Thursday, April 24, 2008

Princess of Potatoes. Maybe even the Queen.

Not that I am a potato. Wait, maybe I am. A bit. But that is, first of all, changing. It is also not germane to the topic at hand.

The thing is, of the many people I love (yes, love. Geez, you people have a narrow definition of love), two of them have potato issues. Good issues, though. One of them loves mashed potatoes and the other loves potato cakes. Very specific cakes, it took me a while to make them the way he remembers from growing up in Manchester.

So...potato cake guy gets potato cakes as presents. With other stuff, like a CD or something. Actually, Christmas has almost become potato cakes/music/cheese every year. Easiest person to buy presents for ever.

Mashed Potato Woman (betcha that name hasn't ever appeared in First Nations nameology before!) did get individual servings (frozen) of mashed potatoes for her birthday. Hey, it was a good idea! Anyway...she is doing me a favour, so I made her mashed potatoes. But...

I have cooking issues. So while the potatoes were cooking, I sat there wondering what I could do to make them the BEST MASHED POTATOES EVER. Why? Would Bobby Flay ever challenge me to a potato throwdown? Who knows. Although he can throw me down anytime. Just in case he calls and asks, I want that made clear.

I thought about the potato itself. I should have bought Yukon Gold. Better flavour. Too late for that, the potatoes were already peeled and cooking. But texture, that I could do something about. And I did. I actually went the pain-in-the-ass route of putting the cooked spuds through a food mill prior to mashing them and piping them into their little potato mounds. So they should be really really excellent mashed potatoes. Unless, of course, you prefer lumpy potatoes as some do. I think this batch may make me the princess of potatoes. I'll have to try garden fresh Yukon Gold for the spuds if I want queen status though.

The only truly sad thing here is that I am absurdly excited about the mashed potatoes. And the potato cakes, because they were milled too, prior to being made into cakes. Yeah, I know, I'm nuts.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

That's the best you can do?

So government isn't supposed to destroy records without following correct procedure. But of course they do and we hear all sorts of reasons why. Today's favourite from what I've been reviewing?

"Those records were accidentally destroyed by a former employee who mistook the shredder for the photocopier".

Monday, April 14, 2008

Misplaced Lust.

There is a commercial that many of you have likely seen. It is for some skin lotion or something. Anyway, there is a woman on a bed reading or something and this shirtless guy comes in and they start wrestling. The whole point, of course, being that if you use their lotion you too can wrestle comfortably with half dressed people. Or person.

The first time I saw this commercial, I sighed in envy- out loud! . A. turns to me and says : MOM!!
Assuming, of course that I am lusting after said shirtless guy. In reality, though this is what I was thinking:
"Wow. That's a really clean bedroom. Spotless and perfect. Sigh".

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

I need someone to explain me to me. Please?

Occasionally - ok, more often than I'd care to admit - I will shuffle through the various post-it notes on my desk/in my purse/stuffed into pockets (my own) trying to get things done and I'll come across some cryptic note I wrote myself that no longer makes sense. Or enough to do something constructive. Today I am totally baffled. I have a bright green post-it (the colour may or may not be relevant) that says "Monkey".

That's it. Nothing else. No quotes, no time or location (am I expecting a monkey from somewhere?) nada. What did I mean? More importantly, what happens when I don't do whatever it is that I was supposed to do? Is there a monkey somewhere waiting for a call, a ride a meal? Help!

Grace Kelly

Apparently, twirling in happy circles mid-walk just because the day is sunny and the music is twirly is not the done thing.

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

My ass is glass, baby.

Nope, I'm not confused. That sentence is correct. Or almost. I guess my ass has glass would be the exact phrase. What's going on? Let's take a little jump in time, shall we?

Last weekend was very busy. Gaming at the house on Saturday, then again at the library on Sunday. The boy had a cold all weekend long, a cold that he'd had for days. So not much sleep for him or me on Friday (too much coughing), and still baking at 3:30 AM, thanks to one mixer being broken. My Saturday normally starts at 4:30 and will again when everything is fixed. So I was tired, boy was tired and by Sunday supper we were all tired. So tired that although I heard the girl say that she had broken a glass in the bathtub but cleaned it all up, it didn't really register.

Showers were taken on Monday so really, any lingering bits of glass should have been long gone. And they were. All but the one bit that I sat on when I tried to have what was meant to be a relaxing bath after a difficult day.

All I have to say is that I occasionally dislike being single. And trying to tweezer a piece of glass out of my own heinie was one of those occasions. Monday sucked, but I have serious hopes that today will be better.

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

No, I don't want computer help.

I am having a hard time making really big cookies bake properly. Quite often they are over-cooked on the edges, and almost raw in the middle. I've changed the temperature of the oven, changed the level I put the rack on, tried making the cookies thinner/ unqualified success yet.

And where do we all head for tech help? Google, of course. Except there are computer cookies and cookie-cookies. And I don't have problems with computer cookies. Although apparently lots of people do, because there are a bazillion sites for help with those whose large cookies are making things crash. My cookies have never made me crash. Ever.

Back to the drawing board. Just felt like ranting. Who came up with computer cookies anyway? Why not make up a completely different word? Zooglies, or something. Messages that saw your zooglies are not enabled makes as much sense as cookies not being enabled. Ok, I'm done now. Honest.