Binge Baking

Well, I promised to post on how the pop tarts turned out, so posting I am.  Being that I am not the most decisive creature on the planet I opted to bake both cookies AND pop tarts today.  I also baked little beefy cheesy croissant bites that I am clearly not excited about enough to create a proper name for, but I'll still mention them I suppose.

Anyway, the pop tarts came out better than I had anticipated.  I baked Gruyère into the crust and I am pretty sure I can never bake without it ever again.  Half of the batch boasted Nutella and the other half was filled with cinnamon pear preserves I had whipped up earlier in the day.  I know right now you're doubting how either of those two things could meld with such a flavorful cheese and still be appetizing, but trust me.  Even the picky roommate ate two.

By the time I got around to baking the cookies, I was feeling so jazzed that I decided to branch out.  No more vanilla pudding.  I scrapped it for butterscotch.  I also used bite size toffee bits along with my typical chocolate chunks.  I was pleasantly surprised and my roommates will have happy tummies for a fair few days - success :)

Dad

The oven is fixed.  I am too giddy to know where to begin.  There is something so inviting about the quiet sheen of a melted chocolate chip in a simple round cookie, however the adventurous spunk in me begs to create something I've never done before.  (It often also begs me to change the oil in my car all by myself without the assistance of Pep Boys.  Fortunately, I have enough sense yet to leave the fate of my car in the hands of an Ehow article.)  Well, regardless of what I decide on baking, I have contentedness in the fact that I will be baking today.

So, back to the oven getting fixed.  Yesterday, the father of the perpetrator of the Great Oven Slaying of 2011 came over with a new, intact piece of glass to install.  While we were waiting for said father, one of my roommates made a comment alluding to the fact that she was not 100% convinced that he would be competent in the proper fixing of our oven.  I kind of laughed it off and naively responded that he had to know what he was doing because his title read "Dad."  She just kind of stared at me, trying to figure out how to kindly convey the concept that men don't suddenly gain knowledge of all things in the universe upon successful insemination.  Logically speaking, I suppose this must be true, but I cannot bring myself to fully buy it because I can confidently say that my father knows everything.  It's true.  One year he had eight candles on his cake and was skillfully scaling coconut trees, the next year his cake was gleaming with forty candles, he was my dad, and he held all the secrets of the universe.

I feel I should note that I am not five years old, nor have I created a place for my father in the Trinity.  It's   hyperbole, people.  Stick with me.

I tried explaining this to an ex-boyfriend one time and he smiled at me much like the way one smiles at a child yammering on about the tooth fairy.  He found the notion that I had not yet fully grown into my adult shoes endearing.  What I don't think he realized at that moment in time was that I was developing that same child-like confidence in him and his ability to do anything.  In the end, I was right.  He did know how to do everything, including how to break my heart into more pieces than an oven door.  And therein lies the difference between him and my father, other than him being a democrat and a monotheist and an unappreciative tool.  That last bit was in reference to my ex-boyfriend, not my father.

I digress.  I do that a lot.  I think I do that when there are too many thoughts bumbling about in my head and I haven't quite figured out how to make them cohesive.  I am going to attempt to squish 'em together and hope that they flow.  I'm not being graded on this after all, right?

The past few weeks at work have been rather busy with the close of the fall semester and preparation for the Spring.  Something about the combination of grades and bills being received so close together does not bode well for me each time the phone rings, especially when academic disqualification letters have been thrown into the mix.  In ways it works out alright for me because parents of those students typically are more frustrated with their underachieving sons and daughters than they are with me, but those are my least favorite phone calls to receive.

I cried with a father on the phone last week.  His daughter had been academically disqualified and he was in more distress than he knew how to deal with.  I was not there for the yelling and door slams that disqualification letter probably brought to into their home.  I was simply an outsider on the phone, there to listen and cry and pray with him (and eventually advise too).  Here was a father who clearly loved his daughter beyond words and strained his bank account to somehow make it possible for her to get the kind of education he had always wanted and she threw it back in his face.  Well, at least that was what it felt like to him.

I should probably mention soon that I was a child straight out of hell.  Somehow my parents stuck through it all, never ceasing to love and support, without the knowledge that morning would ever come.  It came.

Anyway, I was there for the angry words exchanged across my own parents' dinner table and the panicked voicemails of calls I had rejected.  On the phone last week, however, I was only a school employee listening to a grieved father - he spoke to me like a fellow adult, not like the wayward daughter that I often feel like.  Here was a father, a man who knows everything and can fix anything, unable to repair his daughter's mistakes.  It was an interesting conversation to be a part of, hearing all the things my own father tried to get me to understand and I couldn't.  Rather, I wouldn't.

