About that...

First off, you know when I said hopefully it'd wouldn't be six months before I wrote again? Yeah, oops. Sorry about that. Secondly, you remember how I said that Adam and I probably wouldn't buy a house. Yeah, we did. I've been regretting that decision fairly regularly over the last couple of months we've lived here, but I do still love it. I feel almost adult-like for owning a home.

Part of why I haven't posted for so long--beyond the laziness, of course--is because we were without a regular internet connection from the day we fully moved (28th of August; we took possession August 15th) until October 1st. I'm still so unbelievably angry about the multitude of fuck-ups that caused that to happen that I don't want to write about it, but we were supposed to be connected on September 4th. The only good thing to come out of it is that we've got 5 free months from the company.

Beyond the laziness and lack of internet there's been the dealing with the house. Turns out the previous owner was a lying son of a bitch, which, while not uncommon, is frustrating and has cost us (and by us, I mean the awesome relatives who have bought us housewarming presents) nearly £1500 so far. And it's not done yet. Our solicitor (who happens to be a co-worker's mother, a mistake I will not make again), so far as I can tell, did not even do the most basic aspects of the job for which we paid her. So far as we can tell, the damp that was found by the inspector in the new house (a key reason why we wanted to move out of the Lewisham Road flat) won't be covered by the damp-proofing guarantee because that wall was not treated. Of course we chose to purchase the house knowing about this, because we were told there was a guarantee, and we asked our solicitor to send us a copy of that so that we could confirm that we could have it repaired under the guarantee (i.e. not out of our pocket). But instead of sending us the full details at that time, we just got the page of the guarantee. Not, you know, a copy of the work that was done, which we received about 3 weeks after we moved in. Awesome. Now I have to ask an ombudsman if we have some kind of case against our solicitor, and might possibly be suing our solicitor for gross incompetence. She also couldn't tell us who owns the plot of land next to us. Adam and I found that information, along with the date of sale, in the same pile of paperwork that included the specifics of the damp-proofing. Did I mention it's my co-worker's mother?

There are pictures of the house, many, MANY pictures, but I have to get them off the tablet to share them. Since we still have large quantities of boxes in the house, that's easier said than done since I can't find the SD card adaptor, but I just managed to guilt-trip myself into finding an alternate (and in fact easier) way to get them onto my computer, so I'll post those separately.

As for the regrets of buying, it's not the costs of replacing all the shit that lying Simon said worked (the dishwasher, the cooker, basically any kitchen appliance), or even the incompetence of our solicitor, but, once again, our neighbours. Always the neighbours. Woo. We live in a back-to-back end-terrace, which for my British friends, probably makes sense, but is rather incomprensible to those who live in a society where duplexes aren't that common. Row, or terraced, housing means a string of homes that are all part of one building. Generally, they go all the way through the property, so you have both front and back walls of the house, but your side walls are shared with a neighbour. Like a duplex or a triplex, but usually quite a few more than that. End-terraced homes are more expensive, because they only share one wall. But because ours is a back-to-back, we actually don't go all the way through, and we have two shared walls (it's a very bizarre row). We also have no garden/yard, which is fine, but will make it more difficult when we get a dog (for we WILL get a dog. Or two.).

The neighbour on the side seems to be a single mother with a 4-5 year old. Her preferred method of parenting is to scream at her child. Constantly. Also, she tries to reason with the child, as in she tries to use logic to win arguments. With a 4-5 year old. Because that'll work even better than screaming. The kid is probably a little shithead, but anyone would be if they're constantly screamed at by their mother. It's some of the worst parenting I can imagine short of physically harming a child.

The neighbours on the back side are big on shouting as well, but that's mostly because their music is turned up so loudly that they have to shout to be heard. This applies also when the music isn't on, since it's clearly made them deaf. Also, they listen to club music. That's it. Bad dance music, never anything else. And they watch Family Guy quite loudly in what we think is their bedroom (anyway, it's next to our bedroom, and since the homes should be roughly mirrored, it would make sense). Also, they seem to think it's ok to blast music and have stupidly loud--and just stupid--and drunk people around until well after 2am. Yes, it may be the weekend, but some of us have to be in to work by 7am some weekends. Touch wood, that seems to have lessened a bit, but we'll see.

