Daily Archives : Page 80 of 110 : Fluid Pudding

If life gives you bananas, make ice cream!

I joined Pinterest about a week ago. (I believe you can see my pins here. At least I think you can. I’m still learning.)

Anyway. Sheri from The Loopy Ewe pinned this recipe for One Ingredient Ice Cream, and I was So Intrigued. (Ice cream made from bananas. Nothing more! Just bananas! It’s vegan and totally healthy ice cream that you can feed your kids for breakfast! How can anyone tell you that you can’t be whatever you want to be when there are bananas out there who are becoming ice cream?! Follow your dreams, children of the world!!!)

Before I tell you how to make One Ingredient Ice Cream, let me say this: I’m not sure why, but it cracks me up when people put frames around photos of food. I know it’s not supposed to be a comical thing, but to me? Side-splitting. Please know that as I picked up colors from within my banana photographs and created frames from those colors, I was having the time of my life. (I’ve never felt this way before.)

Let’s get started. Take four bananas, slice them up, and freeze them for an hour or so. (I went with Or So. Four hours. Also, my bananas were on the edge of darkness. And that’s okay.)

Take the frozen banana slices and throw them into your food processor. (If you don’t have a food processor, go get yourself a food processor! I have no idea how much they cost. Jeff’s parents gave us ours a few years back, because I was craving homemade salsa, which I made exactly once after receiving the food processor.) Start pulsing the bananas. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Fun Fact: The normal pulse rate of a Yorkshire Terrier is 100 to 150 beats per minute!

You’ll notice as you pulse that the bananas start turning into tiny rocks and working their way up the side of the container! This bothered me, but don’t let it bother you! Just grab a spatula and scrape the banana rocks off the sides and push them back down by the blade. Continue pulsing and scraping and before you know it, the banana rocks turn into ice cream!!!

Look at that! Seriously! When you’ve achieved Ice Cream Consistency, you may stop and eat. (Or put it in a container and keep it in the freezer.) However, we didn’t stop. We added a tablespoon (or more) of Nesquik (because Dutch process chocolate was too expensive and I already had Nesquik!) and a few spoonfuls of peanut butter. (Why do I want to say spoonsful instead of spoonfuls? Spoonsful? Yes? No?)

When all is said and done, my kids would much rather go to the store and purchase a container of “real” ice cream than eat ice cream made from bananas. Me? I prefer the banana! My next batch will not hold chocolate or peanut butter. Instead, I believe I’m going to add strawberries and pineapple with maybe a touch of coconut? Perhaps a batch with just bananas and pretzels?! Imagine the possibilities!

Dogs can eat bananas, and as you know, I never miss the opportunity to share a photo of Scout, who will be four months old on Thursday! The End! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Cake Balls and Dog Dreams

How nice is it that as of now, 100% of the comments to my previous post were supportive? I really do appreciate your thoughts and opinions and funny stories. Come over to my house. I made a batch of cake balls. Let’s eat them.

Really. I made a batch of cake balls.

They’re purple with pink stripes and white cake with white icing and I’ve eaten at least four of them today.

Jeff is on a business trip in Florida. As I sit here typing, he is eating breakfast at Downtown Disney.

(I made a batch of cake balls. Let’s eat them.)

This has nothing to do with that: When Meredith was three years old, she got really angry with me one afternoon, and she screamed, “I’m going to poop on your pillow, and then I’m going to poop on your wedding rings!!!” (Please know that when I’m especially frustrated, I tell Jeff that I’m going to poop on his wedding ring. Please also know that I would never actually do such a thing, as I am Refined. Like sugar.)

Anyway, Scout has been going through a phase in which she likes to do her business in the girls’ bedroom. (On the floor. Never on Meredith’s pillow.) To me, it’s a taste of What Goes Around Comes Around or Spinning Wheel Got to Go Round or something to that effect. (Speaking of which, I never did get a spinning wheel. The fever has settled for now, as I’m having trouble finding time to use my spindle, which leads me to believe that I really have no time to deal with a wheel right now.)

