, run!”
Heating supper from a jar should not require escalation of the National Defense Warning System.
Bill sauntered around the corner, hands in pockets. “Need some help?”
“Sure. Do we have Chef Emeril or the Marines on speed dial?”
The lid on the pot rattled like a teenager’s knees at quarter past curfew. He whisked the pot off the stove, poured the contents into a bowl, added a paper plate lid, then tucked the whole thing neatly into the microwave. Slamming the door with a flourish, he performed the beep-boop medley on the keypad that told the machine to cook Alfredo sauce.
"Very nice. I guess all those years of bachelorhood prepared you for anything."
He grinned. “Once you’ve been face to face with an eight year old tuna casserole, everything else is easy."
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