channel surfing.

channel surf |ˈ ch anl sərf | (verb): the act of conversing and changing the subject a minimum of 2 or 3 times with an accompanying (and relevant) anecdote or fact, ultimately returning to the main topic.

See also digression, tangent

This word may come up sometimes (because I channel surf often), so I figured I'd be proactive and define it for you now.

Until next time..

hap birt.

February 6 marked my half birthday. During the Soup Bowl Party I invited everyone to sing to me because half birthdays are equally as important as birthday-birthdays. (Each milestone in life should be celebrated. Life is to be enjoyed, so celebrate when you get the chance!)

I found a wonderfully festive candle, lit it and let the singing begin. Unfortunately, I prematurely blew out the candle because I was laughing. No worries though. My loyal posse patiently sang through another chorus.

Delicious homemade Oreo baked by Natalie topped off with a festive, recycled candle.

Calculate when your half birthday is and resolve to celebrate it this year.

Don't be fooled that half birthdays are half as fun as regular birthdays. As mentioned earlier, that is false. I find events like these are simple pick-me-ups that remind me that one can experience happiness each day.

Everything good is worth celebrating; I am worth celebrating.

And so are you.

soup bowl sunday.

Today I hosted the second annual Soup Bowl Party. It was a more intimate group than last year and consisted of Natalie, Ben, Jake, Melanie, Amber and myself. In lieu of watching the Super Bowl (overrated...) we enjoyed homemade soup bowls and chicken noodle soup (a splendid alternative).

I hit a speed bump in the creation becuase couldn't remember the ingredient ratios for the noodles. However, I was fortunate enough to reach Dad (the noodle expert) just before he boarded his flight today. (This wouldn't be an issue if I would just write down the noodle recipe!) My timing was perfect, as were the noodles.

(Hand-kneaded bread bowl filled with hot, homemade chicken noodle soup)

Thank you, Dad, for the wonderful recipe. And thank you for football and my lack of desire to watch it. This American pastime has inspired my annual get-together.

tasty paper.

Today my coworker offered me some popcorn. I had a small bowl and continued working. But the enticing smell lingered from below as the empty bag sat in the trash can. Even though the former residents of the bag were no longer there, it wasn't actually empty. The salty, buttery residue remained.

Sounds disgusting, right?

Wrong.

Let me take you back about 14 years when after school snacks consisted mainly of pretzels and popcorn. I'll be the first to tell you about my food phases (ramen noodles, Western Family waffles, HyVee cookies, baked potatoes with beans, etc.) but this one tops the list as being a shameful vice.

Although it wasn't allowed, I would wait for the kitchen to be unoccupied so I could reach into the trash can, tear open the popcorn bag, and lick the bag clean of its salty, buttery, clog-my arteries-in-a-minute excess that clung to the paper. It was a salty lollipop, and I enjoyed every second of it.

By the time the deed was done the trash can would be filled with notecard sized strips of popcorn bag, damp and licked perfectly clean, fully used to the measure of its creation.

(Although this is not the bag from today, this photo perfectly illustrates the salty butter that tempts my taste buds from time to time.)

I am happy to report that I refrained today and that I have at least an ounce of self control. My arteries are pretty happy about it, too.

a corny story - part II: the battle.

Wanting to redeem myself and having an insatiable desire to satisfy my intense craving, I reentered the kitchen. I prepared the cutting board to begin the process again. But something caught my attention. Something black that normally wasn't there.

My mind told me it was a leaf that happened to trail inside since the door is so close. But for whatever reason I looked anyway. I'm so glad I did.

It was a black widow spider.

(My unexpected, unwanted pet.)

I screamed. (You would too if you had been there!) I scrambled for my phone so I could call someone--anyone! I called home and told Dad, "There's a black widow spider in my kitchen!" Luckily I said it twice before I got off the phone (I ran to my neighbor to recruit help) because he thought I said, "There'a fire in my kitchen!" (Those are two very different situations, but both equally dangerous in my eyes.)