Why am I not spinning? Because I’m spending most of my waking hours with this:

Scout has discovered that she can’t really do much with the cone around her face. She tends to knock her food dish over with the cone, so I have to feed her by hand. She can’t run full speed under the couch while wearing the cone, so I have to help her find alternate hiding places. When she takes a drink, she slobbers onto the cone, and then it drips onto her neck when she lifts her face up—and she can’t scratch her neck because of the cone, so I’m constantly having to wipe OUT the cone and scratch her neck! (I know. I’m creating a monster.) ARGH! Scout HAS discovered a bit of a coping mechanism, and that is: Naps. Naps filled with dreams of what she COULD be doing while wearing that stinking cone.

She could be walking on the moon. (She has always been a fan of The Police.)

She could be One Less Lonely Girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

Best of all, she could be Ira Glass’s dangling earring, which would allow her to whisper sweet somethings into his ear. (Sweet nothings are for amateurs. Scout is a woman of substance. Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust!)

(As Mr. Glass performs in St. Louis on Saturday evening, Peter Gabriel will be performing in Kansas City. Missouri wins the Saturday Night Coolness Award.)

((Meanwhile, the cone comes off tomorrow morning. You’ll probably hear our rejoicing all the way over there.)) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Summertime, and the living’s not so easy…

You’ve known me long enough to know that a number of things make me even more anxious than your average overly-anxious bird.

My relationship with food is totally cracked. I weigh myself at least four times Every Single Day. If my number goes beyond what is most likely a perfectly acceptable number for me, I flip out. (I don’t really Flip Out, but I get bummed. Not noticeably bummed, but still. If my pants aren’t fitting, I tend to do the sad face. Inwardly.) I’m currently a vegetarian with vegan tendencies who is counting Weight Watcher points and attempting a daily raw meal. Healthy on the outside, nice and unstable on the inside, right?

I get all weirded out in social situations. I’ve always had a terrible time with eye contact, which often makes me look like I’m either lying and being all shifty, or that I’m suspicious and unsocial—or an unfortunate combination of the two. I’m always afraid I’ll say something ridiculous, so more often than not, I either avoid saying anything at all, or I get overly jokey and then I spend the drive home regretting 73% of everything I’ve said. (I once had a friend who paused at least ten seconds before saying ANYTHING. He told me that he took that time to choose his words in the most economical way. He always struck me as the most eloquent of our group.)

When I was in junior high and high school, I rarely left the house to hang out with friends. I can name the parties I went to, and they all fit on one hand! (Jeff’s hand with the amputated thumb!) I went to a dance, I went to a Halloween party, I went to a Christmas party, and I went to our class graduation party. Really. That’s it. Instead, I practiced the piano. I wrote in my notebooks. I sat on the floor in front of my radio and listened to Kurtis Blow and Phil Collins and Screaming Blue Messiahs (and The Communards and Falco and INXS).

Now that my kids are reaching an age where they’re making friends on their own, I’m finding that I’m actually feeling stressed out about THAT as well. I’ve never been good about putting play dates together (In fact, I sort of hate the term Play Date.), but I’m starting to realize that if I make my kids spend their childhood the way I spent mine, they’re never really going to be social creatures! (Evidence: Socially Awkward Me.)

A few weeks back, Harper’s friend’s mom called to say that they were getting a small group together to go to the pool and were wondering if Harp could join them. I 100% trust both of the adults who would be there, yet I still was a complete Dorito-binging mess when I dropped Harper off. (Harper had the greatest time at the pool, there were a TON of lifeguards there, I have no idea why I flip out about this… Wait. No. I do know. I’ll get to that in a second.)

Meredith recently took a call from her best friend. She’s back in town after a two week vacation, and is wondering if Meredith can come over, go to Dave and Busters, and then hang out at the grandmother’s pool. I immediately began puking out questions to Meredith.

