Somebody call Ron Burgundy, things are about to get pretty steamy 'round here!

OMP YOU GUYS!

There's a little secret I've been keeping about the Punk Rock Farm. I know I mentioned it in passing here or there, but I haven't actually come out and bragged said that we have a Hot Tub Room.

We do. We have a whole entire room off of our bedroom that has skylights, is paneled in pine, and houses what we thought was going to be bad 70's jacuzzi. The previous tenant told us the pump is broken (it's not, we just turned it on) -- plus he left the room a hot mess. Newspaper taped to the sliding glass door. The doorway to the hot tub room covered in an ugly old wool blanket and cardboard. Crap on the floor. . .

Now Pedro talked about moving the hot tub out and making the room my studio. And basically since we have been so busy since moving in . . . we haven't perused it all too much. Until today. Pedro went in there, cleaned off the lid and using the pully-rope rigged to the ceiling to lift the lid --

CHECK. THIS. OUT. . .




 It's gorgeous! And has a lougne chair in it. A LOUNGE CHAIR PEOPLE.

ANNNNNNNNNND if a hot tub room isn't cool enough on it's own . . .

Check out the swank lamp we never did see from the angle of the sliding glass door.

So Pedro is already filling our tub up. We're going heat that baby up and soak! Woooohoooooo! Even Ron Burgundy would be jealous . . .

Can you ever be rich or famous enough to not be racially profiled while shopping?

Sure. Get a new, white skin!

No seriously, NPR posted a story this morning about how a Swiss sales clerk refused to show Oprah a $38,000 handbag. I guess she just didn't recognize Oprah. Which is pretty amazing, because I don't think there is a human being on the planet that doesn't know who the hell Oprah is. Even sherpas in Tibet and sheep-herders in Syria know who OPRAH is. How sad, I'm sure the sales lady just didn't recognize her through all that blackness.

Sigh.

NPR wants to know what you think about racial profiling in stores. They want you to put it in their comments. But like all stories anywhere that have anything to do with racism, people are getting ugly. The comments section is looking like the West Bank right now. Besides, what I have to say on the subject is too long for any comments section . . .

I KNOW racial profiling exists in retail stores, and it's so intrinsic in some people, they have no idea they are being big ole racist assholes when they do it. How do I know? Well pull up a chair, I got some good ole boy story tellin' to be tellin' ya folks . . .

Like most young ladies, I worked retail in my younger years. I worked in a variety of stores, but spent my longest stint in retail at a punk rock store in Hermosa Beach called Restyle Too. Restyle was owned by two OG punks from Europe. We were very strict security wise, and we did NOT tolerate any shoplifters. We also did not tolerate ANY racism. This wasn't a chain store, every item contributed to their livelihood, which of course trickled down to MY livelihood. So I got very good about watching people and any possibility of a shoplifting occurring. Plus I have a strong natural instinct for people, and could practically sense when someone walked in with bad intentions. And of all the people that I caught shoplifting?

Every. Single. One. Of. Them. Were. White.

Not that people of all races don't steal. They do. Just in my experience in retail, I've only collared white folks.

So anyway, fast forward a few years, and I was working for a friend of mine, a great retail manager, in a chain-store in the mall. It was sort of a strange place for me to be working because at the time I topped out at a size 8, and this was a high-end plus-sizes store. Not that thinner folks can't work at larger folks stores, it just left me with little to choose from on my employee discount. I did buy a lot of jewelry. I also took a lot of abuse for my "skinny ass" and was asked numerous times "why in the hell do you even work here?". Because not only was not I in their SIZE demographic, I was also gothabillied-the-hell-out. Ahhh retail, the public can be so much fun! But the customers were right, it was a strange place for me to be working.

Me, then. 

My coworkers were all pretty swell. We had a lot of giggles and not much back-biting or gossiping. Until one day, one fateful day . . . one of them popped off with some seriously degrading racial profiling, and I went OFF. Spastic bombastic, like. And I hope that I shamed that girl so hard, she will never think such crazy-ass-racist thoughts again. . .

