More Culinary Explorations

I so enjoyed sinking my teeth into the little kumquat orange in a previous blog that I thought I'd continue the trend of experimenting with miniature produce when I happed upon this little feller at Fry's.

Now, it's important to note that I don't typically eat items of a scrotumesque size and texture; however, this nutsy li'l guy is actually a potato and I have YET to meet a potato that I did not like. In fact, I have a ranking system for the different varations of potato. They rank like this:

1. French Fries (mmmm)

2. Potato Chips

3. Potato Salad

4. Mashed Potatoes

5. Small Nutsack Potato

6. Baked Potatoes

7. Scalloped Potatoes

8. Hashbrowns

So, yeah, you can see that the Small Nutsack Potato, whose official name is the "Purple Fingerling Potato," fared pretty well in my rankings. It's actually very tasty!

The Purple Fingerling Potato must be pretty rare because the cashier at Fry's took one look at its freakish appearance and declared: "What IS this?" I said, "Why it's a pickled nad, ole lad." No, I didn't. I really said, "I have no freakin' idea but I'm about to embark on a journey to find out." He couldn't even find a produce code for the little feller so he tossed him in for free. Stupid clerk. That's a good 8 cents out of Fry's pocket.

I'm not sure what normal people do with the Purple Fingerling Potato, but I did what any logical person would do: I nuked him and tossed some bacoes on him. Look how cute he is all dressed up:

I could picture making a few of this as hors d'ouvres for a party. People would be like, "Rocky Mountain Oysters???" and you'd be like, "PSYCHE! They're just Purple Fingerlings!"

In case you were curious, here's what he looks like on the inside.

I am not sure what you're really supposed to do with a fingerling potato, but they are very tasty done up like a grown up baked potato. I can highly recommend the li'l dudes, and who knows, if you go to Fry's, you may up getting them GRATIS!!!

Bonad Appetit!

Participate in My Kids' Interests

This whole Twilight business...I can't say that I've experienced kids getting soooo into books in my entire lifetime. Bella this. Bella that. Vampire this. Cullen that.

The Twilight craze, quite honestly, has been making me feel a bit OLD and OUT OF TOUCH. I like to think of myself as one of those cool cats, whose knowledge of cutting edge pop culture belies her 38 years of living. I mean, come on, I watch American Idol. I know a T.I. song or two. I bought a Furbie when they first came out. Groovy, I am.

Well, not to my 10-year-old daughter. In fact, I can see the disappointment on her face each time I pull up to pick her up from school, all fat, in my "late-model" car (hey -- it's paid off!) with my animal rights stickers and Van Morrison blaring on the CD player. To her, I must be sooooo embarrassing.

Yes, it's true, Roxy has outcooled me. She told me the other day that her favorite band was Muse. Who? Exactly. She's like pullin' pop culture out of her hip pocket at speeds that I can't possibly google fast enough to save face. I feel like I'm losing touch.

So, I decided that we'd go see Twilight, the movie version, together. I expected greatness. I mean, afterall, Roxy has read more in her tender 10 years than I've read in a lifetime. That kid devours books. So of course, anything that she has read not one, not two, not three, but FOUR times must be PHENOMENAL, right?

Not so much. Twilight, the movie version, blows chunks. If I was a lobotomized retard who suffered from an ailment called "Tiny Brain Syndrome," I'd think this movie was moronic. How long can two kids stare at one another under the guise of a plot?

The storyline was so one-dimensional that I found myself questioning why Roxy loved it so much. Was she in need of affection? Was her self-esteem so low that she had to bury herself in morose vampiristic love stories to feel good? Did she suffer from Tiny Brain Syndrome?

Then it hit me: Blue Lagoon. That's right, the Brooke Sheilds one. When I saw that movie circa 1980, I loved it! And what was it? A RETARDED LOVE STORY. So, so, sooooooooo corny and cheesy and terrible in every way. But to me, at that time, it was wonderful. To most girls who were about 10 in the early 80's, Chris Atkins was out Edward Cullen.

So, I'm going to stop worrying that there is a hidden motivation behind Roxy's obsession with Twilight. Instead, I'll celebrate the fact that her curiousity about love and romance has taken root in an innocent series of novels.

Play a Practical Joke on My Family

I have to admit that I haven't exactly cultivated a climate of "fun and games" in the Stockton house. I'm a jumpy and skittish person by nature, and the few times my husband has tried to spook me with rubber spiders and fake snakes and the like, I think I've tended to cuss like a sailor and girl-slap him in his chest.

He once found a creepy little plaster lawn jockey man missing an arm next to the dumpster in our alley. He dragged it home, and over the course of the following week, I'd open doors, cupboard, cars, etc. only to find that damned lawn jockey staring at me around every corner. I fell for it EVERY time. At some point, he could tell by my body language that it was "me or the jockey."

