Deep Fried Twinkies Is Where I Draw the Line

When your family hails from the Old World, one thing you're not often exposed to is traditional American holiday delicacies, like Jello mold.

Now, we always make turkey with all the trimmings for Thanksgiving dinner, but it's also not uncommon for someone to show up bearing a plate of, say . . . venison jerky or smoked eel, as well.

So these little Oreo turkey favors that adorned the BeanPaste holiday table this year? Almost caused me to die of jealousy on the spot when I read Melanie's post. Back in the day, I would have traded my entire sticker collection, plus both my little brothers for the opportunity to wrap my lips around a culinary specimen like that.

Of course, I was far too lazy to trick out my own Oreo turkeys this year, but in an effort to make Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' place as all American as can be, I decided to contribute the green bean casserole recipe straight from the back of a Campbell's soup container, and mashed sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping as my two side dishes.

If it was good enough for the pilgrims, it would be good enough for us.

Alas, I wimped out on the marshmallows at the last minute. There was already a whole cup of maple syrup, a stick of butter, and a heart attack waiting to happen in those sweet potatoes, readers. I just couldn't do it.

But I did empty half a container of French's fried onions on top of my green bean casserole, and this received rave reviews. Not to mention it paired nicely with my mother-in-law's Heath bar and Cool Whip topped trifle.

Next year, if I get my act together in time, I'm going to kick it up a notch and make Oreo turkey favors. But deep-fried Twinkies is where I draw the line.

And I think the pilgrims would have, too.


"The Carbohydrate Fueled Post Holiday Dinner Mosh Pit: A Cross-Cultural Tradition"

(By the way, you should check out Melanie's food blog - BeanPlate - for frugal, yet delicious recipes that include, how do you say? ingredients slightly more organic than oreos and candy corn. I can personally vouch for the shoyu chicken thighs. Dee-lish.)

And while we're on the subject of food blogs, it wouldn't kill you to also swing by Ezra Pound Cake, which not only has the most kick-ass name ever in the history of food blogs, but good recipes and entertaining writing, as well.

And it Doubles as a Bottle Opener

Before getting engaged, the P-Dawg and I didn't shop around for rings. In fact, I didn't see the proposal coming until he got down on one knee and offered up the diamond that had been burning a hole in his pocket all evening long.

Instead, on the day after he completed Part One of his medical boards, the P-Dawg simply went down to the "old neighborhood," where a family friend who owned a jewelry store/pawn shop sandwiched between a state license bureau and an ALDI supermarket set him up with some kwality gems.

After narrowing the selection down to a few engagement ring/wedding band combo sets, my husband-to-be took them to the license bureau next door, where various employees of the state of Ohio ooooeh, aaahhed, and graciously modeled each one in turn until a decision was finally reached.

To this day, the image of my beloved P-Dawg, weighing the pros and cons of each potential ring choice surrounded by the clucking ladies of the DMV warms the very cockles of my stony heart.

But . . . it's not quite enough to make up for the fact that, though I admire my engagement ring daily, I've never been able to warm up to its companion wedding band. In true ungrateful wench fashion, I feel that I was somehow gypped out of the Hallmark memory in which the P-Dawg and I shop for wedding bands together, skipping, hand-in-hand.

Also, when worn alone, it kind of resembles the tab top on a can of soda:

I know I could have bigger problems.

When the P-Dawg finally learned of my discontent, he offered to buy me a new wedding band at some point in the distant future, when financial circumstances allowed. Our fifth wedding anniversary (which has come and gone) was bandied about as a potential occasion for the big band switcheroo. But eight years later, I'm still wearing the original.

Yesterday morning I was enjoying my second cup of joe when the doorbell rang and I found myself the lucky, albeit accidental recipient of a Thanksgiving bouquet and $250 (TWO-FITTY!) gift card from a local jewelry store.

It wasn't a surprise gift from the P-Dawg. I think it was intended for the previous owners of our home, who moved out of state with no forwarding address. Apparently, they were valued patrons of a fine, non pawn shop type of jewelry establishment - we get a mailboxload full of high end catalogs for them every day.

After briefly debating the ethical issues inherent in keeping the "gift," I showed it to the P-Dawg, who only half jokingly asked me what I wanted to buy with it.

And you know what? After all this time, it may not be a new wedding band, after all.

It turns out I've kind of warmed up to the old tab top ring. This modest little band was infused with a mighty lot of hopes and dreams on that long ago day at the DMV, and I'm not sure I want to trade those in.

Would you?

Party at the Pediatrician's

One of my most abhorred parental-type tasks is taking the kids to the pediatrician. (It's possible the pediatrician is not crazy about seeing me, either.)

I remember how much I hated going as a kid, how I'd all but start convulsing on the spot every time my mom would announce it was time for the yearly checkup, and I just want to spare the J-dog and V-meister the pain.

But I also want to spare them a lifetime of negative associations with doctors' offices and their own father's profession, so if you can ignore me while I wipe down the magazine table with my handy-dandy anti-bacterial cloths, I'll make a great show of being the very picture of maternal composure - like a soccer mom on a trivial errand! - even though my internal voice is screaming "ZOMG kids, let's get the H-E-double hockey stick outta here!"

I'm the mom who backs into the office without touching the doorknob. If the J-dog or V-meister so much as think about grazing a surface contaminated with critters of any kind (and aren't they all?), I'm up in there with my trial size bottle of Purell faster than you can say "Bubonic Plague."

So the V-meister had her yearly check-up today, where she was the epitome of pediatric health and decorum, answering all of Dr. W's questions clearly and succinctly, acing her hearing and vision tests, and enduring two mean booster shots (which she insisted on watching) with nary a flinch. My heart swelled inside of my chest cavity, popped right out onto the floor and bounced into the hallway.