It was late in the evening, we were getting ready to close. It was just this lady, I'll call "Winona" and I working. A very well dressed and well made-up black woman had come into the store. I had smiled at her, asked if she needed any help or if she was looking for anything in particular. She had assured me she was just browsing, so I went behind the counter and started working on closing down one of the registers. Winona walked past me and whispered "keep an eye on that one, she might be here to shoplift."

Wait, WHAT?

I looked up to see this lady doing what any other lady in the whole world does when they're shopping: checking out clothes and looking for her size. Browsing, just like she said she was going to do. There was absolutely NOTHING to indicate this woman was up to any bad intention, at all. I couldn't understand why Winona would think she was there to shoplift, and so I asked her . . . "why would you think she's going to steal anything? She doesn't have the vibe at all". Well here's Winona giving me "the look" -- you know the one. The white person-to-white person LOOK. The one that says "well they are not like US, are they?". The one that I thankfully had missed out on my whole life because my parents aren't racist assholes. The look I didn't come to even know as "the look" until my mom began dating, then moved in with. a black man. When we'd all go out as a family, my mom, her man, my black step-sister, and me. THAT is when I came to know "the look". Because my mom and Bob suffered it far too often. Not to mention some of the ugliest, nastiest, cruelest racist jabs said right out loud and proud when we were I don't know, just trying to enjoy a prime rib dinner, or something. It was a horrifying experience for me. Because I was really trying to be a teenage drama queen with my parents, and I couldn't because the general public were outshining me in angst and evil. I just felt so sorry for my mom and Bob. I have to say though, they handled it quite well. Typically ignoring it. But it left me very, very angry at how absolutely disgusting humans can be.  ALL HUMANS. Because it isn't just white people who give each other 'the look". And it isn't just white people who make cruel racist jabs out loud when they see an inter-racial couple.

So anyway, Winona is standing there giving me "the look" and my blood starts to boil. And steam starts billowing out my ears. And I am trying really hard to not make a fist because I wanted to punch her in her far-too-pale of a face. She even added a "well, you know . . . you knoooow . . ." and that was it. I burst like a firecracker on the Fourth of July.




See what I did there? Get it? FireCRACKER?

So I pulled out my soapbox and started yelling. Yelling. In a store. In the mall. In front of a customer who was not anything but a customer, about how DARE you accuse anyone of being more likely to shoplift because of the color of their skin? How DARE you insinuate that of all the customers that had been in our store all day this one lady is more likely to shoplift simply because she is BLACK? HOW DARE YOU -- you play the organ in church for fuck sake, and this is how you take to viewing your fellow human beings? Your husband isn't white, either and you STILL MANAGE TO POP OFF WITH RACIST CRAP LIKE THIS? Do you realize this company could be sued for you even suggesting such a thing, and rightfully should be if their employees are profiling . . . blah blah blah" . . . and on it went for a good solid five minutes of me degrading her and her racist comment into the ground. At which point, I turned to the customer, who was all class by the way, acting like she did not hear that skinny crazy gothabilly girl just rant like a banshee . . . and I apologized for my outburst. She acted as though she didn't hear a thing. And who knows, maybe she didn't? I know *I* tend to zone-out when I'm shopping. And then Winona was crying and apologizing and feeling like a jerk, rightfully so.


And I don't suppose it would surprise ANYONE that Winona needed help picking her chin off the shiny mall floor when my very handsome and very black boyfriend picked me up from work that night. I had walked the halls of that very same mall with him -- and sadly we had taken a TON of abuse from black folks on our interracial relationship. Down to the point of a near fist fight for a fellow black man sniping a "trader" at him when walking past us. Joe went off on a black sales clerk for her copping "the look" telling her that she needs to knock that shit off, because "my skin is too light (he was Creole, but a lot of people assumed he was mulatto) for you to date anyway, so don't go giving my girlfriend the look". 


So no,  I don't really care that Oprah didn't get her way, but I do CARE that racial profiling is still very rampant and very much a real-thing in this world. A lot of people want to pretend it doesn't exist. Or that it doesn't happen. But as anyone that's not quite white, or is in an inter-racial relationship can tell you: racism is very much alive and well.

