A Fine Sunday in August

It has been a fine day today. The weather has been just right--sunny and 70s. The grass and plants are a lush green from the recent rain. The clouds are fluffy in the distance, portending a possible light show later this evening.

I restarted a furniture refinishing project on our deck yesterday, and I am almost done sanding a little chest. Another couple of sunny days, and I will be done with staining and varnishing. My next project will be sanding and repainting a couple of cafe chairs I found abandoned on a corner, with a sign posted above declaring their "free"dom.

I have no comments on condiments lately. Perhaps I shall share a recipe for tweeking BBQ sauce, or perhaps sing the praises of sour cream. Or shall I blog on the world's most perfect food: bacon?

. . . no need to decide now. After all--it's a fine Sunday afternoon and fall is around the corner.

Fo' Shizzle

Hun and I returned on Saturday from a week-long respite in the Mile High City. It was loverly. We got to visit with friends and family, enjoy a couple of hikes, and received broad hints about how to build a fun-filled and fiscally secure future together from the afore-mentioned friends and fam. (Say that meandering sentence five times fast.) We also were force fed homemade ice cream. (The flavors were maraschino cherries with pecans, and Bing cherries with dark chocolate chunks--yum.)

Ten added pounds around the waistline later, I returned to work yesterday to discover I have now a caseload of one. (Hopefully my caseload will turn to two or--gasp--three bouncing teenage boys!!) Let the adolescent ennui begin.

All kidding aside, teenagers can be quite fun. I really like teens--they just don't seem to like me much because (1) I'm not hip, cool, or withit AT ALL, (2) I often get stuck telling them things they don't want to hear, such as "No, you aren't going home yet because the judge is being an asshole." and (3) I ask them to stop acting like teens and start acting like mini-adults because the county will kick their tuckus out of the system without a dime if they impulsively (imagine that for a teen) decide to sign themselves out of care because they aren't allowed to visit their boyfriend who is stationed in Bumfuck or the county declined to buy them an XBox 360 for their 18th birthday. I usually get a James Dean pout or Billy Idol sneer in response, attempt to encourage them to strive for bigger and better things, and shoo myself out the door before being conned out of more McDonald's outing.

I also dusted off a Pilate's DVD I got on hot-bargain special from Border's and completed a couple of workouts. Meanwhile, Hun has been playing Bioshock on his new XBox 360, and hasn't let me take a turn even once. (Insert Cyndi Lauper sneer or Paris Hilton pout here.)

Could my life get moore exciting?!

Fo' Shizzle.

The Great Crumble . . .

My life lately has been like a store-bought chocolate chip cookie. It's sweet at times and it peps me up and keeps me motivated. But sometimes, when I hold onto aspects of it too tightly, it crumbles in my hands.

The sweet things have been Hun and my friends and family. I am looking to traveling back to the homestead in a week. I even got lucky enough to see one of my best friend and her new cabbage a few weeks ago as well.

Hun performed well on a test for grad school. It opens a lot of doors for us, which helps all of us breathe a little easier. It is a bit stressful to consider what is next. But having too many doors to find out what is behind is a far better position than having doors slammed in our faces.

Work, however, has been better. I have discharged my whole caseload back to family. One set of kids were discharged home after a long stint in care. The family is getting extensive services after they returned home. I am keeping my fingers crossed that everyone does their bit and the kids aren't in a position to go back into care in a year. I advised a set of extended relatives to apply as kinship-care foster parents for the second set. The kids are flying out of state to live with them tomorrow. (We won't mention the circumstances surrounding how they got yanked out of their foster home. It was a sour deal, and I hate to say it--it was the right thing to do.)

It's strange, how tight I held onto those cases. I spent so much time holding those cases together, that I sometimes didn't allow myself to step back and see as much as I wanted to. On one case, I saw a lot of what was going on. On the other case, I saw what I wanted to see.

Now I have a caseload of zero. Summer is traditionally a slow month for kids being referred. We usually get more as the school year progresses and as the winter rolls in. I expect to have a new kid on my caseload tomorrow. Life changes, as do the seasons.