Me: Dave and Busters? Are the parents going to be hanging out with you the entire time? Because I’ve SEEN some of the adults who hang out there during kid-friendly hours. And, the pool. Will there be a lifeguard on duty? Because I’m not sure where the grandma lives, but I DO know that not all subdivision and apartment pools have lifeguards, and you are NOT allowed to go to a pool without an adult there, and ultimately, I want a LIFEGUARD there because sometimes adults get caught up in conversations and they lose track of kids and WAIT. DID YOU JUST HIT YOUR SISTER?! OKAY THEN. YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO GO TO THE POOL OR TO DAVE AND BUSTERS! EVER!

When I was in elementary school, a little boy from our church drowned at church camp. It affected me more than I like to admit. Because of that, I don’t swim. (I know it’s twisted. I know!) My kids have taken swim lessons and Jeff takes them to the pool every week or so, but I never join them because along with not digging the heat, I physically cannot handle the stress. Jeff’s parents have a boat and would probably love to take the girls out, but I can’t deal with it. If someone is drinking beer and driving a boat, I don’t want my kids to be involved. I WON’T let my kids be involved.

Perhaps this is why I love winter. (With that said, I once knew a woman whose only child was killed in a freak skiing accident.)

Please don’t tell me that I’m a disaster. I know I am. Please don’t tell me to take swimming lessons. The thought of it terrifies me, and I know that’s ridiculous. You can sing songs to me about never breaking cycles if you’re unwilling to make changes, and I’ll sing right along—as long as you’re singing in the key of D. (I love F# and C#.)

If you’re as unstable as me, feel free to sing it out. Afterward, we’ll high five one another while staring at the floor with our shifty overly-protective eyes. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Sundays with Scout

Me: So, Scout—what the heck is going on with the cone?

Scout: Well, as you know, I had my ovario-hysterectomy on Friday. I was all groggy afterward, and my crate was smeared with feces! It was a terrible day!

Me: I know it was! The drive home was maddening! Poopy crate on my lap. You falling around inside the crate. Rush hour traffic! Harper yelling that she had to use the restroom so we had to pull over at Home Depot!

Scout: It was like that Chevy Chase Vacation movie, but without John Candy!

Me: Kind of! So, tell us about the day after your surgery!

Scout: Well, I remained groggy. And I couldn’t walk without getting all jerky and falling down. And I kept licking myself. And I didn’t pee for 24 hours.

Me: So we took you to the Emergency Vet Clinic where they decided that you were having a slight reaction to the sutures, and that your incision site was inflamed. Then what happened?!

Scout: They gave me a really painful shot, a bottle of NSAID chewies, and they sent me home with a cone around my head! Then what happened?!

Me: You slept through the night and acted like your old self this morning—but then we noticed that you were peeing every fifteen minutes and that, erm, it was a bit bloody.

Scout: You just lost fifteen readers!

Me: I know! So, anyway, we went BACK to the Emergency Vet Clinic, where they took a tiny sample and determined that you had elevated white blood cells, protein, and blood in your urine!

Scout: You to the Tee Eye! Have YOU ever had a urinary tract infection?

Me: Yes, I have. They’re TERRIBLE! The burning! The frequency!

Scout: Being a woman is tricky, yo. BUT, at least I can rest easy knowing that the unfixed poodle across the street isn’t going to sneak into the house and get me pregnant!

Me: Don’t even get me started. But, yeah. I get you. Speaking of which, do you have any opinions on the Mirena? Because now that you’re fixed, I’m once again thinking about getting MYSELF fixed, and everybody’s all, “Mirena! Say it loud and there’s music playing, say it soft and it’s almost like praying!”

Scout: That may be true, but how do you solve a problem like Mirena?!

Scout and Me: Ha. Ha ha. HA HA HA HA HA!!!

Me: Hey. Have you heard of that thing where people say that dogs and their owners have similar personalities, and that they eventually start to look alike?

Scout: I say it’s spinach, and I say the hell with it, E.B. White!

Me: Okay then. You’re probably right.

‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Welcome to my migraine!