And some people don't even realize how racist they are. True story! I was just telling Pedro a story last night, because I had just got off the phone with one of my very best friends in the whole world including outer space: Rochida. She's not on facebook so I have to actually call her to update her on my life. Anyway . . . a few years ago, Rochida and I started hanging out with another lady, who really was inadvertantly racist in such a peculiar way I had to go shame her into the ground, too. You see, Rochida is an extremely intelligent and extremely successful banking executive (well she was). She's ALSO a psychotherapist, dealing mostly with family therapy and troubled youth. Without revealing too much of her personal business, she developed a chronic illness and had to leave the banking world. Anyway, this other "friend" of ours (I had to unfriend her, forrealsy, because she refused to parent her child and it made me stabby, but Rochida has remained friends with her, because she has infinite more patience than I do) casually says to me one day "I bought some hair extensions the other day, I wonder if Rochida would mind braiding my hair?"

Wait. WHAT?

Million dollar question: "why would you think Rochida would be able to braid extensions into your hair?".  

The look.

"Well you know, because she's black".

Spastic BOMB-BASTIC fireCRACKER reared her ugly head again!

"Do you know what Rochida does for a living?"

"Well isn't she a therapist or something?"

"Annnnd?"

"And what? She does something else?"

"She's the head of  Mortgage Modification at <insert name of one of the world's biggest banks> FOR ALL of North America."

"oh? She is?"

"yes. Now can you please explain to me WHY you think she even has the time, or the inclination, or even the KNOWLEDGE of how to braid extensions into your hair? You think she's just going to do this for you BECAUSE SHE'S BLACK???" 

"well yeah."

Can somebody stop the planet? I'd like to get off.

"Hmmmm, Rochida is pretty busy, maybe you should give Oprah a call? I'm sure she wouldn't mind braiding your hair! Asshole."

One of my all time favorite salads, "Bacon and Strawberry with a Creamy Dill Dressing" and a recipe on how to make your own croutons.

This is part of my series on how to eat cheaply, or feed your family on a budget. Also part of the "get kids cooking! Because they'll be far more willing to eat foods, like salads, if they help make it!"

In most towns and cities there's a local community center, thrift store or church where local grocery stores donate their bakery items rather than throw them away. In our town it's a small little thrift store. Occasionally we stop in for needed household items, and we typically grab some bread, artisan loaves that are a bit dry and ready to turn. Two days ago we got a garlic peppercorn loaf, which I served half of in toasted slices with linguica, fried eggs and salsa for dinner last night. Today I made the rest into croutons. PLEASE NOTE, UNLESS YOU ARE REALLY STRUGGLING, YOU DON'T HAVE TO CONSIDER THE BREAD A HAND OUT. YOU CAN EASILY DONATE A DOLLAR OR TWO TO THE LOCAL CHARITY PROVIDING THE BREAD. THE ****ONLY**** REASON I SUGGEST ACQUIRING DAY-OLD-BREAD IN THIS MANNER IS BECAUSE MOST GROCERY STORES DON'T SELL THEIR DAY-OLD BREAD. MOST DON'T. So before anyone gets stabby and attacks over me suggesting "mooching" food or something, I am suggesting how to get bread on the cheap and helping out local charities. Having decided to essentially start my life over at almost 40-years-old HAS left me pretty damn penniless, and I have a lot of people to feed -- but I do give back for what I take. So again, if you do acquire bread this way, free or on the cheap, please consider giving back via a donation of even a dollar. Or even of your time. EVERY CHURCH AND/OR CHARITY needs volunteers.

