Weekend Frig: Yes, I am 12 Years Old

But you already knew that.

This pic was taken by faithful and intrepid reader Gary, also known as my father-in-law. Because he is also 12 years old, or possibly younger, so point the finger at him if it brings on an attack of the vapors.

Yes, I know people in other English-speaking countries have different words for things and why should this be funny? But I speak American English and it just fucking is, like “bumbershoot.”

Continue reading

Waterloo du patisserie, deuxieme

I know what you’re thinking; “That blurry macaron in the foreground looks almost kinda normal! Well done!” Nice and smooth, frilly bottom, filled with chocolaty goodness. Don’t be fooled. The reality is the developmentally-disabled, broken, battered thing that’s in focus. Yes, that’s right: even when it looks as if I’ve succeeded, I fail.

My oven is where macarons come to die.

Continue reading

Waterloo du patisserie, le premiere part.

It’s so nice to officially be on vacation, to be able to stay up late, sitting by the twinkly Christmas tree, taking the time to reflect on a day spent puttering in the kitchen with Christmas baking – I cozied up with the KitchenAid, sifted and whipped and piped, sang along to the best version of “Jingle Bells” (Sinatra), and failed utterly to produce a single correctly-formed macaron. God, I love the holidays.

Also, on Christmas – which, if you don’t know, is tomorrow – I turn 31 AND I discovered several new gray hairs along my part today. Why are they always along the part, and why do they corkscrew away from the rest of my hair like that? But I will try to confine this post to a single depressing topic.*

*Random factoid #371: I actually kinda like the gray hairs, and secretly look forward to being an old lady with crazy long thick curly white hair. Also I will take up metalworking, like the grandma in “Twister”.

Continue reading

I didn't have a single drink, ocifer.

Sometimes Smackdowns don’t work out as well as I’d like and that’s okay, I love them all just the same.  Well, except for this one. Oh, and this one; this one was just the nastiest one of the year and I repudiate it completely.  But all the other ones, I love just the same.  Especially when they leave me with leftover custard sauce.  Because what is leftover custard sauce, really, other than inchoate ice cream waiting to be made into ice cream?

Continue reading