Pretending to Farm

In Which I am too Tired to Format a Duplicate Post

So you'll have to go to its source:

"The Pastry Queen", Royally Untested for Home Kitchens

 

In Which I Get to the Vanilla Extract Eventually

Somewhere in my clouded memory banks, I recall tales of repressed fifties housewives, overwhelmed by expectations of perfection in all things, surreptitiously sneaking generous sips of vanilla extract, 35% alcohol by volume, to make their days bearable. While searching the internets for references to all things Mother’s-little-helper related, I came across this blog extolling “The Glorious 1950’s Housewife” and became so incensed that I almost forgot what I sat down to write about in the first place. This woman is deluded:

“These housewives would always wake up at least two hours before their husbands, so they could shower, do their hair, put on make up, and wear really nice dress and high heels.”

“A belief of always looking their best, when “he see’ s you first thing in the morning”, was of utmost importance.  They made it a point to never, ever have morning breath or look sleepy.”

(I won’t even get into her apostrophe catastrophes or other grammatical and spelling errors.)

“Men made the money back then and it was important for their wives to create a haven of peace once their husbands got home. Strong daily efforts to make him comfortable were routine. Like having him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.

“It was also important to make the evening his, while still incorporating your relationship and keeping a budding romance alive. Complaining or arguments were very scarce or kept to a minimum. The obvious goal was to try to make your home a place of peace and order, where your husband can relax and be happy.”

I believe these housewives were strong, organized, respectable, and quite happy.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. This woman belongs in Pleasantville, broadcast in black and white before Tobey McGuire came along and turned the more progressive populace into living color. Maybe she’ll romanticize the Antebellum South next, comment that the slaves enjoyed picking all that cotton in sweltering heat because the gracious white folks put roofs over their heads and fed them almost as well as they fed the livestock. How they didn’t deserve being more than 3/5 of a person, after all, and how they needed a good whippin’ from time to time to keep their baser urges in check. Oh, and they hated their families so it was a good thing the plantation owners were kind enough to take those burdenous chillens away from them.

But I digress, I came here to teach you people how to make vanilla extract at home, better tasting and less expensive vanilla extract. Now I’m afraid to do it without sounding like a fifties housewife, never mind the foolish woman who romanticizes her; but I’m going to tell you anyway.

Almost a year ago, while perusing the aisles of our local big box warehouse store (read Costco), Hubby and I discovered vanilla beans in test tubes. Because I am drawn by all things unique, I had to purchase said vanilla bean encasing test tubes or live the rest of my life in denied misery. Once home, they sat in the spice cabinet for nine months. If I was younger and had more energy and untied tubes, I could have conceived and birthed a baby in the time those beans were wasting away in their adorable glass tubes.

Then, one day, I ran out of vanilla. And remembered the tales of miserable vanilla-swigging fifties housewives. This memory was joined by a vague recollection of making one’s own vanilla at home and the knowledge that my liquor cabinet was well-stocked (because I mainly drink beer and wine) and my course was set.

I rattled through the Corner Cabinet of Rampant Disorganization and, just before Narnia, found an old maple syrup bottle to repurpose, dusted off the neglected test tubes, and pulled out the Absolut.

I suppose one could use inexpensive Vodka for this endeavor but, personally, I think life is too short to drink, or create vanilla from, cheap booze.

How to Make Vanilla Extract

Split three vanilla beans lengthwise, leaving one end intact, put into a lidded glass jar or bottle, cover with vodka, and let sit for six weeks to two months, shaking two to three times a week.

Seriously, that’s all there is to it. Why are we all not making our own vanilla? Are we afraid that, if we do, the bottom is going to fall out of the extract market, causing the recession to dip again never to recover? Because this is beyond easy. The hardest thing was washing the inside of the old maple syrup bottle. AND, like sourdough bread starter or that horrid fruit fermentation that my mother kept for years in my youth, it never runs out! But instead of feeding it, you just give it a little more vodka when the level of extract drops. And who doesn’t need a little vodka now and then? It makes the world a better place and, unlike this poor soul here whose mother was probably one of those “strong, organized, respectable, and quite happy” fifties housewives, you still have enough vodka to pour yourself a drink instead of emptying the spice aisle and making a spectacle of yourself.