So, here we are again. It’s Day #3 of my monthly migraine, and although I thought I was on the right track yesterday, it turns out that I was not, and that always bums me out a bit. I’m now keeping a migraine journal, and it looks a little something like this:

June 7: Ouch! Took a Maxalt. Pain: 7/10 … 8/10? Pain!
June 8: Better in the morning? Continued with the preventatives. Not so great in the evening, writing it off as stress.
June 9: Ouch! Ouch! Not sure if it’s stress or hormonal. Took a cocktail pill. Two hours later, determined that it IS hormonal, but am now unable to take a big gun pill, because I took a cocktail pill! Life is spent paying for mistakes and bad judgment and IT’S BEHIND MY RIGHT EYE! Called doctor. Received permission to take big gun pill at 6:00 this evening. Am now counting down the minutes. 320!!!

I go back to the migraine doctor at the end of July. The final straw would be the application of a hormone patch during one week out of the month. We’re hoping to find a pill that will do the trick before we have to resort to the patch. Anyway. Wake up out there so I can talk about the dog! I know! (Believe me. I know!)

Last night was Scout’s second obedience class. Sadly, I’m currently reading a book that goes against a lot of the things that the instructor is saying to us. (For example, the book says that anyone who makes a blanket statement about a certain breed of dog is taking the easy way out. Saying “All beagles whine and are difficult to train.” is like saying, “All white people like coconut cream pie.” (I *do* like coconut cream pie, if anyone is interested in meeting me for some.)) Anyway, last night the instructor held Scout like a baby with all four paws in the air, and Scout hated it and screamed like she was in pain. Because of the screaming, the instructor sprayed bitter apple into Scout’s mouth and said, “It looks like she’s used to being the boss! She needs to learn that she’s not the boss!” Okay. First of all? Scout’s not the boss. She’s doing really well with all of the training elements of obedience training. To me, spraying bitter apple into her mouth because she didn’t like being held like a baby is sort of like punching my nephew in the face because he doesn’t like chocolate.

I’m the first to admit that I’m not the expert. The fact that I’m uncomfortable with the whole bitter apple thing probably puts a big “Naive Dog Owner” stamp on my forehead. (During class last week, I was accused of engaging in Wussy Talk. I’m still not sure how to respond to that, which probably indicates that I AM a wussy talker.) BUT, I did notice that Scout was quiet and hid from the instructor during the remainder of class last night. (Last week Scout was the crazy misfit during class, so it was a noticeable change.)

(As I type these potentially mind-numbing paragraphs, please know that Scout is under the computer table whispering things like, “That bitter apple crap is whack, yo.” and “I tend to prefer Sondre Lerche’s Human Hands to the Elvis Costello version.” (We all have our opinions.))

Tomorrow morning at 7:00, I will drive Scout to an animal hospital in the city where she will have her lady parts removed. What a discouraging week it has been for her. I wonder if dogs get migraines.
———————————
Only a few hours remain! Come on over and comment. You could win a $100 Visa gift card! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I thought I was ready to go gray. I really did!

A year or so ago, one of my favorite friends from high school said something like, “Okay. I think I’m ready to let my hair go gray.” Our mutual friends began to scream, “No! It’s one of the only signs of aging you can control without surgical intervention!” Me? I sat in the corner with my grilled cheese and horseradish sandwich and whispered, “If you do it, I’ll do it.”

Not long after that, Alice documented the process of going natural. Alice is one of the many winners in the category of People Who Are As Cute As The Ears of Bugs. (For those who may not be familiar with the phrase, apparently, bug ears are very very cute!) With no artificial coloring, Alice looks divine.

I viewed all of this gray talk as A Sign. (I don’t really believe in signs. I’m a terrible driver.) I colored my hair back in February, but haven’t colored it since. Last week I started noticing a lot of gray.

Side Story: A long long time ago, I was having blood issues. I will NOT go into detail. I’m mentioning this only because my obstetrician said to me, “Sometimes a little bit of blood looks like a LOT of blood. But it’s not.” I believe those words also apply to gray hair.

Here are a few photos I took this morning. Of my hair. (The kids are back at school for three weeks, and I’m not leaving the house today. So many things to do! For instance, taking photographs! Of my hair!)

I flipped out a bit when I looked at this next shot:

Those two gray hairs almost look like antennae, don’t they? Perhaps I have an invisible lounging skull bug and that’s the reason why I sometimes call my kids by the wrong names! (Note: My bug does not have cute ears. In fact, he doesn’t have ears at all! Invisible Earless Lounging Skull Bugs! Google it! Clearly, I am the first case!)

