THE OMG SPAGHETTI BAKE

Git ready, this one’ll fight your kidneys, and win. I didn't photograph. We devoured it before that could happen. Okay. Start with pasta. A shitload. Not really, just about two cups. I mixed elbow macaroni, and farfalle. This was a good idea. Next. Boil pasta till it tastes like boiled pasta. While this is taking its sweet time, get yo preparation on. Pull out mom’s old glass pie pan, and reminisce on the good ol’ days. Alright, now get back to it. Pour maybe a tablespoon or two of olive oil into said pie pan; shaky shaky. Grab the nearest (possibly questionable) pasta sauce. Mine was Bertolli "spicy somethin’ or other." Pop the lid, and dump a generous amount into the dish, along with some capers (roughly four or five teaspoons, if you’re a caper fan; if not, get outta town, capers are delicious). Cheese. Now. Once again, the lack of a full fridge led me to the genius option of mixin’: chedda, mozza, and some parm-time. (Good idea #2.) Grate the crap outta that stuff, and depending on how heavy you want to feel after this meal, use accordingly. Apparently I wanted to feel real heavy... Use half for mixing with the sauce, and half for after the pasta. Now. Important step. Drain and add pasta. More sauce, duh. Mix it all up again. Remember when we talked about that cheese, “half for after the pasta” bit, well, here’s where that chimes in. Sprinklin’ cheese for days. Then some salt n’ peppa. Then some fried onions, just cause we got ‘em. Then some smoked paprika. That’s important, unless you want a less-than-awesome OMG SPAGHETTI BAKE, which you don’t. Then, remember that you forgot to preheat the oven to 400, and pick out pieces of pasta to snack on until the oven’s ready. Smooth it out, pretend it never happened, then toss the whole deal into the oven. “For, like” 15 minutes. At this point, realize that those fried onion pieces should probably have been added later on in the baking process, but embrace the extra smokey flavor, and call it a day.

Read more...

Summmertime!

Cuckoo Chaos: "Just Ride It"

Read more...

Spotted

A rather small, cheerful old fellow just walked into Krakatoa, my favorite cafe. I'm sitting on the couch, watching him. He's clad in an equally cheerful bright orange raincoat, and he just received his sandwich. He's carefully, oh-so-delicately, unwrapping it. Upon seeing it, all to himself, little fists upon the table, he mouths the words "oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!" I want to kiss him.

Read more...

He Listens to Jesus and The Mary Chain

Today, after violin lesson, I came home, and laid down on the couch. I sensed something soon, though, and raised my lids to see Vinyl (my ever-growing fat black cat) crouched straight in front of me, lying on my clean pillow.

"I have to wash this pillowcase now, Stupid!"

Stupid is the name I sometimes call him, when he makes poor life choices. He meows softly. I return my lids to their previous position. Open them, close them. He is confused. I know this. I continue in this manner, hoping he'll get up and leave, feeling my hatred. Instead, he simply hits me in the face with his, seemingly mittened, paw.

"Stupid!"

"Meow!"

Then we just lay there, staring. We stared for what seemed like hours, but really only about three minutes. Still, a long time for a cat and girl to stare hatefully at one another.

"I was here first," I say.

"Like I give a rat's ass," he says (in his cat mind).

I punch him in his cat face (in my human mind). Somehow he knows. His fat paw reaches out, and pauses, midair, threatening. I stare, hard. Eventually, he rests it on my shoulder. We're that close on the pillowcase. He looks at me with a face that says, "Let that be a lesson to you." So, in revenge, I sit here writing this to you, letting you see what evils lurk within his hateful body. He sits, a few centimeters away, reading over my shoulder (I hate that. He knows.).

"I probably won't feed you for a few days."

"Meow!"

"You eat too much anyways. You're fat."

"Take a look in the mirror lately?" He asks, suddenly speaking english, only to beat me down.

"I'm a growing girl," I say, stunned.

"Then, I'm a growing cat," he says, nonchalantly.

"At least I do yoga," I say.
He says something under his breath, chuckles softly, and continues reading. I hate him. Him and his cat breath can go to hell.