 

Give Me a Slug of Booze!

Technomic has come out with its restaurant trend predictions for 2011. Now, I've never heard of Technomics before but, by their name, I assume they have something to do with technology and economics. I'm clever that way. Why they're talking about adult beverages, I haven't a clue. But I like adult beverages so I'll bite. 

"Adult beverages, from retro cocktails and high-end spirits to craft beers will get more play in appropriate markets." (Photo: Thinkstock)

So the Mad Men craze is still going strong. And influencing what we drink. With the exception of craft beer, as every man in 1964 drank Pabst Blue Ribbon. Women did not drink beer at all and instead had to chug cough syrup and vanilla except for Betty Draper and her ilk, thin as rail women who could work some undergarments and pearls to their best advantage.

I like adult beverages (yes, I am repeating myself). Sometimes I enjoy going to BevMo and fantasizing about all the high-end liquor and craft beer I would buy if money was no object. You see, the appreciation for alcohol was ingrained into me from youth. My Great Uncle Charles, Helen's brother, a crusty Baltimore born-and-bred codger who loved to drive his huge white Caddy with red leather interior and laughed in a way to betray that he smoked way too many cigarettes, taught me at two or three years old to ask for adult beverages. 

"Lauren, what would you like to drink?"

"Give me a slug o' booze!"

He thought it was really funny.

 

At four or five, I could serve the Jolly Girls their cocktails made to order. I could also concoct an old-fashioned, muddling fruit with the best of bartenders. My parents often took me to their favorite piano bar, The Eager House, where special attention was paid to me, where I sat in a special bar stool, drank umpteen million Shirley Temples, and had songs sung just to me by the piano player. I was princess of the Eager House. 

As I light tonight's drinking lamp in preparation for Friday cocktail hour, why don't I share a few concoctions to ready you for 2011. 

1. The Classic Martini 

"I'm not talking a cup of cheap gin splashed over an ice cube. I'm talking satin, fire and ice; Fred Astaire in a glass; surgical cleanliness; insight and comfort; redemption and absolution. I'm talking a martini" --Anonymous

2 1/2 ounces top shelf gin                             

1 1/2 teaspoons dry vermouth

                                                                           1 lemon twist or cocktail olive

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the gin and vermouth. Shake well. Strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with the olive. I like a little olive juice splashed into the shaker and prefer my martini with a blue cheese olive. And, sacrilege, schmacrilege, I prefer substituting the gin with premium vodka as gin makes me mean and I am not a mean person. Belvedere works nicely. Absolut if you're slumming it.

2. The Manhattan

Although many legends exist as to the origin of the Manhattan, many involving Lady Randolph Churchill (Winston's mum), one 

 urban legend suggests that the drink was named "Manhattan" after the city's sewage and water system, which ran brown at the time. Ew!

1 3/4 ounces Crown Royal Reserve (or other premium whiskey)

1/2 ounce Sweet Vermouth

1-3 dashes of Bitters

Combine all ingredients in an ice-filled cocktail shaker, strain into a chilled glass, garnish with a Maraschino cherry, and serve straight up. A Dry Manhattan substitutes Dry Vermouth for Sweet and is garnished with a twist. A Rob Roy uses Scotch Whiskey rather than Canadian or Bourbon.

3. The Old Fashioned

 

The Old Fashioned  first made its appearance in the 1880s at the Pendennis Club, a gentlemen's club in Louisville, Kentucky. Invented by a bartender at the club, it was popularized by Colonel James E Pepper who brought it to the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City.

 
3 dashes bitters 
2 orange slices
1 sugar cube
3 ounces blended whiskey
1 maraschino cherry

 In an old-fashioned glass, muddle the bitters and orange into the sugar cube, using the back of a teaspoon. Almost fill the glass with ice cubes and add the whiskey. Garnish with another orange slice and cherry, Serve with a swizzle stick. Substitute brandy for the appropriately named Brandy Old Fashioned. The Old fashioned is a favorite of the hunky but flawed Don Draper on "Mad Men".