Anyway, I think we can all agree that It’s Not That Gray. (Similarly, my butt probably looks larger to me than it does to you.)

This morning I reached into the closet and pulled out my last box of color. I was going to throw it away and write a poem about wearing purple, but at the last second, I frantically twisted the top off of Bottle One, punctured the seal on Bottle Two and poured its contents into Bottle One, shook it all up until everything was blended, and squirted it all over my head. (I left it in for forty minutes to scare off the more resistant grays. Shock and Awe!)

I won’t allow myself to feel terribly guilty about using the color. One: Because I had it in the closet, and it’s not like I can spread it on toast! Two: When I get my hair cut, it ends up being about an inch long all over my head. The color I applied today will be completely gone by September. Three: I have enough guilt in my life. I still let my kids eat chicken rings from White Castle! (The dog eats all natural food with no preservatives. La la laaaaaah. Don’t look at me.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The Week Ahead

Do you remember when I was trying to finish up the shawl for my migraine doctor?

Finish it, I did.

My appointment was last Tuesday, and my doctor (who always asks what I’ve been knitting) was pleasantly surprised and loved the shawl and wants me to give Maxalt another shot as this week’s triptan! (Yes! It’s Migraine Week at Fluid Pudding! Roll out the Dairy Queen Blizzards and the unpredictable moods! I’m laughing! No, I’m not!!! I’m crying! Ice on my head and heat on my neck!!!)

This week is also the beginning of our school’s summer enrichment program, where Meredith will be learning Spanish and participating in American Girl activities. (This has nothing to do with the Tom Petty tune and everything to do with age-appropriate historical fiction. In other words, when the class ends in three weeks, Meredith won’t be standing on a balcony out on 441. Instead, she’ll probably be begging us to take a trip to Chicago for a doll with whom she’ll never play.)

Meanwhile, Harper will be learning percussion in her morning class, and in the afternoon she’ll be part of Book Cooks—where she’ll read stories and follow recipes and make snacks. (Have I mentioned that summer enrichment is pretty awesome?)

While the girls are being enriched, I’ll be jumping into the last of my freelance for the summer and following up with my hip surgeon. (Thank God for Photoshop. Without it, the scar on my hip would surely stomp out any Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue possibilities!) Also, Scout will be participating in her second obedience class on Wednesday before her ovariohysterectomy on Friday. (They grow up so quickly!) On Saturday, we’ll end our fostership and become her official adoptive parents just in time for Harper to attend a mani/pedi party.

One last thing: I made a batch of curried green onion hummus using the recipe from Appetite for Reduction, and it’s the very best hummus I’ve ever had. Next week will probably find me following the recipe for horseradish dill hummus or pizza hummus. This vegan thing is not as tricky as I thought it would be.
———————————
You still have a chance to win! Come on over and comment. You could win a $100 Visa gift card! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Don’t even get me started on the mosquitoes.

I’m not a fan of the summer. I know you probably are, but I’m most definitely not, and I’m sorry if that means that we can’t be friends. I prefer cold to hot. I prefer chai lattes to fresh lemonade. I hate going to the pool and sweating and having to deal with wearing things that are not cardigans and jeans. (I currently own two pairs of shorts. Both were purchased while I was going through physical therapy a few years back. In other words, I associate Shorts with Pain.) When the temperature rises above eighty degrees fahrenheit, I start feeling dizzy and delicate. I despise sunscreen. I don’t want to go to the park or to Six Flags or anywhere that involves me walking on blacktop. I want crisp air and crunchy leaves and clogs and marching bands, and I want those things every single day! (Excuse me, Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I will change my name to Jackson if you give me a house and let my family live in you free of charge!)

The only thing (perhaps not the ONLY thing—please be patient with me and my drama) that makes summer bearable for me is this:

What you’re seeing here is a bowl of fresh tomatoes and green onions and Parmesan and garlic and sea salt and pepper and basil and the amounts of each ingredient are up to you and it’s pretty amazing by itself, but it’s even better when it gets married to lightly buttered rotini.