...
"You missed a comma," and blows a ring of cat breath in my eyes.

Read more...

Panty Party!

About a week ago, I housesat for some friends of mine, Jess and Luke. Before leaving for their trip, Luke kept mentioning how nice it would be if he returned to a home filled with the "good vibes" left over from a panty party. I took his recommendation into some creative (yet realistic) thought, and planned on leaving panties strewn about the house, as well as a berry pie filled with some nudie dolls (displayed as having a party of their own). Sadly, my creative endeavors and my time slots for such things rarely go hand in hand. I was scheduled to work each day, and on the final day, I pulled into the driveway after work, only a few tire stretches before my friends. This left no time for the decorations, but I did find time, a few days later, to bake the pie. I present to you the Blackberry Apple Panty Party. I didn't try it, but it got great reviews from Jess and Luke, and I'm sure I'll be making it again in the future. It's a recipe from Martha Stewart, so you know it's gonna be tasty. If you're up for it, you can find it here. Although, if you're looking for some sexy ladies (and cat faces with sunglasses), in Martha's pie, you'll be sorely disappointed. Take that, Martha! [I didn't mean it! I love you!!!] Anyways, although it's far less elaborate than planned, this is my version; the better version (duh).

Note: Going to Michael's at 9:15 at night, and swiftly dodging the door guard, to buy one bag of nude mini barbie dolls (with severed legs), may label you as a creep.

Read more...

Tuesdays With Cecile

Every Tuesday, I babysit for two little girls, Cecile (age 4) and Cora (age 1). A few Tuesdays past, I surprised Cecile with a tea party, whilst her sister took her normal two-hour nap. Cecile and I shook the dust off of our "finest dresses" (mine, a little more dusty than hers), and made a go for it. In true fashion, we ate only the finest. I planned a menu which included: Quiche, Curried Pumpkin Soup, Cucumber Sandwiches, Raspberry Scones, Mascarpone Cream-Filled (and chocolate covered) Strawberries, and all sorts of desserts (bought at a local French bakery). We sipped Yorkshire tea, with cream and sugar, and filled our bellies a little too full. A little unorthodoxly, Cecile chose her desserts by plunging her little pinkies into each and every item, and remarking simply, "Good," or "No, no." At one point in the feast, nearing the end, we both looked at each other, and without a word, dropped our backs to the grass and stretched in the sun, trying to make more room for food; her giggling all the while. It was a sunny, and lovely, afternoon, and in typical 4-year-old fashion, Cecile made quite a display of her food and drink upon the sheet which we sat, saying hurriedly, "You can wash it!" after any and all spills. I can't believe that I get paid to have tea parties with this kid. Such a nice day.

Read more...

Eyes Wide Closed

"Another evening, as I'm returning to the lodge from Yavapai Point, an old spinster with a plate of ice cream in her hand remarks to her escort, a seedy-looking professor, as she licks the spoon: "Nothing so extraordinary about this, is there?" It was about seven in the evening and she was pointing to the canyon with her dripping spoon. Evidently the sunset hadn't come up to her expectations. It wasn't all flamy gold like an omelette dripping from Heaven. No, it was a quiet, reserved sunset, showing just a thin rim of fire over the far edge of the canyon. But if she had looked at the ground beneath her feet she might have observed that it was flushed with a beautiful lavender and old rose; and if she had raised her eyes to the topmost rim of rock which supports the thin layer of soil that forms the plateau she would have noticed that it was of a rare tint of black, a poetic tinge of black which could only be compared to a river or the wet trunk of a live oak or that most perfect highway which runs from Jacksonville to Pensacola under a sky filled with dramatic clouds."
- An Air-Conditioned Nightmare

I've been clearing my closet some, and yesterday, I came across my dusty book collection. This, being one of my favorite books of all time, easily persuaded me to leaf through it for a moment or two. Every time I open those pages, I rediscover some old favorite quote, shakily highlighted in my excitement. A quick shuffling of the worn sheets, creates a rainbow of highlighted words and cleverly put rants, by my favored author, and it makes me ever so happy that it's mine to keep. Die Kindle, die!!!

Read more...