4. The Daiquiri

The term daiquiri comes from a beach near Santiago, Chile. An urban legend suggests it was invented by a group of American mining engineers who ran out of gin. It is nothing like the sicky sweet frozen frippery ubiquitous on chain restaurant menus everywhere.

• 8 parts white Cuban rum
• 2 parts lime juice
• 1 part simple syrup

Shake with lots of finely crushed ice and strain well into a chilled cocktail glass.

5. The Sidecar

 The Ritz Hotel in Paris claims to be the origin of the Sidecar invented around World War I by Sam "Suck It" Treadway.

• 8 parts Cognac or Armagnac
• 2 parts lemon juice
• 1 part Cointreau or Triple Sec

Pour all ingredients in a cocktail shaker over ice. Shake well and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a twist.

So there, make yourself a cocktail, sit by the fire, and discuss the future of plastics together. Cheers!

 

Hey Sweet Potato, I could eat you with a spoon!

When I was a little girl, Helen, or Gramma as I called her, would hug me tight and declare that I was so sweet, she could eat me with a spoon. Which, looking back, was very loving and wonderful in that way that only grandmothers can convey; but, at the time, it frightened me. I had all sorts of mental images of my grandmother, who was a tall, big-boned German woman, wielding a giant grapefruit spoon and plunging it into my short, small-boned American body like a deranged zombie.

I assumed it had to be a grapefruit spoon as it needed sharp edges and a point to really dig into my my flesh. Unfounded fear is all in the details. 

But we're here to talk about pie, aren't we? Thanksgiving is in exactly a week. And I am scheduled to work that day. Which does not please me. So let's pout and make sweet potato pie. With bourbon, some in the pie and a slitch on ice for the baker.

Sweet Potato Pie is similar to pumpkin pie in the fact that is indeed orange and uses similar spices and flavorings in its recipe. But a sweet potato is a tuber while a pumpkin is a squash. As an aside, sweet potatoes are not yams but were mislabeled as such by growers who thought we were too stupid to know a sweet potato was not the same as regular potatoes. Because there is nothing worse than baking what you think are russets and discovering that your chives and bacon bits are useless. Yams are a completely different genus and species, are native to Africa, popular in Latin American dishes, and very sweet. They can also grow over seven feet long which would be damned difficult to manage in my kitchen.

To my taste buds, sweet potatoes are richer and slightly more sugary than pumpkins. But canned pumpkin puree is ubiquitous this time of year and one actually has to bake and mash sweet potatoes. How inconvenient. We're making pie with them regardless.

Or irregardless as Helen would say. She loved collecting malapropisms and using them for her own amusement so that someone, meeting her for the first time, would not realize that she knew the correct word or phrase.


Let's bake!


This recipe is courtesy of Paula Deen and FoodNetwork.


 

Old Fashioned Sweet Potato Pie

Prep Time: 20 min

Cook Time: 1 hr 55 min

Level: Easy

Serves: 6 to 8 servings

 INGREDIENTS

• 2 cups peeled, cooked sweet potatoes
• 1 1/4 cups sugar
• 1/2 stick melted butter
• 2 eggs
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract or 1 to 2 tablespoons bourbon
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1 cup milk
• 9-inch unbaked pie crust
• 3 egg whites

DIRECTIONS

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

For the filling, using an electric hand mixer, combine the potatoes, 1 cup of the sugar, the butter, eggs, vanilla, salt, and spices. Mix thoroughly. Add the milk and continue to mix. Pour the filling into the pie crust and bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Place the pie on a rack and cool to room temperature before covering with meringue.

For the meringue, using an electric mixer, beat the egg whites until soft peaks form; beat in the remaining 1/4 cup sugar 1 tablespoon at a time. Continue beating until the sugar dissolves and the mixture is glossy and stiff, but not dry. With a rubber spatula, spoon the meringue onto the pie, forming peaks. Make sure the meringue touches the crust all around. Sprinkle with a pinch of granulated sugar. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, or until delicately browned. Cool and serve.