Preheat oven to 325F. Slice whatever bread you're using (yes, you can do it with white bread or wheat bread loaves, and yes it'll still be good -- you can use any bread, but I highly suggest making your own croutons whenever bread starts to dry out. You are not being wasteful, and if your family loves croutons like mine does -- it'll save a good $10-12 a month) and then cube. Place on a cookie sheet, drizzle lightly with olive oil, toss to spread oil around amongst the cubes. Sprinkle with herbs of your choosing. Today I used an herb pepper, a little sea salt, and that's it. Rubbed sage makes a really great crouton, as does sprinkling Parmesan cheese on them. Toss again to spread your seasonings. Or have the kids toss, and have the kids sprinkle the herbs and salt and cheese. And let them toss again.

Place on upper rack of oven for 12 minutes, tossing every four minutes to ensure even toasting. Let cool and dry. Oven temps vary so if you need to keep them in longer just so long as they are nicely toasted through -- and crunchy -- like a crouton. Duh. Just call me Captain Obvious! OBVIOUSLY young children should not be tossing croutons in the oven, or near the oven, so this is all on you mom or dad. However, they can bag em up once they're cool.

Now for the salad . . . when I was pregnant with my eldest I was obsessed with eating the same meal, at least three times a week, at a restaurant chain that has sadly, gone the way of the Buffalo here on the West Coast. It was called Vie De France. The meal I had to have was a brie and pate platter with their amazing, amazing French bread. And that was 15 years ago so don't even think of calling the pregnancy police on me for eating Brie. French Onion Soup and a small spring salad with homemade croutons and creamy dill dressing. Later, after Eden had been born I went to a playgroup meeting and lunch and someone brought the spring mix salad with bacon and strawberries. She was a "dairy free" momma so her's had a balsamic vinaigrette (still just as good, if you are also dairy free). Still I nommed so much of that salad and kept dreaming of it with my precious dill dressing! When I finally combined all three? I was NOT disappointed. 

As a lover of Ranch Dressing it's not really a reach to go for the dill, but imagine my delight when I found Hidden Valley has a "creamy dill dip" powder. I love making my own dill dressing from scratch, but today I just didn't have the dill. Much less the energy. So I used this package. Simply half the sour cream required for a dip, and fill the rest with lowfat milk (8oz of each, respectively) . Whip all together and chill for an hour in the refrigerator. Kids can make this dressing very easily and will love being part of the process.



For the salad, I suggest a spring mix, because the bacon and strawberries go really good with a darker leaf veggie. So fry your bacon, then crumble. Slice your strawberries, slice half a red onion, toss (or let your kids toss) all together with creamy dill dressing (or vinaigrette) , top with homemade croutons! Voila! One of the best salads ever. I have no idea why strawberries and bacon go so well together, much less with dill dressing, but I thank the food Gods for showing me this!

Note: homemade croutons are an excellent snack food as well as a salad topper. You can save a fortune in chips and crackers just using day-old artisan bread and letting the kids make their own snacks and choose their own flavors.  Store in ziploc bags in a cool dark cabinet. They'll last for weeks! Best part, no preservatives!

Eden's Peanut Butter Oatmeal cookies -- stop nagging me Nancy!

These things are heavenly, crumbly, buttery NOMNESS. And my daughter made up the recipe! I love her!

Preheat oven to 350F

Ingredients:

1c Butter Flavored Crisco
1c sugar
1c brown sugar
2 eggs
2tsp vanilla extract
3c flour
1tsp baking soda
3/4 oatmeal
1/2cup peanut butter (we recommend plain/natural peanut butter, no sugar added such as Adam's or Laura Scudders)

Directions

Mix first three ingredients in a large bowl together to well blended and smooth. Add eggs and vanilla extract.

In a second bowl mix together flour, baking soda and oatmeal. Add to sugar mixture, and again blend well. Add peanut butter and incorporate.

Place on baking sheet about 3" apart, and be warned these really expand . . .

Bake 6-8 minutes or until golden brown around bottom edges. Let cool slightly then move to cooling rack. However, these should be tried when warm -- they're HEAVEN.

What do YOU MEAN plum pudding contains no PLUMS?

Can I just take a moment here and say WHAT THE FUCK?

