s’mores and hammers

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A few weeks ago, I sampled a s’mores pie from a local eatery.
And it was divine.
I mentioned this happening to my mother and queried if perhaps it sounded appealing to eat in celebration of Thanksgiving, and quickly she agreed and headed to Google, where all the best chocolate pie recipes are housed.
Not only did she arrive at my door bearing a printout of s’more pudding pie, but she also brought prime ingredients.
Here is where my story begins.
Remember, if you will, that mayhaps I choose not to follow recipes to the letter. I have happened upon many a delight by throwing culinary chaos to the winds and letting them blow. In a good way, of course.
Here’s what the recipe recommended: heavy cream. Here’s what my sweet mama brought to use as heavy cream: fat free evaporated milk in a can. “Add a little sugar, whip it, same thing.”
Need I tell you from whom I received my cavalier-in-the-kitchen gene?
Did I use the substitute or opt to run to the Grocery of the Out There where all the Out There-ians are? Girl, please.
Also, I needed vanilla extract. Pfft. Orange is better.
For the marshmallow topping, the recipe preferred 10 large marshmallows, halved on the diagonal. Huh? When a whole bag of minis and a jar of marshmallow crème are sitting on the sale shelf near the front of the door? Whatever.
Oh, and 4 ounces of bittersweet chocolate, which my madre equated as a half bag of semi-sweet Ghirardelli chocolate chips. How much is 4 ounces from a half gone bag? No idea. Oh, and they needed to be finely chopped. Who has this kind of time??
Well, tonight, my Bubs had that time.
Sort of.
He oh so reluctantly helped me in the kitchen, assembling my grab bag o’ beauties, and while I simmered and stirred until the pudding thickened, I kept him busy finely chopping the chocolate chips — with a meat tenderizer, metal, dangerous if dropped or hurled.
He was thrilled.
Sadly, though, he didn’t chop as quickly as necessary and I finished my pudding by pouring the half mangled chips into the pot and watching them melt; and what’s better than chocolate? More chocolate. So…the rest of the bag was dumped in as well. It’s a beautiful thing, melted chocolate, with a hint of orange essence. Mmmm….
My Googled recipe starts by instructing the Googler in the making of a graham cracker crust, a fact I delighted over as I sauntered down the grocery baking aisle and laughed and laughed as I grabbed a ready made crust. Google! She’s so cute.
The pudding was stirred, melted, and redolent of Florida, and I poured it as directed into my finished crust, I sealed the lovely pan with saran wrap and put her to cool in the fridge.
Tomorrow I add the marshmallow crème/bits and broil the top to a melted perfection.
Can’t wait.
But until then, I’m cleaning the kitchen left behind by an over exuberant fellow while said boy runs around the house wielding his hammer at any and everything yelling, “I’m Thor! Ching! Ching!” (Who said a hammer can’t sound remarkably similar to a saber?)

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE! I hope you are all well and happy and surrounded by love, today and every day.

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tis the season and it stinks

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My family has been ill.
My folks, my Bubs, my Self, we’ve all been passing around a virus of some kind and I suggest you do not get it.
Even at school, Bubs’ friends are dropping like flies, and I don’t think it’s only because of Thanksgiving and the primal screams of school children everywhere, “Why do I have to go to school at all this week, let me just stay home,” though that’s indubitably part of it.
Nope, my kid and my parents are sick, sick, sick and have been in the Triangle of Doom for the last week while I wait for the bug to hop the fence and infect me, the Innocent Casual Observer.
Yesterday while sharing a meal, Bubs said, “We can’t share the ketchup. You’ll catch my DNA and get sick.”
I didn’t explain the DNA thing; I’ll save that for later. Right then I only enjoyed the cuteness and thought better of sharing his ketchup. I got my own puddle and seem to have come out unscathed.
Except, Turkey Day is tomorrow. I feel The Bug coming for me. Does my throat feel scratchy? Could it be I have infected DNA?
Stay tuned.

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no, no, no NaNo!

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Yesterday was a fevered frenzy to finish my 50,000 words for NaNo. I like to be through by Thanksgiving so as not to sit and stew about the people in my head; instead I can sit and enjoy the people in real life. Seems kinder.
And since the Bubs was in school a good deal of the day and I didn’t need to work, I wrote.
12,000 words, I wrote. Sure, it took all day. And there were lots of stutter steps, many breaks, frequent badgering of myself to plod through, get it done.
But then there were moments of pure joy.
And twice I made myself cry. Me made Me cry!
And by midnight, I had churned out 50,117 words.
I was ready to validate my word count, turn the mess in, prove I had indeed risen to the challenge and smashed it to bits screaming, “Oh, yeah?!” or something like that. In my head I was quite brutish.
I hit the appropriate keys, entered text where text needed to be entered, and as the time clock spun, showing me it was working for me and no agin me, I went to the kitchen to make a celebratory, Word Count’s Done, Time for Rest drink to sip while I basked in the glow of my NaNo banner that would read “WINNER!” Kind of like the old Solitaire game; when you won, the cards would bounce around and pixelated confetti would fly.
With my toddy in hand, I sat at the computer desk and looked at my screen to bask in my computer glow of Winning.
But the time glass still spun, and my word count had ben adjusted to read 27,561, which was DAYS ago! DAYS!
Slightly deterred but mostly miffed, I readjusted, reinserted, retabulated, re-swore a lot, and hit enter again.
Four more times I went through this.
Twice more I refilled my drink.
And once I swore and went to bed.
I tried again this morning, but to no avail.
So here I sit, with so many words under my belt and so many more in my head, after such a laborious weekend of pulling words from regions in which they would have wintered well, and no proof that indeed I did this deed.
Distressing! Infuriating! Saddening!
So I tell you now: I have the words, I wrote them, sometimes twice because of computer glitches that irritated me so much that I rewrote the words using extra fire and spices, making them better, so I can’t really complain about the computer crashing though I still do and now I’ve made a run-on sentence.
Sigh.

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