The good news is that the neighbours on the other side of screamy mum are pretty cool. Will and Rachel (I might be making their names up a bit) are very nice, come into work all the time because they like the Bakery, and Will is a brewer (complete with awesome red beard). He actually brews for a living, when he's not setting up new breweries or organizing some of the awesome local-ish beer festivals (including the fairly major Indy Man, and he also helped start up Port Street Beer House in Manchester, which Adam and I love). He told us about one that he just set up in Leeds, and Adam and I went to it and had a blast. So Will's ok, and Rachel seems lovely (she doesn't come in as often; I think she has a real job), and their dog is quietly cute. Good people. We hope to get to know them better, and hope they like board games!

I should go shower. I am dusty from working in a bakery, and tired from making 14 cakes and a double batch of sablé dough today. As a sidenote, that's not a cake record for me. Also, that's not as much as it sounds, since I only made 5 types. I've done more and more variety, but I'm not feeling well today, so I'm rather impressed I got that many. Though if a pan hadn't gone missing, I would have made 15 cakes, 3 each of 5 varieties. As it stands, I made 3 Apple and Olive Oil, 3 Tunisian Orange and Almond, 3 Chocolate Guinness, 3 Kladdakaka (gooey Swedish chocolate torte), and 2 ginger loaves (don't know where the third pan went). Over the course of the week, at least 2 more cakes will be made (baked Polish cheesecake, which I hate making), and probably another batch of ginger cakes. Lemon cake may also be made, and I might suck it up and try to harvest a bit more rhubarb for another couple of Rhubarb Polenta cakes. In theory, all those cakes should be cut into 10, and yes, we sell all of those cakes in a week. Pretty cool, really.

Photos tomorrow, I hope. It's late.

Pie!

So I know it's been a bit since I've posted (excepting the reading list--Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, by the way, is a great read, and makes good ol' Jane Austen much more interesting--sorry Levi, I know that's blasphemy, but . . . ), and I wasn't sure if I was going to post about my recent triumph in the workplace--no, it's not a job yet--which I should probably not blog about (even though I was and am totally in the right).

Wow.  That's a terrible sentence.

So instead I decided to blog about pie.  Not the infamous Stevie/Natalie incident (which actually isn't that interesting, other than it more or less confirmed what I've always thought about Natalie), and not the number pi (which also isn't that interesting if you're not into math and stuff, but I know it starts 3.14159) but the actual, edible pie.  Savoury or sweet, that's what I'm talking about.

Most of you know that I love food and like to cook.  Some of you may even know that my maternal grandmother used to make the best pie crust in the land.  Adam argues that his mother does, but he's never had Grandma Mary's, who has sadly retired from cooking.  Pam's pie crust is also good.  Mom makes pretty good pie crust.  But I make angry.  Or it makes me angry, rather.  Only once have I been able to get a pie crust to hold together, and it was so tough that it wasn't really worth the effort.  Pie crust also nearly ended my marriage in divorce about 3.5 months after we got married.  Adam got angry at the pie crust he was making, I made suggestions, and it went downhill from there.

So about 14 months on from the near divorce, we were jonesing so bad for a pie that we could no longer ignore the urges.  We split the duties up, since Adam wanted corned beef pie, and well, I'm American and can't bring myself to boil meat.  Ever.  I don't care what the final result tastes like.  So Adam made the filling, and I nutted up and attempted a pie crust.

Mom swears by her food processor.  She knows it makes the crust a little tougher, but it also means that she no longer swears for 3 straight hours the day before Thanksgiving (3-4 pies: apple, berry, pumpkin, and sometimes pecan).  The crust is only minimally tougher, so the trade-off is well worth it.