What I did right: I added extra vanilla, a dollop of bourbon and a generous pinch of nutmeg. It seemed sacrilege to not use nutmeg. When beating the meringue, I added a 1/4 tsp of cream of tartar, doubled the amount of egg whites, and beat them to soft peaks with a hand mixer in my clean copper bowl. Nice and high, that's how I like my meringue.
What I did wrong: See Butterscotch Cream Pie.
What I thought of it: Yum. More complex than pumpkin pie, different in that it's topped with meringue instead of whipped cream. It's lighter and better for you. After all, nutritionists at the Center for Science and the Public Interest ranked sweet potatoes #1 in nutrition, outscoring the next highest vegetable by over 100 points.
How I'll tweak it next time: I think I'll make two. Teenage boys, you know.

 

The Channeler is Not Baking Today

Why, you may ask? Well, she's damned tired as she is still working in the often menial, typically Sisyphean food and beverage industry and has been on her feet for far too many hours in the last several days. Her dogs are barking and we are not referring to the puggle, the bloodhound, or the little brown mutt. 

Oy, my feet hurt, my legs ache, and I got a little thing ya know, a little scratchiness. And heavens to Mergatroid, I cannot afford to get sick.

So I have an assignment for you. Make some pie crust for this week. It will make the pies go faster. If you have a food processor, which I do because I am a kitchen gadget whore, use it to make your pie crust. If you don't, use two knives or a pastry blender. If you buy a pre-made pie crust, don't tell me. I can't bear to know these things.

For two 9" pie shells, mix or pulse together 2 3/4 cups all-purpose flour and 1/2 tsp of salt. Cut in or pulse 2 sticks (1 cup) of very cold butter cut into pieces. Into a 1-cup Pyrex measuring cup, add an egg yolk, 1 tsp apple cider vinegar, and a little crushed ice. Add water until the mixture reaches the 1/2 cup level. Mix and add to your flour and butter mixture, either with your hands and forks or by adding a slow stream through the feed tube of the food processor while it is running (quick, catch it!). You may not need to add all the liquid as you only need enough until it almost gathers into a ball.

Divide the dough in half. Stick each into a gallon ziploc bag, smush into a flat disc, seal and put it into the refrigerator until later. There, you're done. Go watch Glee and The Fashion Show with TLo. Beware Iman.

Oh, if you were one of those extra credit overachievers in school and want to do more to get ahead, you can bake some sweet potatoes, enough for approximately two cups of mashed sweet potato. I used four medium sweet potatoes.

That is all. I will try not to be so punchy tomorrow. Sláinte! 

Pie Week!

Pie Week!

Just like Shark Week but sweeter!

Eons and eons ago, when I was but a mere teenager, I spent a summer working at The Greenbrier Resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. I was there to play nanny to a young baby, the son of the hotel manager, and to free my parents, who were living in North Carolina, of my presence so they could have sex anytime they damned well pleased.

Beside the perks of being able to use the spa free of charge, to eat anything on the premises I desired, and to spend hours hanging poolside with hunky teenage lifeguards, all while getting paid, I got to play Suzie Homemaker and bake during the baby's naptime. On one such magical afternoon, and after searching for recipes which I had the ingredients to make, I discovered the glory that is Butterscotch Cream Pie.

Although a butterscotch pie is not traditional for Thanksgiving, and, in fact, no pie that I feature this week will be, it is a delectable dessert treat. Not too sweet, the richness of its pudding filling is balanced with the lightness of meringue cradled in a flaky pie crust. It's ready for its closeup, Mr DeMille. Just bake and devour.

Recipe was submitted by Colleen on the allrecipes.com website. The photos are my own. 

And, no, I am not a photographer. If Barry or Julie visit, you'll be able to see some quality food porn.

Butterscotch Cream Pie

Rated: Submitted By: Colleen Prep Time: 5 Minutes Cook Time: 40 Minutes Ready In: 45 Minutes Servings: 8

"This recipe has been a favorite of mine and my family for over 50 years. The meringue topping with the butterscotch filling makes for a very rich dessert, eat it warm."

