I Am the Destroyer (+ Rosemary Apricot Squares)

So look what I made:

I’m guessing some of you might be having identification problems at this point.  I’ll give you a hint.  You’ve probably used it.  It makes a gorgeous roast chicken.   It’s equally lovely with roasted potatoes.  And it's usually substantially greener than this.

No?

Okay.   It’s kind of like one of those Magic Eye puzzles.  You have to sort of squint, and take two steps back, and relax your eyes until it’s juuuuust out of focus, and –

Yes!  That’s right!  It’s thyme!

 

And I killed it.

Mozzarella Done Killt My Pa (+ Raspberry-Chipotle BBQ Chicken Pizza)

Mozzarella Cheese and I are just starting to come to terms with one another again.  This is one of those epic feuds, like the Hatfields and the McCoys.  But with cheese.

Mozzarella cost me a tooth.  An important one, not one of those wisdom teeth they’ll yank anyway.  Side note:  has it ever occurred to you how messed up it is that we call the teeth we’re going to toss “Wisdom” while keeping the ones called “Canines?”  Seems like human nature writ small, methinks.  Anyway, Mozzarella cost me a tooth – and, more importantly, taught me that things fall apart – and that sometimes, those things are you.   And no one should have to live with that kind of knowledge.

Once upon a time, I managed a movie theater: a job which offered no mobility, pay or dignity, but did offer all the free popcorn and fountain beverages you could carry.  At the time it seemed like a good idea.  Which is how I came to spend a full year with a Dixie cup of Cherry Coke in my hand.  Because if you can turn down a free Cherry Coke, you’re a better human than I.  Well, let’s face it, you’re probably already a better human than I.  But now you can point to a specific reason.

Up until that point, I’d been awesome in the tooth department.  Only one small cavity ever.  Dentist?  Drill away, my good man.  Doesn’t bother me at all.  That is, until a year after I started at the theater, when an ongoing toothache drove me to the dentist.  There I was informed that I needed two root canals and twelve smaller cavities filled.  Seriously.  Twelve.

The Best Apologies Come with Bacon (+ Quiche Lorraine)

Mr. Bear is basically a saint.  Especially in bed.

Wait, wait.  Don’t go.  This isn’t about to get inappropriate or weird.  Well, inappropriate anyway.  It’s pretty weird.  But just quirky-weird.  Not “I want to curl up like an armadillo and un-know all that stuff about your toe fetish” weird.  This isn’t about our attempt to act out 50 Shades of Grey with lunchmeat hand puppets, or anything.*  It’s about how I’m wired wrong.  I panic at bedtime.

The night always starts off perfectly normally: some halfhearted debate over what time to go to bed, then teethbrushing.  Jammers.  Pills taken.  Face washed - because, let’s face it, the days when I could expect to sleep in my makeup without waking up looking more or less like a moray eel are over.  Thermostat adjusted.  Doors and windows checked.  Decorative bed pillows banished.  I swear there was a time when I just went to bed when I was tired.  Now it seems like preparation for some Olympic sport.  Which is probably an apt comparison, because what's about to happen is like a triathlon of crazy.

*If someone were to do this and put it up on YouTube, I’m pretty sure we’d all become famous.  Just something to think about.

I Apologize for Your Lack of Ice Cream (+ Cherry Stracciatella Ice Cream)

They say that animals can tell when a really hard winter is coming.  Squirrels hoard acorns.  Chipmunks gather seeds.  Beavers store away…you know, whatever it is that beavers eat. 

We must have one doozy of a winter coming, because I’ve been stockpiling ice cream.

This week, while searching for a particularly elusive package of bacon, I discovered that my two freezers, combined, contain 6 pints of superpremium ice cream, four half-gallons of mediumpremium ice cream, about a quart’s worth of various homemade ice cream concoctions, and one sad quart of rainbow sherbet, about which Mr. Bear has been heard to say “All the flavors are good, but I like green the best.”  The fact that my husband thinks “green” is a flavor is so upsetting that we’re just going to move on until I can figure out how to discuss it calmly.

For those of you who are mathematically challenged (and don’t think that I didn’t have to resort to Google Measurements for this myself), that’s 26 pints of ice cream.

That’s approximately 26 POUNDS of ice cream.

That’s three babies worth of ice cream.

In the time it took you to read this, I probably ate your baby and those of both your neighbors.  Assuming they’re roughly newborn and made of ice cream, of course.  Don’t take it personally.  You just happen to make delicious offspring.  Really, you should be proud of yourself.  You could go into business.

How My Husband Definitely Did Not Get Carjacked (+ Sausage, Cheese and Basil Lasagna)

Mr. Bear totally got carjacked, guys.

Well, except he didn’t.  But you can see how I could get those things confused.

It starts with the neighbors.  In the grand scheme of things, they’re not particularly awful.  I don’t think they’re cooking meth, and I’ve never had to ask them to turn down their stereo.  But they do have a dog.  And I like dogs, so put down your torches and pitchforks and hear me out.  The problem is not that this is a dog.  The problem is that this is a “When the family leaves me alone in the house, I bark without pause for three hours” dog. 

Because our apartment complex has a 20-pound pet weight limit, we’re used to barking.  The kind of dogs that meet that requirement are 60% hair and 40% yap.  But Downstairs Dog has clearly been bred for the purpose of destroying other dogs on the field of battle.  He’s easily three times the weight limit, and his barks have a resonance unlike anything I’ve ever heard.  When Downstairs Dog barks, birds fall out of the sky and plants wither.