I, on the other hand, do not own a food processor.  Or a blender.  Or a stand mixer (I have a fake one, but it's mostly a really awesome hand mixer--thanks Pam and Tony!).  Or a stick blender.*  Basically, I own most of these things in the states (scratch that, I own all of them), and we're not planning on staying here in England for too much longer, so it's hard to justify the cost of these things when they're just going to go to friends or a charity shop.  That means I had to make pie crust the Grandma Mary way: by hand.

So I pulled my recipe out (that's not the Grandma Mary way, but I've only made pie crust about half a dozen times, so I couldn't remember proportions), and very carefully ignored the wholemeal flour when I went to get my ingredients.  I was not about to push my luck.  So two cups of white flour, 152 grams of margarine and butter (2/3 cup), and about 5 tablespoons of cold water later, I had a ball of dough.  The butter/marg mix was because I didn't have nearly enough marg in the house, and I don't even know if you can get Crisco or the equivalent here.  I cut the ball in half, weighed the halves, and then actually made them equal (I was only off by about 50 grams . . . sheesh).  I stuck them in bags, then shoved them in the fridge.  And prayed.

But low and behold, when the time came to roll them out, it was lovely and beautiful and easy.  Both crusts held together perfectly, and they were fairly thin.  Remembering something Kristan said she does (but she makes oil crusts, so I'm not sure she can be trusted!), I greased my pie pan lightly with some vegetable oil.  Probably unnecessary, but since the crusts worked so well, I didn't want to ruin it by them not coming out for some reason.  I even had excess crust, which I rolled back into a ball and put in the fridge, and made cheese tartlets the next day (enh.  Don't use mild cheddar, use sharp.  Sadly, we didn't have any.).

In short, the pie was tasty and delicious, even if Adam forgot to season the filling (the gravy made up for it though, because I loves me the Worcestershire sauce).  The pie crust was fairly tender, and very buttery tasting, which was nice.  It went well enough that I'm willing to nut up again, this time for a hamburger pie.  Mmm . . . white-trash food.

It's sad that I'm nearly 31 years old, and am still unsure of having mastered the pie crust.  At least I've mastered pizza dough!

*I made soup the other day that looked like sick after a night at the pub and a post-drinking curry, but it tasted fine--a stick blender would have solved the visual, however.

My Hippy Ways

First let me start by saying that moving to England from Eugene has really taken a toll on my hippyesque ways.  I know that's probably not very surprising, given the nature of Eugene, but it's hit me in some rather painful ways.  For example, in Eugene, when I had my parents' money to shop with (hi Mom!), it was a lot easier to be organic, all-natural, local, sustainable, and humane with food purchases.  Thankfully, Mom and Dad are pretty into that movement as well, so there was less cringing at 2.5 times the price for organic rather than "conventional" bell peppers and the like.  (Sidenote: Why is the spread of toxic fertilizers and pesticides considered conventional?  Surely it's more conventional, given history, to be organic?  There's nothing particularly conventional about poisoning people, unless you're in Russia, mystery novels, or various royal families throughout history.)  And though milk from DairyMart/Lochmead Farms isn't technically organic, they're local and very good about their practices.  Long's Meat Market is superb--I'm pretty sure Mike goes out and meets a lot of the animals he'll eventually be selling.

Over here, though, food purchasing is constricted by two (well, three) things.  First, we don't gots a lot of money.  And we're cheap.  It's a combination--since we don't earn as much as we'd like, we save every penny.  I spend more on food than Adam would by a long shot (since Adam does the shopping, that's a second constricting factors), since I think the quality of what goes in me is important, but even still, I make choices to not buy organic much of the time.  I also end up buying a lot of apples from say, New Zealand.  That's not exactly local (most of our produce comes from climates that don't suck, like Spain, or well, anywhere but here).  The third problem is that options are limited around here--not huge population, few stores--and people are cheap (welcome to Yorkshire), so organic choices are limited, as is, well, selection.  And usually the organic stuff is slightly dodgy looking, as is the "weird" stuff.  Hell, for the first time since I've moved here, I've actually seen uncooked, unpeeled beets in Morrisons (no greens attached, though).  I've only seen that one other time, and that was at the farm shop (the closest to hippy around here).