One of my coworkers said that we have these children for a season, and we do what we can to help them on their way to the next. I can safely say I did everything I could for one set of kids. I hope I did everything I could for the other.

Well, that's just how the cookie crumbles.

Condiment of the Month: Cholula Sauce

Ahhh the spicy zest of it. Ahhh the flavor. My favorite haute sauce to lather my scrambled eggs and bacon on a Saturday is Cholula, hands down. As much as I enjoy Tobasco Sauce, especially with macaroni and cheese, Cholula hold my heart (not heartburn). What makes Cholula such a superior condiment? The answer: too many hot sauces out will only scorch your tongue-not revive it with a full array of palatable flavor. It has a touch of sweetness to it, and a creamy (yes, I said creamy) fullness to it. Cholula is the Grande Dame of hot sauces. From a tiny town outside of Guadalajara Mexico, the recipe has been in the same family for over a hundred years.

I first discovered Cholula in grad school. I just finished my third bottle of Tabasco in my adult life, and I needed to buy another. Unfortunately, no Tobasco was to be found, so I tried something different. I used it to garnish my famous omelets the next morning, and fell in love.

I was surprised. At the time, I was living in Boulder, which is well known for organic farmer's markets, professional mountain biking and climbing, tree huggers, and pot smokers. Although there was a plethora of sushi restaurants and microbrews--Boulder is a bit lacking in truly genius Mexican food.

I am a bit of a snob when it comes to the arena of Mexican food. Only excellent will do. Although Boulder has amazing margaritas at the Rio, and Chipotle and Illegal Pete's make killer burritos, it isn't in the same caliber as the local joints nestled along Federal Blvd in Denver.

Cholula helped me expand my mind about the realm of other hot sauces out there. Granted, Tabasco has it's place (try Tobasco Cheese Nips). But to compare Cholula with other Tex Mex hot sauces, is like comparing Crystale with Boone's Farms. It isn't as spicy as Tabasco. But it does have more flavor. I will probably be receiving tons of hate mail from this post, but a cowgirl has to take a stand sometime. If you want to reach for a hot sauce, go for Cholula

Condiment of the Month: Nutella

I'm sitting at the local coffee shop next to Hun, sipping on a icy and refreshing beverage, and writing about general malaise. I note to some chagrin that I have not posted in almost a month. So much for best-laid resolutions of blogging at least once per week. I miss writing--time to fire up my neurons again.

I am also hungry. Not hungry (or "hugry") as I was in my last post, as much as hungering for a little adventure. My feet are itching for some exploration and travel, as it is the season for me (although fall is the season of choice for Frodo and Bilbo).

I always enjoyed family vacations. But the best adventure I have ever undertaken (notwithstanding the ongoing adventure of married life), was my 3-month trip around Europe. I recognize it is a bit pale in adventure to some of my more worldly friends, but during that time I saw all the wonders I only read about, read the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and fell in love with myself again. My biggest stress each day was to find a roof over my head and figure out what sites I would first hit. I met some interesting people and made some friends along the way. All the while, my diet consisted mostly with fresh-baked bread, wine, and Nutella.

I fell in love with Nutella while I was PMSing in France. Although my unwelcome Aunt Flo followed me across the Atlantic, Nutella kept my aggravations at bay. Nutella comforted me on days I felt more than lonely, was a quick gnash in the morning before heading to a museum, a wonderful wind-down snack while lounging in a hostel and sharing the beloved jar with fellow travelers in the mood for the tasty morsel or just some conversation.

I also discovered how wonderful Nutella is with bananas in Switzerland, and traded Nutella for some Vegemite in Munich. I chatted about life, the universe, and everything with some Aussies, some Irish honeymooners, and some Harvard Law students--influenced by generous amounts of red wine, topped off with Nutella when the philosophical drunkenness drowned into hunger.

Some Nutella paved the way for some girls to ask me to tour Rome with them. I wouldn't have seen the city otherwise--I heard too many horror stories about it at the time to travel through Rome alone. Rome wound up being my favorite place in my European tour, and I owe the opportunity presenting itself to Nutella.