INGREDIENTS:

2 cups milk 1/3 cup all-purpose flour 1 cup brown sugar 1/4 teaspoon salt 3 egg yolks 3 tablespoons butter, melted 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

6 egg whites 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar 2 tablespoons confectioners' sugar   1 (9 inch) unbaked pie crust

DIRECTIONS:

1.	Preheat oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). Brush pie crust lightly with egg white to seal. Bake in preheated oven for 10 minutes, or until light brown and crisp. Remove from oven and reduce temperature to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).
2.	In a small bowl, mix together the flour, brown sugar and salt; set aside. In the top of a double boiler over medium heat, scald the milk while stirring with a whisk. Slowly whisk in the flour mixture. Cook, stirring constantly until thickened; remove from heat.
3.	Place the egg yolks in a medium bowl. Stir in 1/3 of the milk mixture to temper the yolks, Then pour the yolk mixture back into the pan. Return to the stove and cook, stirring constantly until thick. Remove from heat and stir in the butter and vanilla. Pour into baked pie crust.
4.	In a large glass or metal mixing bowl, beat egg whites, cream of tartar and confectioners' sugar until stiff peaks form. Spread meringue over pie, covering completely.
5.	Bake at 350 degrees F (175 degrees C) for 10 to 15 minutes, or until meringue is golden brown in spots.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © 2010 Allrecipes.com What I did right: As I don't cotton to tempering egg yolks (pathological fear of scrambling), I performed my Time Saving Superhero Pudding and Pie Filling Shortcut. After whisking the dry ingredients together in a heavy bottomed saucepan (I prefer All-Clad Master Chef), I mixed in the egg yolks and then drizzled in the milk before heating the pan. After about ten minutes of stirring with a whisk, the mixture thickened and came to a full boil. I took it off the heat, added the butter and twice the vanilla called for, and, shazam, butterscotch pie filling. Also, I used a clean copper bowl and a handheld mixer to beat the egg whites, giving me picture-perfect meringue. What I did wrong: I could say I did nothing wrong though I did insist on using my favorite Emile Henry 10" pie plate which was a tad large for this recipe. My 8" Pyrex would have made a high and perfect pie but it's boring glass and I like pretty dishes. I am a girl after all. What I thought of it: Delicious! There I was right back at The Greenbrier all over again, poolside with hunky teenage lifeguards. Then, I started to feel pervy because I am 47  and my twin boys are the same age as those lifeguards were so I just ate quietly and minded my own beeswax while my waistline expanded. How I'll tweak it next time: I'll search the internets for a smaller but still pretty pie plate or, sigh, use the Pyrex one. Other than that, I won't change a thing. Unless you all have a special request, tomorrow we'll talk dough and sweet potatoes. And ugly pie plates because the pretty one has a pie in it.  BTW, Helen would definitely enjoy a piece of this pie. She liked having  "a little meat on her bones". In moderation. "Everything in moderation."

 

Hunna, you should see his chest!