This time, dad, I get it.  And I'm sorry.

In the end, though, my dad did fix it.  As cheesy as this sounds and as much as I hate sounding cheesy, he fixed it by loving me through everything and in turn revealing Someone else who also loves me through all my blunders, a Father who truly can fix everything including my heart and my inclination towards deviance.  I don't think I'll ever understand how a non-Christian father can continually point me in the direction of the Christian God, however somehow he always does and for that I couldn't be more thankful.

This post was a little more revealing than intended.  And a little too disjointed.  I may remove it.

Anyway, off to the store to pick up pears!  Pop tarts it is!  I'll let you know how they turn out.  And they will let you know how competent another father is in repairing oven doors.                              

I'll Have a Side of Salmonella with That

I hate irony sometimes.  It figures that the girl whose cupboard boasts four types of sugars and three kinds of chocolate would be the one needing the extensive dental work.  What doesn't figure into it is that I don't typically eat my own confections.  It's a beautiful thing, really.  Baking for catharsis, that is.  By the time a cake is cool and frosted, it has already given me all the pleasure a baked good can offer.  The enjoyment is in its creation, not consumption.  So, in the end, I am left happy and my roommates are left fat.  That's a win-win if I've ever seen one.  However these days I am not feeling like much of a winner.  I feel like a loser.  One who has lost $2400 (or, rather, will be gradually losing it over the next eighteen months).  The best part of this is knowing it is my fault.  I'm not going to lie to you.  I'm trying really hard to [inconspicuously] tip the blame onto someone else's plate (namely my father from whom I received such bad dental genes), but, truth be told, I should have seen this coming.  I have a strong hatred for dentists with their soft, indescript jazz and floss wielding fingers. I hate spitting into that whirring suction funnel, probably because when I was small my sister convinced me that I could be one of the "lucky" children that gets sucked away to a land filled with loose teeth that would gnaw on me all night long. (And people wonder why I slept with a night light till I was 12.) So, I avoid the dentist and his suction cup of doom like the plague and I choose not to floss most nights because the tips of my fingers are quite fond of oxygenated blood. Well, these two things, or, rather, the lack of these two things, have lead to seven dentist appointments in six weeks.


I started the above post a couple months back, fresh off an impromptu root canal. I never got around to finishing it, something that happens to me often, not just when I'm hopped up on Novocaine. Every time I have gone back to finish this one, and others, writer's block rears its ugly head and I sit there, fingers poised above my little laptop ("Lappy", as I tenderly refer to him) waiting for inspiration to hit. It doesn't. I have been itching to post this particular one, however, because I am mesmerized by the number of commas in the final sentence. Five. I like that.


So, I'm just going to go for it and post this one unfinished. Just think of it like munching on raw cookie dough. And even if you are the kind that prefers warm, golden brown cookies over the gooey salmonella-laced kind, you're out of luck. Oven's broken. Sorry. Enjoy the salmonella in all its unfinished glory.

Kellogg's Aint Got Nothin' on Me

I have had the urge to make pop tarts lately.  And by "make" I mean make...not simply toast.  I am not much of a fan of the packaged, store bought variety anyhow.  The crust gets too crunchy, the filling gets too hot, and Goldilocks is not fond of having her mouth scalded and scratched all in one bite.  Plus, the possibilities for fillings are endless: fresh jam, nutella, pesto and cheese, minced pear and Gruyère, etc.  But, alas, our oven is still broken and I am unable to try out possible recipes.  For now, I will have to be content with it simply preheating in my mind and hopefully, after having kneaded, baked, and glazed dozens of imaginary pop tarts, my first real life batch will hold perfection.

In the meantime, I have been furiously spending my energy on the Stairmaster.  This past weekend I went to the gym no less than five times.  I should probably note that it was a long weekend and I'm considering Friday to be a part of said weekend.  I should probably also note that that this kind of commitment to is somewhat very much out of character for me.  I have had this gym membership (thanks, mom and dad) for seven months now and haven't gone in four.  About four months ago gravity and concrete got into a fight and I was a casualty.  Concussed, the doctor restricted me from the gym for six weeks.  Being that my brain is rather important to me, I decided to be extra careful and take an additional ten weeks to give my cranium adequate time to heal.  If my brain doesn't want to go to the gym, who am I to argue with it?  