I have hit THAT age. The age where most of my stories start with "When I was a kid . . . "

So anyway, when I was a kid, my mom and I lived in a small house in Lancaster, California. We lived in a neighborhood that often had abandoned shopping carts parked into curbs. Old houses and dead lawns. A guy with no tongue who lived on the corner hoarding Franklin Mint Collectors Plates, roses body odor and cats. Two teenage girls lived across the street, with their single mom, and naturally those teenage girls were my babysitters. Tanya first, as she was the eldest, and she babysat me up until the guy (whose name was, naturally: Wayne) from the even deeper, scarier, parts of our little ghetto, with his blonde mullet, early 80's shieshter mustache, 4x4 Bronco, and lack of shirts with sleeves -- came and stole her away. Off Tanya went to a glamourless life of white trash, Pabst Blue Ribbon, tube tops and unicorns on velcro-purses, existence. And of course by "stole away" I mean <whispers>: "knockedherup".

Then Andy (the younger sister) took over and she was way more mean to me than Tanya. Which I guess probably means it's best Tanya was the one that got knocked up, because Andy would have been a total shit of a mother back then. So, after a few months of living under the teenage torture of Andrea, I really started to hate the sound of that Wayne's knock-her-up-Bronco-engine, because it meant I'd be stuck with Andrea and not Tanya. But Andrea and I worked-out our little relationship eventually. And by worked-out, I mean I figured out how to make her life as equally hellish as she made mine. So I did shit like pull the phone cord out of the wall when she was talking to one of her boyfriends and totally not babysitting me.  Locked her out of my house then pointed and laughed at her through the kitchen window, which was hilarious in the middle of summer when it was like 115F. Told her best friend "Chantelle" that Andy had gossiped about her having an abortion (this was like 1981, and trust me, abortions were a BIG DEAL then -- like never allowed out of the house or invited to anyone's sleep-overs-ever-again: BIG DEAL. I don't think we saw Chantelle for 6 months or sumpin') and that she told other girls she liked to sniff her own butt. Yaknows, just keeping us on an even-keel, in a give-and-take relationship. And by give-and-take I mean I threatened to tell her momma she had her older, drop-out boyfriend in the house while mom was at work and that I had seen her n-a-k-e-d when he was there, so she better not eat the last double-stuff cookie, or drink the last of MY Dr. Skipper. How did I know she was n-a-k-e-d? Because her boyfriend locked her outside of her own house: n-a-k-e-d. Which was even more hilarious than her being locked out dressed when it was 115F! I liked that guy. Clearly he liked me, too. After all he got some pretty good "torture Andy" ideas from me. He also let me sit in the back seat of his Pinto and listen to Journey if I wasn't a blabby, annoying, little asshat. Yeah, Eric-the-drop-out and I got along fine. And sometimes Andy and I got along. Like that time we were sitting on her mom's old broke down Datsun's hood, listening to the radio, and they announced John Lennon had died. And we cried when they played "Woman" right after. But we didn't hug, because, well let's not be ridiculous. Or when she taught me and my BFF Pam how to feather our hair. Or that time she told all the nieghborhood kids I was way smarter than them because I got bumped up to fourth grade classes when I was in 3rd grade ala: "KC is way smarter than you. ALL OF YOU." Which was like an epic moment in our relationship because she had perfected the seething tone in which to call me a "butt head", and had mastered pigtail-pulling to an Olympic event. So hearing her actually compliment me, for anything, was like an "OH MY GOD I JUST BEAT PAC-MAN AND SOLVED RUBIK'S CUBE AT THE EXACT SAME TIME" moment in my childhood. I suppose I also have to thank her for my entire future, because it was Andy that told me how gross and shocking punk rockers were, like eating salads straight out of the sink (Inorite? WTF?) and wearing safety pins in their ears and I was all like thinking "Yessssss that's exactly what I want to be. Someone that can shock and bother Andy" and ta-da: Mission Accomplished! I'm sure the punk rock world thanks you, Andrea. 


But what the hell does any of this have to do with plum pudding?

I'll tell ya.

Tanya and Andy's mom had a nice built in bookshelf along the wall of the entry way of her house.  On that bookshelf stood a candle, in a glass jar, with a lid. A PLUM PUDDING scented candle.