But now that she's five and knows all, I had an internal debate on whether I should give her advanced warning about the shots that she would be getting. As a child, I remember Them springing shots on me without any advance notice, as if this would somehow lessen the blow, and I remember being positively incensed about it. Not only did it hurt like a mother, but it was the seventies, man, and they gave us those shots in the hiney. I'm not saying I wouldn't have carried on as though I were being skinned alive if they'd given me a heads up, I'm just sayin' "respect."

So just when the V-meister thought she was home free, I told her about the certain doom ahead. I said that yes, it would hurt for once second per shot and she could squeeze my arm and yell "Ouch!" as loudly as she wanted to.

And she said, "No thank you, I don't want any shots today," but acquiesced once I explained the cost-benefit involved in getting pinched in the arm a few times versus coming down with measles, mumps, or rubella. Plus, I was totally blocking the exit.

We both left today's appointment relatively unscathed. I'm glad I told the little V-meister she would be getting shots because it made it possible for her to look those bad boys in the eye and say, "Bring it, mofos."

But I'm not entirely certain that I've been forgiven, because she just came inside from raking leaves with her dad, set a bottle full of red winter berries down in front of me, and said, "Mama, I picked these poison berries for your birthday next year."

Everyone Else Is Doing It

Every once in awhile, you'll see a blogger post examples of Google searches that bring readers to their site.

Today I am that blogger.

• "pictures of girls with no shirts on and you can see there boobees"
  
  No b00bee$ 4U until you learnt how to speell, mister.
  
  
• "small yellow tablet with the word rima on it"
  
  You found it!!! I'm going to need that back.

• "I pooped in my snowsuit"
  
  I'm sorry, why don't you go change out of it now? And next time, remember: you don't need to wear your snowsuit to surf the web.
  
  
• "Does the pope have a regular bathroom?"
  
  Let's find out.
  
  
• "My hygienist stabbed me"
  
  So did mine.
  
  
• "flush myself down the toilet"
  
  Go for it, man.
  
  
• "Why faint while exercising?"
  
  Why not?
  
  
• "How to sculpt a falcon"
  
  Very, very carefully.
  
  
• "Rima sucks"
  
  I know you don't mean that.
  
  
• "Rimas feel good"
  
  And they write good, too.
  

Rimarama: 1, Roast: 0

In case anyone is interested, I emerged victorious over my old foe, the pork loin yesterday.

Unfortunately, I was in too much of a tizzy just prior to serving the culinary masterpiece to make any photographic evidence of it.

But tell me, gentle readers - does hostessing stop sucking less once the majority of your dinner guests are able to cut their own food up and successfully guide it mouthwards ninety-nine percent of the time? When they can restrain from flipping their plates over their heads, or from falling apart if the meat happens to be touching the potatoes? Stay seated for longer than five seconds at a time, say?

I'm learning there's a good reason why my grandmother never seemed like the happiest of campers during the holidays, and why my mom used to always choke up in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner, then run outside for a cigarette breath of fresh air.

Because between ignoring palpable family tensions, cutting up meat into bite-sized pieces, wiping sticky little hands and mouths, refereeing disputes over who gets the D0ra cup, and running back and forth from the kitchen for special requests, I had about five minutes to scarf down my repas. And by the time I finished cleaning up, the par-tay was all but over.

I want to accept the family hostessing baton graciously and run with flair. But if truth be told, I really miss the old kids' table days, when my only responsibility was . . . well, to not flip my plate over my head.

The Barefoot Spaz

Tomorrow I'm going to mess up a pork roast. (We're meeting at high noon behind the dumpster.)

Actually, I'm hosting a dinner party in honor of my mother's birthday and anticipating disaster, because that is what I do.

Now that I live in a grown-up house, I have grown-up obligations. These include:

• Cleaning out the lint trap
• Being neighborly
• Winterizing (what is that?)
  
• Hosting holidays.

On the one hand, I'm kind of looking forward to it. On the other: people could go home hungry or die.

The idea of cooking a meal for more than my immediate family members, a meal with expectations, chills me to the very core. I tend to get very spazzy when faced with simultaneous domestic tasks, or when I feel responsible for someone else's good time.

Honest to Pete, I can't boil water and answer the phone at once. How will I greet guests, keep an eye on the roast, and corral the V-meister and J-dog, who both conveniently came down with uber colds tonight?

I scoured the internet for idiot-proof, one-pot meals that don't completely smack of hillbilly, and what I finally came up with was a roast pork loin with fennel from the Barefoot Contessa. I'm going to throw some parsnips in there, too, because I could eat my weight in parsnips roasted with kosher salt and olive oil. But I'm already sweating the timing of the meat vs. vegetables because I haven't tested the recipe and I bought a bigger piece of meat than it calls for. That blasted roast is going to keep me up tonight.

Tomorrow we shall see who's tougher, me or the loin.

Obamarama*

Even though the P-Dawg and I went to sleep way past midnight, I sprung out of bed like a toddler on Christmas morning today.

Watching the celebrations on TV, it struck me that America may have been clinically depressed for the past eight years, but didn't realize just how bad it was until we went and filled our 'script for some Barack Obama, already.

(And Canada whispered, "Thank God she finally got help.")

I zipped around town with a goofy grin and a spring in my step all day.

Considered calling my old frenemy, France, and being all, "Check out my new PRESIDENT, b1tch!" (Je rigole, cherie! Kisses!)

The J-dog toddled about clutching his "O" fridge magnet and periodically shouting "Obama, mama!"

The V-meister, completely unbidden, decorated the wall of her bedroom thusly:


And when the J-dog and I were out playing in the fierce autumn leaves this afternoon, the world, for the moment, looked technicolor bright.

*How could I resist?