With my neighbor we set up the vacuum to suck it into extinction. But that was not to be. The vacuum by all appearances worked, but there was absolutely no suction in the hose.

I screamed again as the spider crawled under the shelf. I had made it angry, and I was convinced it was plotting its revenge.

My neighbor took the items off the shelf so we could turn it over and finish the deed. Meanwhile, I selected the perfect shoe to murder the arachnid and put on jeans (as I had bare legs in my dress) so the spider wouldn't attack and have a suitable place to sink its fangs.

It had situated itself in the center of the base, coincidentally next to four (yes, four!) egg sacks. My heart was racing. I raised my hand, and lowered the shoe. (Ok, that's a total euphemism. I beat down on that spider like nobody's business.)

(Note the black splotch in the middle & the white fluff balls full of would-be spiders. Bleh!)

I am happy to say that my evening is now officially black widow free (at least to my knowledge) and I will sleep well tonight, victorious.

a corny story - part I.

Before you read this post, you must first take a short placement test.

1-Are you capable of turning on a stove/oven?

2-Are you literate?

If you answer yes to both, then you are capable of cooking or baking.

________________________________________

Occasionally my former roommate would make creamed corn, and whenever she did my taste buds rejoice. Tonight my taste buds wanted to experience that again, especially since my dinner didn't turn out the way I had planned. (Substituting ingredients doesn't always work, unfortunately.)

The recipe instructs to place the ingredients in a crock pot and let it cook on high heat for two to four hours. Hours! I had the ingredients and the appetite, but seriously lacked in the patience. I nixed the crock pot plan and pulled out a pot. Crock pots are for convenience, so it shouldn't affect the outcome. Or so I thought.

I placed the ingredients in the pot and turned the stove on high. The recipe instructed to not stir until everything had cooked for 2 hours at least. I disregarded this because I was worried that the corn (being on the bottom) would burn. After 20 minutes, I heard an ominous crackling from the pot.

Logic would soon confirm itself to me as burned, black corn appeared when I mixed the pot's contents. My creamed corn was ruined!

(As you can see, the corn next to the can is neither sweet nor golden.)

I learned a sad lesson this evening. Sad only because it was avoidable and obvious.

________________________________________

Shall we revisit the placement test from earlier?

1-Are you capable of using a stove/oven?

Before this evening I would have answered a solid yes. Unfortunately I will have to reconsider at the moment.

2-Are you literate?

Literacy is more than just knowing how to read and write. It is "having or showing education or knowledge, typically in a specified area." I am not recipe literate--at least for right now. It will take a few successes before I can regain that title. Bon appetit, and more importantly bonne chance. (I'm going to need it!)

hand sauna.

I may have chosen the wrong career path.

My hands are ice cold as soon as I settle down at my desk to begin the work day. I rub my hands to get the blood flowing and occasionally hold them against my neck for extra warmth, but nothing does the trick. Even the bathroom conspires against me by drowning my hands in frigid water even though it's cranked as hot as it can go.

So I've been thinking about occupations that could provide warmth for cold hands sufferers. It's so obvious! A dental hygienist. (I say the hygienist and not the dentist because dentists are usually the ones that deliver the bad news, and who would want that? "Well, your teeth have been harboring delicacies of mass sugar consumption. It looks like we're going to have to infiltrate." I digress...)

I thought about this as I got my teeth cleaned when I went home for Christmas. The hygienist was scraping here and brushing there, making my teeth beautiful. Meanwhile, I was thinking, "I hope there isn't anything in my nose...I hope I'm not breathing too much on her...but how can I not breathe on her when her hands are in my mouth?"

: : Lightbulb moment : :

Her hands were probably so warm! My mouth, a slightly-below-average temperature at 97.8 degrees F must have felt like a tropical vacation for her hands! Forget cavities--her hands were warm. Talk about job satisfaction! (At least in my book.)

Have you ever wondered why dentist appointments seem like a torture session of never-ending poking, scraping and who knows what else? It all makes sense now. It's because the hygienists are stalling. And why wouldn't they when their hands are enjoying an appointment in a mini sauna?