I was freaking OBSESSED with that candle. In that way kids become obsessed with things they can't have but they can't leave alone, either. I didn't go over there very often (why would I? Their mom worked all the time, and she had raised her girls, she didn't want no little kid over there, always sniffing her plum pudding candle) but when I did, it was me and that candle: a plum pudding scented LOVE AFFAIR. I would stand in that dark entry way, quietly lift the lid and just sniffffffffffffffffff that candle like I couldn't get enough of the scent. It transported me to places where I was a princess and might get to eat something that tasted SO HEAVENLY, like the smell of that candle. THAT CANDLE. That gorgeous, had never been lit, piece of heaven, just sitting there day in, day out, waiting for me to come over and appreciate it and sniff it like nobody else did. . .

So today when I found myself the proud owner of ten pounds of plums all at once -- what came to my mind? YOU KNOW IT:

                                                                PLUM PUDDING.  

So imagine my shock and dismay when I went looking for plum pudding recipes and none of them contained PLUMS. Wait WUTTTTT?

According to the folks at whatscookingamerica.net, here is WHY plum pudding contains no plums:

Plum pudding is a steamed or boiled pudding frequently served at holiday times. Plum pudding has never contained plums. The name Christmas pudding is first recorded in 1858 in a novel by Anthony Trollope.

Why is Plum Pudding called Plum Pudding when there are no plums in it? In the 17th century, plums referred to raisins or other fruits. Plumb is another spelling of plum. Prune is actually derived from the same word as plum - the Latin word was pruna, which changed in the Germanic languages into pluma. But the terms were quite confused in the 16th and 17th centuries and people talked about growing prunes in their garden.

(1) Defination of "plum" in the Oxford English Dictionary
A dried grape or raisin as used for puddings, cakes, etc.  This use probably arose from the substitution of raisins for dried plums or prunes as an ingredient in plum-broth, porridge, etc., with retention of  the name 'plum' for the substituted article. The OED then goes on to list occurrences of this use in literature.  Samuel Johnson defined a "plum" as "raisin; grape dried in the sun."

(2) Some information from A Gourmet´s Guide by John Ayto
"Dried plums, or prunes, were popular in pies in medieval times, but gradually in the sixteenth and seventeenth century they began to be replaced by raisins. The dishes made with them, however, retained the term plum, and to this day the plum pudding, plum cake, plum duff etc. remind us of their former ingredients." And yes, the raisins were sometimes called plums in the 19th century, but only when they were in a plum pudding or plum cake ...

(3) Quote from The Gourmets Guide "Nowadays served only at Christmas, and so called exclusively Christmas pudding, this was formerly a common year-round pudding (albeit not always as rich as the festive version); indeed, in 1748 Pehr Kalm, a Swedish visitor to England, noted that "the art of cooking as practised by Englishmen does not extend much beyond roast beef and plum pudding". And in 1814, one of the traditional English delicacies introduced to the French by Antoine Beauvilliers in his L´art du cuisiner was plomb-poutingue."

Oh of COURSE it'll be just like the British to go and name something "plum pudding" when it contains no plums. What else do you expect from the country that has thrust "One Direction" onto us?

          Also does not contain plums. Does contain a ton of shite, though.


So what does this mean for me and my chasing down the scent of my childhood obsession? It means SCREW YOU ENGLAND, I am going to take those plums, soak them in wine and vanilla, sprinkle them in brown sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg, and then I am going to dehydrate them and make my whole house smell like that candle from my childhood. And we're going to have plum-pudding candy actually made from plums and there is NOTHING you can do about it! So HA!

Whatever happened to that candle you might be asking? Well if you're not, you're going to find out anyway. And I SWEAR on Gus Thresh's souless-ginger-soul I am not making this up . . .