I have begun a new blog via Blogger, ChannelingHelen.com, dealing with all things epicurean and intoxicating. I will import here and continue to enjoy and reply to comments received. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading! The year was 1985 and my then boyfriend/now husband and I traveled a route familiar to me since youth, the four and a half hour drive from North Carolina to Maryland. Through fields of cotton and soybeans, past disintegrating tobacco shacks, abandoned gas stations, and rusting farm equipment to the smoke-stacked freeway maze that was Richmond, across the Potomac in view of the Capital, until we reached the beltway, Dulaney Valley Road, and the turnoff on Southerly to get to Gramma’s apartment. Even though it was November in Towson, David arrived sans shirt, wearing a slight pair of white shorts and sneakers. And he was in shape, the physical condition that arrives with jumping from air planes, running triathlons, and dating someone like me. After greetings were exchanged, suitcases stowed, and no less than five minutes had elapsed, we had cocktails in hand, de riguer for visits with Gramma. Honestly, I think we all stayed slightly buzzed during each visit. In between CC & water one and two, we discussed visiting Hunna, Gramma’s best friend since early youth. I was eager to see her again as she was an honorary great aunt to me and, of course, I wanted David to meet her as well. Gramma disappeared into the bedroom to call Hunna whereupon I immediately overheard her loudly and excitedly declare, “Hunna, you should see his chest!” Plans made, we got ready to walk the half block to Hunna’s apartment. Gramma turned to me and demanded, “He IS going to put a shirt on, isn’t he?” And he did, though I half-thought she’d have him remove it again once we got to Hunna’s to preen and show off for her. Hours later, we were all “in the sauce”, having a wonderful time, laughing and carrying on, getting drunk and disorderly. Though the Jolly Girls could have kept going and, admittedly, were drinking us more than one for one and could easily have left us under a table while they continued their rabble-rousing, David and I decided to walk to a local bar and bid the ladies good night. The evening ended up with me chucking a tennis ball hard to David’s testicles but that’s another story for another day. The main point of the evening and a revelation to David, “I didn’t know old people could be so much fun!” My grandmother Helen was indeed fun. And hard-working and disciplined. And a wonderful cook and exceptional housekeeper. Yet, her one characteristic that everyone remarked on was her outspokenness, sometimes to a fault and oftentimes to its recipients’ embarrassment. In fact, the morning after David’s realization that the elderly could, in fact, be entertaining, she asked me, her granddaughter that she had played hours of Uncle Wiggly and gin rummy with, whom she had made untold pints of homemade applesauce for, for whom she had knitted countless sweaters, “Are you and he lovers? Because it sure seems like it.” But that was Gramma and I loved her for it. To this day, when I let my own innate outspokenness show itself more than I should, I am accused of “letting Helen out”. With this new blog, I will do my best to do just that, concentrating on matters culinary and hedonistic but diverging to rambling paths as I choose. It is my blog after all. I hope you will enjoy its future as I do my best to entertain and to Channel Helen. BTW, to answer her question, yes we were and it was damned good. And we will be married 24 years come next May. I think Gramma would be pleased.

To Soufflé or Not To Soufflé,

 

 To soufflé or not to soufflé,

That is the question
Whether 'tis simpler for the gut to suffer
The preservatives of microwaved Stouffers,
Or to take whisks against a saucepan of butter and flour
 And, by gyrating, mix them. To warm, to heat
 A little more – and by heat we say to blend
 Equal parts butter and flour with cups of milk
That sauce is a base to – to a revelation
Devoutly to be folded. With whites. Of eggs.
To bake, perchance to broil. Ay, there's the dish.
For in that rise of molecules what taste may come,
We have shuffled to avoid fallen food,
We keep our calm. There's the respect
That makes simplicity of a delicious meal.
For to bear the whisks and folds of eggs,
Is to show the freezer section's wrong, the proud cook's victory.
The pangs of a lusty stomach, the appetites' delay,
The insolence of waiting, all made worth it.
That patient merit of that the worthy takes.
Would he himself a Hotpocket make
When such delights await? Who would bear the shame?
Tis no long grunt or sweat over a stove,
But ten minutes of barely registered exertion,
The separated eggs from yonder coop
The yolks in the sauce, the whites in the mixer
Which beats until soft peaks form and fluffy meringue we have
Then fold together with cheese or spinach or Gran Marnier?
Thus conscience makes kitchen warriors of us all,
And thus the orange glow of the oven
Is heated o'er while air bubbles expand,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their interiors turn feather-light,
And seize the name of Souffle.—Soft you now!
The fair sublimity must be served immediately
And all labors be at once appreciated and forgotten.

My Apologies to Cary Nation (and Michelle)

Did anyone catch the Diamondbacks yesterday? History-making, let me tell you. I have never, ever seen a pitcher (in this case Micah (good sheep name) Owings) called to pinch hit and then, because that wasn’t enough, knock an opposite side of the park home run. Phew! What a game! We won! And, wait for it, I drank beer (imagine me hanging my head in shame for effect).

Yeah, I know; I’m not supposed to be doing that right now but geez, jaw-dropping, whoop-inducing baseball was on and ice water was just not doing it for me. Plus, there’s that whole only-losing-two-pounds in two weeks thing. What’s a fan to do? Plus, tomorrow the eagle lands.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Wavy lines indicate flashback time.)

When we first got a kegorator, it was the bunch-of-guys-in-college-sharing-a-wild-party-house kind, a refrigerator with a hole drilled in the front for the tap and the hoses and workings inside. It was great. It offered freezer storage for delectably cold beer glasses and a little extra room beside the keg for bags of onions and other too-large-for-the-regular-fridge foodstuffs. When we moved here from San Diego, dear friends Jim and Allene bought it from us and it is still doing its imbiber-enabling duty to this day. Pardon me while I get a tissue, Tito; I’m getting all misty-eyed.