Today I decided that it would be my turn to play a joke on the household. Afterall, nobody would suspect it out of me. I'm all boring and mom-ly.

I rigged up the old rubber-band-on-faucet trick. The premise is that when someone unwittingly turns the faucet to the sink on, they get sprayed in the face. Mooo hah ha.

I tried to let the gag happen naturally, but nobody in my house does the dishes or washes their hands, and there is really no other reason why they'd be turning on the kitchen faucet.

At one point in the day, I came into the kitchen and spied Claire eating strawberries. Earlier in the day, she'd been playing with some silly putty the color of baby shit, so I quickly pointed out to her that she'd need to wash the diarhea color off of her hands before eating any more strawberries.

And just like that, poor Claire became my victim.

As you can see, she was a great sport about it. Yes, in hindsight, I feel a little bit guilty.

Claire quickly seized the opportunity to launch into a state of full martyrdom, complete with the stripping off of her wet clothes and refusal to stop staring at our fence and come inside.

Gary got a hearty chuckle out of the video, but I can't say that this particular event had a positive outcome. Not only did I give my 8-year-old a bona-fide reason to avoid ever washing her hands again, but I've set the stage for retribution.

My entire household has suddenly turned into a giant jack-in-the-box, booby-trapped with God only knows what. I'm sure I'll get my payback within the next couple of days when I pull open the lid to the toilet and find a lawn jockey head or something of the like...

Use the Slide At Fat Man's Pass

It's Spring Break in the Stockton househould, so we let the kids each have a friend over last night and took a hike at South Mountain today. We were taking them to a popular destination called "Fat Man's Pass." Fat Man's Pass is a small crack in between two giant boulders. At its smallest point, the crack is no more than a foot-and-a-half wide. Here's a picture of Claire in the widest part of Fat Man's Pass.

Clearly, a dumbass named this landmark. It should really be called "Skinny Man's Pass." Or possibly "Fat Man Passes Out." Nevertheless, I'm proud to report that I STILL made it through Fat Man's Pass after gaining a good 40 pounds since last trying to squeeze my fat ass big boobs through there roundabout 1995.

Fat Man's Pass is a double-feature when it comes to exciting nature monuments. In addition to the pass-through, there is a slippery boulder aka 'Cave Man's Slide.' Now this name I made up.

Cave Man's Slide is pretty frightening from the perspective of a sheltered crybaby like me. Number 1) it's slippery and Number 2) sliding down = inertia and we all know the type of havoc intertia wreaks on a chubbo.

The kids were sliding down Cave Man's Slide like it was a Little Tykes toy. I wasn't going to even attempt it until I remembered this blog, and more importantly, my committment to self-improve by trying something new every day. So, I proclaimed: "I'm going to try it."

"Oh boy," were Gary's words of encouragement.

I laid my backpack down and headed up the slippery slope. Scary. At the top, I looked down to where my body would be gaining speed and eventually landing. Scary. Then I slid (a bit sideways on accident). REALLY scary. I hollered, like I do on the drop at Splash Mountain. And the kids and their friends got a chuckle out of old lady Stockton sliding down that Cave Man's Slide like a greased up sea otter.

Here's a picture of Claire's friend Sydney midway down the treacherous slope (no snickering -- it WAS treacherous from my perspective). I would have included a picture of me coming down, but I figured the last thing you all needed was a shot of me sliding down that thing all spread eagle, sweaty-crotch-side-up.

As an added bonus, check out the profile of Claire's head in the left corner of the shot. She looks like a creepy Chinese alien.

Try that Crazy Fruit I've Always Wondered About

Yesterday, I was grocery shopping in the produce aisle, and I walked by one of those wacky fruits that are all uber-cultural that the average simple American has never tried. You know, like the black bananas, and the fuzzy pears and these li'l guys...

No, they're not my women's daily vitamin, though they do look very similar. In fact, these are something called "Kumquats." Tee hee. Right off the bat I liked these little puny fellas due to their pornographic sounding name. Kumquats. Hee hee. Almost as fun as saying, "Pianist."

So, in the spirit of trying something new every day, I decided that instead of walking past the kumquats (tee hee), I'd purchase them. These three tiny boogers cost me a mere 28 cents. Kumquats are really quite the bargain.

Kumquats look like very tiny oranges. Not sure of their origins, I can only surmise the following hypotheses:

a) They are a genetically engineered orange manufactured on the set of a Lily Tomlin movie or perhaps "Honey I Blew Up The Kids."

or

b) A tangerine and pyracanthea berry had a little bit too much to drink one night and...

I decided to give the kumquat a try without first looking it up on the Internet to find out its origins, what it's used for, how it tastes and what its antidote is.