Years later, when I was a still a teenager, I went to Andy and Tanya's moms house because Andy had married Eric, and they were having a little homey wedding reception. Journey was playing. The PLUM PUDDING CANDLE was finally lit . . . for the first time. Ever. Because I told Andy's mom this story and about my weird sniffing obsession with her candle. She looked at me a little funny (I totally understood, and I was already totally used to that, by the way), but she lit it. Because she kinda remembered the weird neighbor kid standing in her entry way all quiet and creepy, sniffing her candle. Yes, I also told her about Andy being locked outside n-a-k-e-d, so she slapped Andy . . . which was of epic hilarity to me. . . then, what happened next, of all things, Chantelle, (of abortion-and-butt-sniffing-fame)  was standing there in front of those built-in bookshelves, talking to Andy's mom, when POOF -- her hair went up in flames. She always did like hairspray. Just sayin'. Thankfully though, they got the hair-fire out before she lost most of it, and thankfully she wasn't burned. But some of her burned hair drifted down into the gorgeous plum-pudding scented candle, and ruined it. Forevers like.

And my little goth heart broke into a million pieces of teh sads that night.

And so that's that. Wish me luck. I really need this scent to happen. And if it does? I MAY forgive Gus Thresh and the rest of England.

Farm Report for August 8th.

Well I got all sorts of stuff to tell ya, my darling waffles!

Last night at around sunset, I was sitting at my desk furiously typing away in a group-chatty thing with Billy, Pedro and Eartha. We were discussing the importance of being positive, how cute Billy's bum is, Eartha fielding marriage offers for my hand out of Ireland, my annoying habit of over-sharing everything (like I am doing right now) and Pedro musing he finds me perfect just the way I am (Dawwwww!) -- when movement out my office window caught my eye. A couple of the neighborhood kids and their mom decided to stop by and tour our orchard.

"Can Dash come out to play?"

They're really cute, but I'm going to have to start being all grumpy-old-man if they start eating all our fruit. "GET OFF MY LAWN, YOU NO GOOD KIDS!" like. Carrying a rifle while I say it, like. 


Today Pedro went to fetch Crysta after cheerleading practice and they stopped by the Mobile Food Bank that Pedro and I were asked to visit this morning. So they came home with 50LBS of potatoes. 20+ lbs Cucumbers. 10lbs Plums. And three huge flats of strawberries! We also got a nice variety of breads. SQUEEEEE!

So we all agreed that the best way to save and preserve a ton of these strawberries was to dehydrate them and make enough strawberry chips to last us through the winter. 

My house smells divine. Like what I imagine Willy Wonka's farts must smell like. 

I threw some banana chips on there, too. I can't eat them, but the kids can!

Our friend Shaunee has offered to get us a bunch of dill from her cousin's farm this weekend -- and then it's on, we're making pickles. LOTS AND LOTS of pickles. Pedro knows all about making pickles, he says. Good thing, as I have no freaking idea, I says.



I also want to make jam, but I really need someone to give me a shout-out for the best price on large amounts of pectin. Anyone?

As for the plums? I have plans for the plums. But that's a whole 'nother blog post. Stay tuned.

After unloading all these fruits and veggies we finally decided to take on Direct TV and figure out why their satellite service is being all PMS'y and working when it feels like. Seriously it's like "oh you haven't watched TV in seven months? Want to watch it now? Ha! TOO BAD SO SAD!". Apparently our dish needs to be "recalibrated" to talk to the satellite again. Which essentially means they're sending someone out to give her a Midol and an attitude adjustment. 

Meanwhile, the war-of-the-wasps continues. We have a new species, it's black with a white face and one white racing stripe across their back. They're really aggressive and like to bump into me when I walk out onto the back deck. I'm becoming resentful. Really resentful. I had enough of that sort of shit in junior high, ya jerks. I don't have to put up with this anymore! Well, yes, I do. But I'll figure out how to punk em back, eventually.

So yeah, that's about it. I'm sure I'll think of something else once I hit post, but for now . . . yeah that's all I got. Except the plum post. And the promised peanut-butter-oatmeal cookie recipe of Eden's. (I'm typing it Nancy, I'm typing it already!)

Farm report over.

It's that time of the month, again. NO, not THAT time of the month.

