The greatness of Jo Spanglemonkey truly knows no bounds. I was on the verge of looking out my living room window, which conveniently faces west, and crying out "Oh, Jo! How do you post at the frequency that you do and still write posts that are just so charming and funny and passionate and just plain good?" I have to say, I'm confounded by this whole 1/2 hour rule. I understand it, I'll comply with it, but I don't think I can be good at it. At least I thought this until the good and lovely Jo rode to my rescue with the following questions: 1. What's your favorite color? What's your favorite thing that is that color? My favorite color is green. My favorite green thing is Scotland. 2. Plastic or paper? Oh, ecologically-correct tote bag, please. Now that I've made you gag...plastic, with at least one or two paper bags for storing potatoes and onions (separately!). 3. Exactly how much money would it take? Oh, you know what it would be for. Yes, I do. 4. You have a month to live. Where will you go? Scotland, my favorite green place in the world.
$350,000.00
Dear friends, It wouldn't be PTMYB if I didn't cross my fingers and hope the Fair Use angels are on my side. Submitted for your enjoyment: two of my favorite paragraphs from Betty MacDonald's The Egg and I, which not only introduced the world to Maw and Paw Kettle, but also contained loads of useful information about chicken ranching in the early 20th century: The astonishing fact that there was always on my pantry shelf a water bucket of double-yoked and checked eggs to do with as I would was a source of constand delight and lured me into trying many of the rich, eggy old-fashioned recipes in Mrs. Lincoln's cookbook [The Boston Cooking-School Cookbook by Mary Lincoln, the forerunner to the Fannie Farmer cookbooks]. In town where I would have had to buy my groceries and balance a food budget, I wouldn't have put up with Mrs. Lincoln and her "beat the whites of sixteen large eggs with a fork on a platter," and her "two wine-glasses of old brandy and a cup of slivered, blanched almonds," for two minutes. Mrs. Lincoln was the type who couldn't cook oatmeal mush without adding a flagon of cherry flip and a soupcon of betel nuts. I would have loved to visit Mrs. Lincoln, but she was hell to cook for unless you lived on a chicken ranch, and then you and Mrs. Lincoln could see eye to eye about a lot of things. Particularly eggs. I had already made sunshine cake, angel food and pound cake and was wondering what would be good on a rainy wet winter day when I chanced on cream puffs. "Now there *is* something," I said, for cream puffs were an old favorite of mine and they used lots of eggs. The recipe called for "eight eggs to be broken one by one and beaten in the mixture with the bare right hand." "Now, Mrs. Lincoln, let's not be *frugal*!" I said and used sixteen eggs. This made gallons of dough and almost broke my arm but if Mrs. Lincoln could do it, at her age, so could I. "Put pieces of dough the size of walnuts in the pan, leaving *plenty of room*, as they will puff to the size of large apples." I did but when I took them out of the oven they were still the size of walnuts but as hard as diamonds. Down but not out, I got out my deep fat kettle. When the fat was smoking hot I dropped in a piece of the dough. Pouffffff -- thelittle thing swelled to the size of a cantaloupe. I was ecstatic. For hours I dropped little walnuts into the fat and pulled out great, golden puffs. Then sweating but happy I whipped a large bowl of canned milk. "We'll each fix our own," I said proudly to Bob as I put them on the dinner table and hurried back for the canned milk. I cut mine open to put in the filling but it was already filled -- filled with cold grease. They all were, and not only that, but whipped canned milk, in case you didn't know, tastes exactly as burning rubber smells.
Dear Bakerina,
It is not nearly late enough in the proceedings for you to suffer a laptop-based emotional meltdown. Now calm down and eat some dang dinner already.
Cordially,
Yerself
Sigh. I have lost another post, and this time it looks like it's not hiding. Let's try this again at 8:30.
Howdy, fun-seekers,
Here is the state of things as PTMYB rolls into Hour 11 of Blogathon 2005:
What we're watching: Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, but Lloyd swears it's just a placeholder until Big Fish comes on.
What we're eating for dinner: Macaroni and shrimp salad, a recipe I got from my mom; the ingredients sound revolting but it's really a nice little pasta salad. Plus our focaccia, of course, and the last of the tomatoes from our landlord. I will not crack open the vodka in the freezer, no matter how much fun it might be to do so. I will not, I will not, I will not.
What I am slathered in: I have just taken my first cold shower of the day, with my trusty new Lush Party On Shower Jelly, a yellow and green, luminescent, quivering jelly that tends to slip out of my hands and make me chase it all over the tub. Please, no women-in-prison gags unless they're really funny. I have followed up with the cinnamon & adzuki bean massage bar that I keep in the freezer. Man, do I feel pretty right now.
What I'm keeping my eye on: Every time I think I'm failing miserably at this half-hour posting thing, I remember that sometimes it really is all about showing up, and I am continuing to show up on behalf of these folks, in whom I believe deeply.