In the past 3 days, I have discovered something interesting and especially obnoxious about myself. The more jewelry I create (and describe and post on Etsy), the more brain farts I have in the writing arena. Sort of like...I have X amount of funny, wit, and snark stored in the parietal lobe and when that's all gone...it's all "yo mama" and "talk to the hand" and "well....bite me." Good for business...bad for blog. It probably doesn't help that I'm watching Lock Up: Raw and listening to Kris Delmhorst while typing this. Yes, Alex...I'd Like ADHD Tendencies for $500, please. Oh, look...it's the Daily Double.
Anyway, in true junior-year-of-college fashion, I have 25 minutes to make good on a promise to post a recipe, 2 awards, and a short anecdote on Neal's version of trail mix. So..here we go...because in a lame attempt to chase off a headache, I drank a glass of wine and all that did was make me wish I was more horizontal right now. And not in a slutty way. In a biteguard-in, lights-out kind of way.
The One Thing That Will Make a PMS'ing Girl Spend Her Last $5 on Chips Instead of Tampons:
with special thanks to the Real Simple Magazine. Aside from comforting me about my OCD habits (so glad I'm not the only all-spices-face-North-freak in your readership) on a monthly basis, your magazine has provided me with this recipe AND the best fake-it-don't-make-it blackberry cobbler recipe EVER.
2 ingredients. If you can't handle that, you should not be allowed to even have access to a kitchen. You should be cooking your snacks over an open flame, sitting on the edge of your toilet (thank you, Lock Up: Raw, this is invaluable knowledge).
1. Family-size bag Ruffles (go ahead and get 2 because we all know the top 2/3 of the bag is full of air and corporate greed).
2. A bag (or 4) of chocolate chips (I spring for the Ghiradelli dark chocolate chips because of the antioxidants. And because life is too short to eat generic, off-color chocolate. I will buy Kroger-brand Nyquil, I will not buy Kroger-brand chocolate.)
1. Melt chocolate in a container in the microwave. (I'm sure you should be using a double-boiler or something fancy and fireproof, but I have a glass storage container that works perfectly. Plus, if you run out of chips before you run out of chocolate, you put the airtight lid on and save it for an encore...preferably for breakfast.)
2. Dip the Ruffle chip in the molten chocolate and place it on a piece of wax paper.
3. Store in the freezer for about an hour (the cryogenic process improves the crunch factor and keeps you from burning all of the important taste buds off. But if an hour is too long to way, I shall not judge).
4. Eat with pure abandon as you re-watch Steel Magnolias and cry when Shelby dies. Again.
*But in moderation. And by moderation, I mean in the way that Baptists enjoy wine...not in the way Catholics enjoy wine. If you live on these for 2 weeks after 30 grueling days of P90X, I am not to be blamed. You've been warned.
Last Saturday, Snowmageddon arrived in Bluegrass Country (although it seems Mother Nature saved her true bitchy burst for Salt, The Anti-Journalist, and The Scholastic Scribe. Sorry about that, girls. Here's hoping you don't lose anything important...like your car....in the aftermath of Arctic El Nino). It snowed about 6 inches, according to our incredibly scientific method of sticking a ruler in the middle of our yard. I sat at home all day and dreamed, sketched, and planned the perfect snowman. When Neal returned home from playing Army, I announced that I was off to fashion a Frosty. I gathered the necessary accessories and donned every waffle weave and goose-down garment I own. I hadn't built a snowman since 7th grade. Snow sculpture urges had been accumulating in my blood for many years now. Time to let out the beast.
Until Neal picked up a handful and said, as it ran effortlessly through his fingers, you can't build anything with this. Too dry. We could hose it down. And then visions of dragging out all 20 feet of garden hose just to wet half of the yard, prepping it for the perfect snowman, flashed through my mind. Um...no. Let's just go for a walk instead. Neal agreed and disappeared inside for...well...awhile. It was so long that I thought about going in to get him, but then decided that if it was a last-minute bathroom run, I didn't want to walk in on that. So, I waited. And waited a little more. And thought about making snow angels. But then decided that I liked my underwear exactly as it was. Dry. Finally, he emerged and off we went.
We have a 4-mile loop that we walk a lot in the summer. About 2 miles in, Neal turned to me and said, Do you want something to drink?
Oh yes, please. (No water all day makes Ally a thirsty snow hiker).
And then he whipped out the flask. With bourbon. On a walk. A leisurely walk. Through the middle of the neighborhood. The neighborhood that doubles as an advertisement for Honda mini-vans and the importance of competitive swimming in building a child's self-esteem. So, what to do? Yes, drink of course. It burns...oh it burns...all the way down. Ring o' fire.
I need a chaser....I don't do straight bourbon, remember?
To which he pulled out a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans...a holdover from his stocking, 2 Christmases ago. So, through the family-friendly neighborhood we went, swigging bourbon and noshing on coffee beans. Because really...what's more American than that?
OK...awards...I have 2. I'll post them tomorrow. It's after midnight, Cinderella...and I still need to brush teeth and find a non-intrusive way of getting the words "I got soul, but I'm not soldier" out of my head. And I think this is over 500 words. I will also post my Who Dat necklace. My team allegiance lies in what Michael's had in stock. Fleur-de-lis(es?) abound in that place. Horseshoes? A little harder to find. In the Derby state. Go figure. Secretariat is rolling over in his horsey grave right now.