It's the time of the month where grocery money goes and gets scarce on us and I start coming up with really creative dinners that taste freakin' AWESOME and I get all kinds of accolades (in my head) because I fed a big family for like $1.00 a person . . . no seriously, I did get a lot of "Thanks MAWM that was so good!" tonight. And that makes my heart all proud and happy because I basically just made the laziest "gourmet" dinner of all time. 

If you each give me a dollar: I'll stop writing run-on sentences. Ha! Just kidding!

Anyway, I know we're all trying to get away from "boxed dinners" and "boxed sides" and I'm all preachy-keen on telling you that you can make the same thing easily without over-processed ingredients. But let's face it -- sometimes those "Sides" are on sale. Or we have coupons. Or we're just busy/lazy. . . and so this post on my non-foodie blog is how to make a FREAKING awesome, gourmet-tasting din-din with boxed Pasta-Roni sides (2). A can of Baby Clams (1 -- Large can). A cheap little box of wine. A half a head of garlic. And half a stick of butter.. .

So basically buy the large can of baby clams (and if you young mommas are all like "ewww, no! Gross! I'd never eat that, nevermind my kids!" will you please just trust me? If you won't? Well I guess that's yer problem! Because even my pickiest eater -- who won't even eat corn -- LOVED this. Just sayin'. And YOU will be the one missing out.)

So yeah. . . back to the quick, easy recipe. . .

If you're going to use two different flavors like I did, make sure it's the same pasta and/or cook times, with relatively the same amount of liquid ingredients. I went with two angel hair pastas, one parmesan, one herb. . .  both require the exact same amount of butter and liquid.

Pour 1/2 cup white wine -- that cheaper boxed wine (which is very tasty by the way) like Bandit, and the rest can be reserved for other dishes, or drank to cure your headache that you must be having> Obviously. Because you are trying to make something simple and quick here. Which means you either started the day with a headache, or ended with one . . . either way . .. . .  put just a 1/2 cup white wine into a large measuring cup of AT LEAST 3 cup capacity.

Use 4 TBSP butter like the recipe for the boxes say, or stay on the larger end of what the recipes on your boxed-sides call for. So if they say 2-4TBSP butter -- go 4. You need the extra butter-fat for sauteeing. Melt in large pot. Dice/press your garlic. Drain the can of clams but RESERVE THE CLAM JUICE into that large (3-4 cup) measuring cup your 1/2 cup of wine is already sitting in. Don't worry it won't make your dish "fishy" it'll make it all the MORE awesome. Sautee garlic and clams in butter for 2-4 minutes over high heat.

According to the back of your packaged meal boxes, add water to the clam juice and wine in your large liquid measuring cup to total the amount of "water" you would need for cooking both packages (in my case with the two packages shown above: it came to 2 and 2/3 cups). Add to your hot pot of sautee'ing garlic and clams. Add the required milk to your pot (in my case with the two packages I made shown above came out to 1 and 1/3rd cup of milk). Bring all to a boil, then add the pasta and "spice packets".

Cook for time suggested on your packages  (4 minutes for me) stirring occasionally. Remove from heat and let thin sauce thicken (about 5 minutes). Add some fresh chopped parsley if you have it around. Stir well. Serve with some nice crusty french bread and the rest of the butter . . .

Voila! Nice seafood pasta dish made on the cheap and easy (unlike myself, I am never cheap and easy) that doesn't taste fishy nor over-processed, that my kids love because it does taste kinda processed and not at all suspect of "fishy"!! Thanks Pasta-Roni!  And Baby Clams! and trust us, we know you aren't chicken-clams, Oh Chicken of the Sea!

So voila, not everyone is perfect and bakes perfect bisquits in the morning and prepares kale fried salmon & clam cheeks with a perfect Bento pink-dyed- rice & sauteed star fruit over a kimchee salad. Just keeping it real.

PLEASE NOTE! I do have friends whose children could live or die by their diets -- and I give them a huge hats-off for all they do to cook everything down to the inth investigation of what is in their children's food. This post is not for them, obviously.