Monday, February 18, 2013

My Funny Valentine (Disclaimer: Contains Mush)

Who got spoiled stinkin rotten this Valentines? This girl! Brian surprised me with a flower delivery to my office on Tuesday, and a box of chocolate covered strawberries on Wednesday. Holy moly did I get the royal treatment or what! To top it all off, my sweet guy took me to Tuscany (the restaurant, not the city, but I was just as happy) for Valentines dinner where we sampled some pretty fancy Italian food. 
I was presented with a single red rose by the hostess as she led us upstairs to the balcony. We were seated in a semi-private area of only 4 tables under a beautiful stained glass dome of grape vines (it's the UFO looking thing at the top of the picture below.) The best part of the night had to be that Brian was somewhat unimpressed and a little grossed out by the pork belly appetizer. Amazing man that he is, he sat with my finished seafood appetizer in front of him while I devoured his as well. (I was also not a fan of the pork belly, but the polenta and the sauce that was under it was worth licking the plate clean. Which I did with bread; civilized and whatnot.) 


I got him some cologne and a bag of mini-Snickers. I feel like I did nothing in comparison but I swear that's what he wanted, and he was excited. Whatever works I guess, he's pretty low-maintenance. Anyhow, it was an amazing week and it was great spending it devoted to my best friend. I am so lucky to have him in my life, I know I'd be lost without him. Thanks hun, for being my rock and for sharing your appetizers, I mean,  your life with me. You're the best. 

I hope everyone had a fantastic Valentines Day with loved ones - be it your significant other, family, friends, or dog.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

What Do You Mean You Don't Bake the Baby?

It's Mardi Gras, "Fat Tuesday," and since I couldn't be in New Orleans with my people, I took the party to the office. Any day that begins with eating King Cake for breakfast is the mark of a very good day. Add some festive beads and you've got fabulous.
Exhibit A
King Cake was so named for the biblical three kings. The cake is baked in a circle and sprinkled with three colors of sugar: purple (symbolizing justice), green (faith), and gold (power.) Inside every cake is a tiny baby to represent Baby Jesus. It's a sign of good luck to whoever finds the baby in their slice, and they are expected to host the next King Cake party.

Whilst in New Orleans this past October, I picked up an "authentic" King Cake mix in a box from a vendor at the airport. Last night, the mix finally made its debut in my kitchen. I tore open the colorful box, and pulled out the little bags of individual ingredients: the cake mix, glaze mix, the colored sugars, and yeast. Yes...yeast. Unbeknownst to me, King Cake is more of a bread-like, cinnamon roll ish pastry. "You mean to tell me this thing has to rise twice before baking!?" I cursed to myself, and debated not making it. I'm an instant cake mix type of girl: rip, dump, stir, bake, done. This cake had a 12 step program.



So I stirred...let it rise for 30 minutes, flattened and sprinkled praline sugar over butter (God bless the South), formed the dough into a circle, shoved the baby into the dough...let rise for 30 minutes...again...then baked it. The kitchen was a mess, not to mention the dogs. Constantly at my feet, everything I dropped they wore. And when I ripped open the bag containing the praline sugar, because I just don't know my own strength, Pepper was covered in half of its contents. And there she stood...frozen in place and terrified, her big eyes pleading "get it off, get it off, get it off!"

With about 5 minutes left of baking time, my hand flew to my forehead. I looked at Brian with my mouth agape as I connected the dots...the baby was plastic...and now it was in the cake...in the oven. There were some profanities muttered on my way to the oven. I argued with myself that there were no instructions regarding the baby on the recipe card...but upon second glance, there it was in big bold letters: "DO NOT PLACE BABY IN CAKE BEFORE BAKING."

Well...it looked fine. I stared at it for a couple minutes, picturing a melted plastic mess somewhere in the cake. I sectioned off about a third of the circle, the area I believed to be the region that hid the baby. I considered several delicate ways of searching but none offered any results. There was no other way. I had to massacre the cake. If I couldn't find it, I would be threatening the lives of my co-workers. It was a sacrifice I had to make, but I finally found it. To my surprise, it was still in tact. (Well played, cake mix maker, well played.) It started off white and was pink after baking. All in all, no damage, just a little sun burn. The rest of the cake was enjoyed by all in the Houseboating office; Amber had even confirmed the taste to be authentic. (Not like plastic? Good, that's what I was shooting for.) No one died, so I can officially file this experience as a WIN. I suppose you could even call it a miracle...after all, the baby is Jesus.
Let the Good Times Roll!

