Putting the rain chain on the DUN! list is a l-o-n-g time coming.
0 Comments
Once upon a time, in a house across the street,there lived a Clever Wife and her Hamson Humsand. One day early on the path to living happily ever after, the Clever Wife passed a lidless garbage can on her way to work and thought, "Why in the world can't my Hamson Hubsand put the freaking lid ON the garbage can?" From that small spurt of anger, the Garbage Monster was born.
The Monster grew, thriving on each angry thought. The thoughts gave way to spoken words, and time forged the words into caustic chunks of self-righteous fury. The Hamson Hubsand quickly learned to protect himself with a glazed look and deadened ears that heard only the cadence of his Clever Wife's lecture, never the words she so carefully crafted. Should the Clever Wife notice the glazed look, she got louder and shriller, trying to pierce the Hubsand's armour with sharpened chunks fury. Instead, the fury flattened against the armour, becoming another layer of her Hamson Humsand's self defence. Garbage Night became a ritual of Anger, a minefield on the happy marriage path. After a decade, the clever wife found herself battling not only her mate, but her little old grandmother, too. Little Old Gramma hoarded her garbage for weeks until she had full cans. She kept stinky garbage in bright yellow bags on the freezer door. She strung together empty plastic jugs for months and piled newspapers into three foot stacks. When the Clever Wife and her Hamson Hubsand moved in with Gramma, the Clever wife cleaned out the freezer, bundled up the newspapers, and tossed all the plastic into recycle bags. "It's my back," said the Clever Wife, "that drags the trash to the curb. You don't live at the end of a steep driveway anymore, Little Old Gramma. No more garbage in the freezer, please." Little Old Gramma gave up her ways with the minimum of fuss, but she was very firm about sorting out recycles and wanted all cans, beer or otherwise, to be crushed flat. "Go for it, Gramma," sighed the Clever Wife. "I can't get Hamson Hubsand to put the cans in the right bags, let alone make him crush them. You show him what you want. He listens to you." But Little Old Gramma stubbornly refused to talk directly to the Hamson Hubsand because he might get mad and hate her forever. Then one day, the Clever Wife watched her Little Old Gramma rummage through the garbage, sorting out uncrushed beer cans and something snapped inside her. "That's IT! Terry, get over here!" shouted the Clever Wife, "I am DUN WITH GARBAGE! You, Gramma, you tell Terry what you expect, and you, Terry, listen to the old woman starting now!" With that, the Clever Wife jumped into the car and drove to her best friend's house to escape. For the next few weeks, the Clever Wife left home on garbage day. The Garbage Monster didn't just lay down and die, but slowly the Clever Wife used her sense of humor to keep It sickly. Today the Clever Wife celebrates Garbage Day. Heed my story, friends, for I know that you know of this Monster and Its Kin. It may be the tube of toothpaste, money spent unwisely, or food wasted. The script could be aimed at a spouse, a child or a parent. Monsters are fed by their creators and clever scripts are their favorite foods. Recognize your Monster and you can get back on the happily ever after path. It's been so long since I posted here, I've intimidated myself. I've played right into the hands of "anti-dun" results. So, here is a long, boring slideshow that should kick my butt over the hump of not doing. Looks good, but the proof will be in the eating. I decided to do an experimental, non-traditional crust. Using the peanut butter cookie recipe, I substituted almond butter, and pressed the huge cookie into the pie pan. The cookie kinda turned monstrous, even after I stabbed it with a fork. I ladled the filling in, then had to un-ladle some before it over-flowed. It's cooling now. Crossed fingers! Ta Da! Here's the boring slide show with some of the steps needed to make this a success. My brother says the taste, texture, all that, is just as he remembers. The only odd thing is the meringue isn't quite the right color, not enough brown peaks. Prolly needed stiffer peaks. I can live with that. I sat with my Great Aunt Rose Marie so she could give me verbal instructions to go with the written one. This is as close as I can get to those instructions.
"You need a good pot. It can be one of those non-stick kind, but use a good pot. Start with a cup of brown sugar, packed. You know what packed is? Good, add four tablespoons of flour until it's smooth. No, no heat yet. Stir it good, then turn on the heat and add a cup of--oh wait--a can of milk and a cup of water. I'll write the cup of water on the back. So, stir that until it gets hot then add the egg yolks. You keep the whites for the meringue. You know how to make meringue, don't you? No, well I write that down, too. I know I didn't spell meringue right, but you know what I mean. You don't want to just dump the yokes in though. You want to stir in some hot liquid from the pot so they don't turn all funny. Then you put them in and keep stirring until it bubbles. You know, like a volcano, bloop, bloop, like that. Cook it for a minute. If you don't, it will be too runny. Although, if you cook it too long, it will be too thick. That's where 'the touch' comes in. So then, take it off the heat and add your lump of butter or half stick and your teaspoon of vanilla. Set it aside while you make the meringue. Beat the egg whites until they get thick and throw in the sugar a little at a time. No, you can't do it by hand. You need an electric mixer. Remember, don't stir the filling until you are ready for the crust. Make sure you cook the crust first! Pour the filling in then top it with the meringue and put it in the oven for only about ten minutes. Watch it close until the top gets brown. That's it." Call me Chicken Little, but I'd rather do a pre-frost panic that a frost postmortem. I picked all the Beefsteak and the Early Girl tomatoes. The two orange tomatoes in the basket are my second and third ripe Early Girls. "Early" means instant gratification in the tomato world. Erie's summer was hard on tomatoes. Instead of picking all my Olive tomatoes, I made a Flower Child Ghost that I hope keeps the olive-sized tomatoes warm and cozy.
|
Archives
May 2016
If you don't dream they can't come true
|