At the end of the day, however, I can't hide from the truth. My oven bailed on me, my bank account hates me (yours would too after four grand in dental bills in three months... but that's a post for another day), my swim wear is fearing the warm months ahead, and I am in need something to expel all my pent up energy on.  My answer has been exceedingly clear: dig out the sneakers (and Icy Hot), brush the cobwebs off my yoga mat, and brave being talked to by sweaty gym rats.  Thus far, it has gone really well.  It would have gone really really well if I had not attempted the advanced poses in my very first day of yoga (I'm Indian...aren't mad yoga skills inherent?).  None of that matters now, however.  I am feeling rather zen about life and about the oven situation.  Plus, the back spasms have subsided, the oven parts have been shipped, I get paid in three days, and life seems to be returning back to normal.  Well, normal with enough surprise jolts thrown in to keep me excited...much like biting into a pop tart expecting fake mucus-like strawberry substance and instead finding a warm blueberry compote with a cream cheese glaze drizzled delicately over the top.  Oh goodness, who am I kidding?  Anyone know how to expedite mail that has already been shipped?                     

Ode.

To the girl who told me I would look ugly today after sleeping only 3.47 hours last night:  Don't underestimate the power of a tube of good mascara and a well-fitting herringbone skirt.

To the girl who haphazardly wore black lace tights the day after a diy pink glitter rockstar manicure: Not even herringbone can redeem that "office tramp" getup you've got going on.  Your twenty-three year old face may still look adequately bright and cheery after a night of little sleep and coat of Bad Gal Lash, but your ability to choose a work appropriate outfit is grossly diminished.  Sleep.  It does the body good.   

 

Glass and Tears and Deviled Eggs

For the very first time I came home from work in tears.  It was rather curious to me that today would be the day to bring the waterworks having not been wrought with screaming parents nor having received over one hundred phone messages (welcome to last week).  I guess it makes moderate sense to me, as there have been a few unexpected tumults as of late on this road called my life.  However, it wasn't the aforementioned stressors that did me in.  Oh no. Blame the biscuits.  Whilst driving home from work, Jack Johnson softly strumming his guitar in the background, I decided to bake cheddar bay biscuits (think Red Lobster) to go with dinner (a dinner that, at that point, consisted solely of a bottle of two buck Chuck).  And then it hit me: I can't bake anymore.

Oops.  Time to rewind.    

Our oven is broken.  A friend of my roommate was over at the house the other day and decided to clean the oven.  Well, really she decided to make the oven clean itself.  I've never actually used the whole "self clean" feature probably because the idea of little metallic hands coming to life out of the inner recesses of my favorite kitchen appliance to scrub away casserole remains frightens me.  This girl is fearless, however, and not only did she opt to brave the wretched little oven fingers, she also wanted a front row seat.  Open the door she did and when a drop of tepid water pinged against the 900 degree pane of glass, it revolted.  Our oven has no glass.  I have no outlet.

It doesn't sit well with me to be angry with someone over a mistake I could easily see myself making.  In fact, if it had been me, I probably would have tripped over a rogue apron string, spilling a whole cup of ice water on the precarious oven door.  What a fun sound (and trip to the E.R.) that would have made.  At any rate, the oven is out of commission and so is my ability to handle life (and my brain), apparently.  All eight roommates are fearfully sleeping with locked doors.  (I'm going to pause right here while you wrap your mind around nine girls in one house.  Everyone needs it - no need to be ashamed.  Yes, we all happen to be single at this brief moment in time.  No, you may not bring all your homeboys over.)

I sat in my empty driveway long enough to replay track 7 four times, long enough for my neighbor to drown his hydrangea bush while gawking at me, and long enough to come up with a new game plan: deviled eggs.  Yep.  Deviled eggs.  No baking required.  Tasty as they may be, I had greater plans for these eggs.  Watch this.  Yup.  That's exactly right.  Well, not really.  I have talked about devil egging someone's car for months and months now.  Years, probably, in fact.  It has never actually happened, half because I am above the age of fifteen, as are all of my friends, and half because I know deep down that hurting someone for three minutes will only deepen the hurt I feel, no matter how much they may supposedly deserve it.  It won't bring me any real satisfaction, nor will it bring me any actual catharsis.  Even fantasizing about hurting people who have have hurt me has only brought me pain.  I suppose the fact that I am still grasping this means that not all of my mind crumbled with the oven door.  So, for now I just watch Gilmore Girls and let them do all the maladaptive behaviors I long to have the strength to do, all the while knowing that not doing them is strength in itself.  Or is that just something a timid person tells oneself to feel less pathetic?

On another note, anyone know how to fix a broken oven door?