Anywho, we (and our many guests) went through about a keg a month (that’s all we ask, anyone else remember that almond commercial?) and each time HH went to exchange the empty keg for a full one, the moment he had it loaded in the truck, he would dutifully call me and announce, “The eagle has landed.” Something like seven or eight years into it, the tradition has held (doesn’t that make you feel all warm inside?).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(End of flashback.)

Today, courtesy of The Amazing Matt, we have a very pretty, chrome-topped, bar-level, top-of-the-line model. Although it doesn’t store bags of onions, it does a great job of dispensing liquid hops and barley goodness and, for that, we are thankful. We are also thankful that tomorrow Four Peaks Brewery will have a fresh keg of Kiltlifter waiting for our arrival and the eagle will once again land.

So back to that temperance thing, it’s just not working for me. I gave it a try and found that, without beer, I am a tense, not-fun-to-be-around person. Just ask my husband. Also, I have to tie down my right hand in order to prevent myself from shoving knitting needles in my eyes and giving myself a frontal lobotomy. In short, a houseful of teenagers, toddler, dogs, cats, and bunny, plus a farmyard of various fowl, ruminants, and modified ruminants (the llama and alpaca have three stomachs instead of four) does not mesh with a Cary Nation-approved lifestyle.

In conclusion, I will endeavor to make moderation my goal, something my grandmother Dorsee would highly approve of, i.e. “Moderation in all things.” She also often said, “Butter makes it better” but that’s neither here nor there even though it does. I will go without several nights a week and, on my sipping nights, I will limit my intake. There, I’ve spared myself a lobotomy and/or a valium addiction. It’s a good thing, Martha.

Cheers!

Toughing It Out(doors)

For years now, I have thought that, if Hell actually exists and if each Hellish experience is tailor-made to the individual sinner, my version would involve close proximity with Billy Mayes. You know who I’m talking about, the huckster on commercials/infomercials who yells, nay SCREAMS, at me to buy Oxyclean/Kaboom/500 lb-test hooks/absorbable cloth/you name it. Why does he have to yell at me? I never did anything wrong to him; I bought his Kaboom. Why won’t he leave me alone?!

My current flu-that-won’t-leave reminds me of this guy. It’s a little Hell on Earth, perhaps a warm-up (pardon the pun) for what’s to come. Just when I think it’s over me and has decided to move its germs elsewhere, it insidiously sneaks back, at night, when I am trying to do that inconvenient but necessary sleep thing. It sees my horizontal form and pounces like Tigger’s doppelganger until I cough and cough (and cough) until the next thing I know I’ve chugged the remaining Nyquil and gone through ¾ of a bag of cough drops.

Please make it go away. And if there is any true good left in the world, make Billy go away, too.

Despite all this, I did make it to the RVHA 10th Anniversary Picnic on Saturday. I promised to help man the booth (we raffled lots of good stuff) and I don’t like to let the Well-Deserved Girls’ Group down. Plus, the picnic is always great fun. The food is good, the company better, and the entertainment is top-rate.

As usual, a certain Pint-Sized Farmer/Rancher stole the show.
Not only did he monopolize this horse, he had to go all Mr. Ham on us. It runs in the family, doncha know.

Here is my friend Mo playing jump rope with an equine friend and Elaine. It’s always good to see Mo kick up her heels a bit. She works too hard and is very responsible unlike yours truly.

Her hubby John (who she recently beat in a reining competition; chalk one up for the women) kicked back with a certain handsome man I know, John’s brother Rocco (Cowboy U viewers might recognize him as the host), and a new friend whose name I am sorry to say I can’t remember. She was very nice and patient and took the Pint around the trail 10,000 and one times, hence her posture.

A good time was had by all, making my rare moment of toughing it out well worth it. Don’t expect it to happen again anytime too soon; I have to keep my inner wimp close at hand. She’s been with me for 45 years now and I have to let her down gently. She will be leaving soon enough though, of that I am convinced.