When I returned, I went on hiking trips and camping trips with a jar of Nutella in my backpack to keep my energy up. Before the airline restrictions on carryons, I would sneak Nutella on flights to munch on long rides.

I don't practice the "have Nutella, will travel" philosophy so much today. With my slowing matabolism and Hun to keep me company, I'm more likely to pack sun screen than the chocolate-hazelnut spread. I didn't bring Nutella with me to Thailand, nor to any of the cities I've seen along the East Coast. But to this day, when I see Nutella, I still think about how the age of Conan the Barbarian was described: these are the days of high adventure.

In a couple of weeks, Hun and I will have passed a couple of milestones. He will officially be finished with half of his grad program--and have completed a mojo-important test. We will also have completed our first year of married life. We will be celebrating by enjoying fireworks by the Brooklyn Bridge. Although no Nutella graces our cupboards, I still think our time here in Upstated New York has been (and will continue to be) filled with high adventure.

I am hungry!!

Just thought I mentioned that. I skipped lunch today, although I ate a heart-attack inducing breakfast of a gianormouse bacon, green pepper, and onion omlette shared with Hun. Anywho, it's almost dinnertime now and I would seriously gnaw the corner of one of the bookcases in the library I'm sitting in just now--if I only had access to some salt and pepper.

Hun is perusing the internet after we enjoyed a rousing bit of frisbie action in a nearby park. I spent my valuable internet time looking up the phrase "I am hungry" and browsing dessert recipies on epicurious.com--sigh.

I also watched youtube videos on people making cakes in the shapes of dogs . . . my oh my . . .

Did I mention I was hugry?

Condiment of the Week: Peanut Butter

Aussies have their Vegemite. The French have their Dijon mustard. Nothing is more iconic to the American diet than Peanut Butter. Occupying the selves of over 75 percent of American pantries, it's a part of our cultural heritage. Almost half of the peanut crops in the United States wind up in a jar of peanut butter.

Like many kids growing up, I ate my share of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunches (or as an alternative to salmon patties). Each parent has his/her own way of making PB&J--to be branded in childhood memory. On those lazy summer days in the old neighborhood, my friend and I took advantage of out parents' techniques to add variety to our lunchtime PB&J and popsicle.

Whenever we were in the mood for peanut butter and grape jelly on white bread with a dash of butter, we would hit my friend's house and run through the sprinkler in her backyard to beat the noontime heat.

We would eat my mother's peanut butter and peach preserves on whole wheat on other days. After, we would play on my backyard swing set--occasionally being summoned to help her nudge out a neighborhood English sheepdog from the living room. He fell violently in love with the cool hardwood floors and box fan one hot afternoon in July when he escaped the confines of his backyard two houses down. (No one in our neighborhood had air conditioning. Everyone left the front and back doors open--along with every window--to increase air circulation in the desert heat.) My mother would pull his paws from the front and we would push from behind as the pooch skidded across the floor, yowling his protests. One time, we failed to push him out the door and he rested like a big bear rug until his owner called out "Chewbacca" a few minutes later.



My family patriotically consumes peanut butter in other forms. My father makes a mean batch of peanut-butter fudge. (He also makes peanut brittle and peanut patties, thank you very much.) Some of my friends introduced me to peanut curry--with a dash of peanut butter. I also love Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. My mother makes a mean batch of peanut-butter cookies as well.



When I was a Girl Scout, I was the local supplier of peanut-butter Tagalong cookies in the spring. (Years after I left Girl Scouts for tap lessons, family friends would still call asking if oh, please dear God, you could join for a couple of months to sell us some Tagalogs, do you have any little friends still in Scouts who can sell us twenty or so cases?

My father introduced me to further peanut-butter experimentations, such as peanut butter and mustard sandwiches, and even--don't gag--peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches. Indeed, my dad passed along his wisdom gained in collegiate dorm life to his impressionable daughter regarding the multifaceted uses of the popular protein supplement.