Fat Tuesday is always the day before Ash Wednesday, which marks the beginning of the Christian season of Lent. Lent lasts "40" days (more like 45) and ends the day before Easter. Traditionally, participants will give something up in order to practice discipline for those 40 days. I usually try to give up going out to eat, take out and fast food - just plain eating unhealthily. I don't always succeed in the way I hope, but I'll give it another shot this year too. (With the exception of Valentines Day, but I'll make it up to God with an extra day on the end.) I have also realized I need to add more spiritual practice in my life. I've slacked off after I stopped going to my previous home church. So I'm committing to attend another church each Sunday, and I'll keep a journal of daily devotionals (shout out to whoever invented the Bible App.) I'm hoping to build a new habit that outlasts Lent, but as anything else in life - I'm sure it's going to be harder than it sounds.

Anyone else celebrate Mardi Gras/Lent? What are your traditions, what are you giving up for Lent? Swearing, road rage, candy?


Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Life on the Fast-Track

It was Devin's birthday on Monday (he's one of Brian's good buddies, and mine by association). The plan was to get a group together for Go-Karting to celebrate. I have never go-karted before, but have always been curious to try. It was mid-day Monday that I started questioning if I should go or not, and began thinking of excuses to abort mission Fast-Track. (To be fair, my knee was giving me a fair amount of grief until later that afternoon.) But I also worried that I was going to be in the way of "guy time" or whether I would severely embarrass myself in a way that only seems possible when it happens to me. Despite my better judgement, I hitched up my proverbial pants and psyched myself into going. 

There were about 12 people (including myself) in our group, I was the only girl but I didn't mind that; (I kid myself into thinking I can "roll" with the boys.) I signed up and got my racing license, racing name: Travelbug. I was ready to make some boys cry. So we strut out to the track to gear up in our racing helmets and pick our karts for the line-up. I sat down and reached behind me for my seat belt, then looked at it puzzled. Was it one that goes around each arm and connects in the middle? Nope, just one loop. I looked around and everyone else had a simple no-questions-asked, car-type belt that extended across the body over one shoulder. I looked at mine again. Nope, definitely not the case. The "pit crew" attendant saw my struggle and pointed out that it was to go over my head and then connect to another that's fixed on the seat. Again, I looked around puzzled. Mind you, the whole time I'm wearing the bulky helmet, the kind that hinders your view no matter what contortions you can put your neck through. There wasn't anything to connect this belt to! Finally I wriggled myself (rather clumsily) out of the tiny awkward cart so the attendant could yank the other side of the belt from where it was jammed under the seat (go figure.) Meanwhile, every guy waiting in their carts for me to figure this out had this face:


Luckily, being stumped by a seat belt is not high on the list of things that can easily damage my ego. Then we were off! The 10 lap (dis)qualifying round began and I was quickly in last place. If you've never driven a go-kart before - it's a lot different than driving a car. Not hard, but different. Apparently the only beginner in the crowd, I floundered all the way around the track screeching and bumping...at about 10 mph. But getting the hang of the kart was the least of my problems. The racing helmets, though safe, block your peripheral view entirely. Might as well squeeze your noggin into the hole of a cinder block. (And I get claustrophobic in an airplane.) So about 3/4 of the way around my second lap, I was hyperventilating and shaking so dramatically that I turned off into the pit stop where the crew attendant cut the engine and helped me out of the aforementioned seat belt.

I splashed my face with some water and sat with my head between my knees for awhile, after which I was completely fine. From that point on I watched from the lobby window and silently cheered them all on. All the while mumbling to myself in a deep announcer voice. I'm certain the employees all thought I was insane. Actually it was probably more fun to watch them all bump in to each other and watch their faces as they screeched around tight corners, not sure if they would make it. Boys. They never grow up, they just get bigger. After two rounds, they all came back through the lobby with their chests all pumped up and big ol grins on their faces like:


They stood around the final ranking board and compared stories on which of their group was the most difficult to pass, who blocked who on what turn, etc. So even though I didn't actually get to race, I was very well entertained. My go-karting days are far from over. I will conquer the track one day. But until then, I guess I'll have to stick to the freeways.