I tried to peel it like a regular orange, but it was just too small. I then cut it in half and squirted a bit of juice into my mouth.

Zowee Mama!

It's not an orange at all! It's a baby lemon dressed in orange's polly-pocket sized clothes. I felt a little bit bamboozled!

Like all normal kids, my children were fascinated with the tiny nature of the kumquat, so I bought one for each of them. This is Roxy's face upon trying the juice:

At age 10, she's not dramatic in the least bit.

So, in the end, the kumquat is pretty dumb in my book. Yes, it's a lemon, but it's also smaller than a dime. So, would YOU want to cut up 2,398 kumquats to make an 8-oz glass of lemonade? Yeah, me neither. Kumquat. Tee hee.

Introduce Myself in Sign Language

Today, I decided to learn how to say, "Hello, my name is Vicki" in sign language. I'll have this under my belt in the event I ever run into Marlee Matlin on the elevator.

Climb a Tree

So, in my second day of trying something new, I decided to climb a tree. Despite what all you adventurous types out there may have done in your childhood, I have YET to climb a tree in my whole life. Not sure why, but it may have something to do with the fact that they're high off the ground and I'm chubby.

My husband said he used to 'spend hours' in the tops of trees as a kid. He even said he'd get up in there with a ball of twine and MacGiver some type of macrame hammock that he'd lounge in. This is what he claims he did, though in 11 years of marriage, I've certainly never seen any loveseats crocheted into our Mulberries. I think maybe he was trying to pump me up, to let me know that climbing a tree is a piece of cake.

Let me just say that if I WAS to become a full-time tree climber, I'd want to hammer some stairs onto the trunk of the tree. Without such stairs, well, you end up with a video such as this...




My husband turned the camera off in lieu of acting disappointed and calling me retarded. Eventually, though, I DID make it into the tree without any help or special equipment (yay!!).



And it felt kind of good. For a few minutes. Until I realized that I'd have to come down. I've come to terms with what a naive and sheltered baby I am because I literally began feeling the onset of a panic attack while up in that tree.

Ask a cat: coming down is never is fun as going up.

Thankfully, the video camera was off for that chapter of this experience. It involved some colorful language. And possibly a plumber's smile.

I scraped my hands a bit, but I survived. And that's one more thing I can add to my repertoire of new experiences.

Homemade Pretzels

In my very first install of trying something new every day, I decided to appeal to my taste buds, as well as my fat ass, and make a delicious home-made treat. It's important to note what a stretch this is, as I am truly a piss-poor cook. I lack the proper utensils, kitchen, home-making savvy and patience to follow directions. Call this "foreshadowing" if you'd like.



So, I have this fancy bread maker and decided to find a recipe for pretzels. The recipe I found online had an average of 5 stars and was dubbed to come out tasting "better than Auntie Anne's." This struck me as pretty impressive, because look at Auntie's bad boys:

Umm-mmm.


I followed the directions, using ALL of the proper ingredients (no short-cuts like usual). The kids were forced to help me, as it was a truly laborious effort. I let them stay up until 11 a.m. just to sample the 'fruits of our efforts'. After all, they were going to be DE-LICIOUS. A counter-ful of flour, two cookie sheets, one large boiling pot and a dirty bread machine drum later, we had...pretzels!


I think.



Never judge a book by its cover, right? So they looked like rubber dog turd from Spencer's Gifts. Despite their frightening appearance, I was confident, as the recipe suggested, that they were scrumptious! My gag reflex-challenged daughter Claire bit in first. She chewed a few bites then ran to the trash can.

"Oh Claire!" I scolded. "So Dramatic!!!" Then I bit into my own stash of pretzel "paradise." PARADISE???? --insert the sound of the needle screeching across the lp here-- The sinewy texture made me feel as if I was chewing on a foot orthotic. Soon, I was like, "move over" to Claire and we were co-spitting into a garbage can like a couple of bulimic sorority sisters purging up lunch before their Ki Sigma Nu initiation dance.


Let me just say that I rarely spit my food into the garbage can. But then again, I rarely eat rubber dog turds.


No idea where I went wrong on this. I have only one theory: When I boiled them, I used baking soda in the water, which is what the recipe called for. Unfortunately for my taste buds, which are now enrolling in classes on Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, that baking soda MAY have been up to 8 years old. It was from a box which I found already opened (how convenient!) in the back of our OLD fridge. In Gary's words: "No wonder the pretzels tasted like a bum's ass: you just boiled them in 8 years worth of rotting refrigerator food smell!"


So on day one of me trying something new, I'd call it a colossal 'bust.' Had I been able to predict the outcome, I'da just served me and the kids a cut-up mouse pad drizzled in butter and been to bed well before 10!


Tomorrow's Adventure: Write a Children's Story