During the summer months, I make a batch of this stuff at least once each week. Usually more. And when it’s 100 degrees outside, I substitute Xanax powder for the Parmesan and then I park myself on the couch with a cold rag across my head and I dream of winter.

‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I’m still truckin’.

More than 30 hours have passed since my cyst was removed, and I’m pleased to report that the excision was dreamy, and that I’m currently walking around with an ice pack in my pants because when the numbing shots wore off, my hip began to burn like a Blister in the Sun. (You’re welcome, Children of the 80s.) Oh, the burning! Like a fire beneath my waistband! (It will be better tomorrow.)

During the procedure (as I lay (dying, William Faulkner) on my side with shoes, glasses, underpants and everything else on, because everyone knows that I tend to roll with modesty), I asked the surgeon if the cyst was solid, liquid, or gaseous.

Surgeon: It’s solid with a bunch of scar tissue. Do you want to see it?

Me: NO!!!!!!! No, thank you!!! Um, yes. I do.

I turned my head around as the surgeon held up a little wiggly finger-like object.

Me: Vili Fualaau!

Surgeon: What?

Me: I was making a villi slash Mary Kay Letourneau joke. It wasn’t funny. Can I eat that thing so it remains a part of me? Never mind. I’m not making sense.

Surgeon: In a few seconds, you’re going to start smelling something that might seem a little strange.

(She was right.)

Me: That smells delicious! What is it?

Surgeon: Cauterization. It’s your skin. Basically, this is what you would smell like if you were cooking.

Me: I smell like a barbecued pork chop! Does everyone smell like a pork chop?

Surgeon: All skin pretty much smells the same.

Me: It’s funny, because I’m free range and corn-fed. I would imagine my burning flesh to smell more like a portobello mushroom!

Moral of the Story: You might think you’re better/smarter/cuter/et cetera than (insert your foe’s name here), but at the end of the day, you both smell like delicious pork chops when your skin is on fire. Sleep tight.
———————————
Time is running out! Come on over and comment. You could win a $100 Visa gift card! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I wanna meet her so that I can say, “Hey! Kate!”

I’ve often joked around about how you really need to know yourself before you can choose a ring tone or commit to wearing a pair of jeans with the word “skinny” on the tag. (I still don’t know myself well enough to go outside of the AT&T suggested ring tone box. This sad phone of mine will never sing a song or cluck like a chicken. It simply says, “Ding” when someone is trying to reach me. With that said: My Butt is not a subset of Skinny, HOWEVER, I now own two pairs of skinny jeans. I am a jelly-bottomed enigma!)

I received a Nook Color for my birthday. (If you click on that link and watch the video, please know that I wanna be Kate, and that I’ll use just about any opportunity I can create to give a shout out to Ben Folds.) Anyway, after having the Nook for nearly two weeks, I’m finding that I’m getting to know yet another snobby side of myself. (This one is located in my frontal lobe!) My swollen-headed side will NOT allow any mundane books to be placed on the Nook. Goofy romance novels have no place on my Nook. If I can get a book at my library and continue to check it out over and over again? I’m not going to spend nine bucks to put it on the Nook. My Nook has enough room to hold something like 6,000 eBooks, yet absolutely zero space for authors like Sean Hannity or Sarah Palin. (I know! I’m horribly mean! And such a LIBERAL!)

Currently, my Nook is holding the following: The McSweeney’s Joke Book of Book Jokes, The Namesake, 25 novels that I was able to purchase for ninety nine cents, and a sample from Appetite for Reduction. Here is where you come in. What else do I need? What have you been reading lately? (I know at least three of you will mention The Help. I own that in both hardcover and audio. I loved it, too!) Also, I just finished Bossypants and adored it. I collect books of letters, and am looking into the Thurber letters. What else? What books do you love? Do you want to be my Nook friend? (I’m not even sure what that means, although I know it’s a possibility!) Get all up in my Nook, people!
———————————
Time is running out! Come on over and comment. You could win a $100 Visa gift card! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>