The biggest concession I've made Adam make is that we get nearly all our meat from the farm shop.  That's what it sounds like; a shop on a farm; they sell eggs from their chickens (they also will sell you feed so you can feed the chickens yourself--what a great scam!), the chickens themselves, and all the beef, pork, lamb they raise.  They also make their own sausages (tasty, though we do get ours from Morrisons).  They also sell some produce, some they grow, some they don't.  And they have beer, wine, an olive bar, and some random other crap.  It's not perfect, but at least it's local, we believe humane (the chickens certainly are well treated), and should be reasonably organic and sustainable.  The meat and eggs sure taste better.

I've increased my hippyness in some ways, I suppose, though.  I walk or take public transit a lot of places.  Granted, that's mostly due to our not having a car, and Tony pollutes for us, since he takes us shopping every week and runs occasional errands for us (greatly appreciated).  So I guess that about balances out.

What this post was really supposed to be about, however, was my new neti pot and my reusable sea sponges and panty liners.  I've really broadened my hippy horizons there.  I got the neti pot for two reasons.  First, I got a horrid cold twice in about 6 weeks, so bad the second time that I lost my voice (Adam was thrilled.  Jackass.)  Out of sheer desperation, I snorted some water into my sinuses through my nose.  As painful as that was, it made a world of difference, and I started getting better almost instantly.  The second reason is that I mentioned that incident to Kristan, and she told me she had a neti pot and swore by it.  It's taken some time for me to get used to it, but now that I'm getting all the water draining out of my nose (I don't think I was there, at first), my nose is stuffed less often, and I'm even hearing a little better (once I got the water back OUT of my Eustachian tubes).  Even if I'm doing a half-assed job--which I think I am--I'm sure I'm cleaning gunk out of there that's better off not there.  And if Adam doesn't stop snoring soon, I'm neti potting him somehow.

My really happy awesome purchase, however, falls into the potential category of "too much information."  Years ago, my friend Kat mentioned that you could get sea sponges--yes, the things that live in the ocean--for reusable tampons.  I don't think she had any, but the idea never went away for me, because I hate how much tampons cost.  I mentioned it several months back to Kristan (who has also gone quite hippy, which makes me smile), who immediately told me where to get some, and then told me to tell her what I thought.  So I got two sponges, and three months later when my period came around again (thank you, The Pill), I read the instructions, and ventured into the unknown world of reusable dead things in my hoo-hah.  In short, they're super-comfortable, and they work just as well as cotton tampons.  If you're in private, you can just rinse it out and stick it back in (I wouldn't in a public bathroom, since I doubt others want to see it, so just shove it in a plastic bag in your purse).  Plus, they're sustainable, organic, unlikely to cause TSS, comfortable (did I mention they're comfortable?), and, if this wasn't already clear, reusable for quite a long time (estimated 3-6 months or longer).  I used only one for my entire period, and just rinsed it a couple of times a day.  You can also use two at once, I guess, or use them for contraceptives with a spermicide.  The only downside to the sponges is that they have no removal string...I got used to that, but it takes some work.  You can sew a piece of dental floss (I think they said waxed, but I'm not sure) into it if you're nervous, but I was more nervous about tearing the sponge than it getting stuck.  I work off of the principle of "what goes up must come down."  And we only had mint dental floss.

I also mentioned reusable panty liners.  They're a bit weird (probably because I never use pantyliners or pads), but I love the concept.  Cotton or flannel material with a waterproof middle, and snaps so they function like winged pads, which is what holds them in place.  I got cotton, but I think I'll go with flannel in the future.  The best bit about them though (besides having fun patterns and being reusable--just chuck them in the washer), is that they were a good length.  Most pantyliners I've found make you decide if you want to possibly leak off the front, or off the back.  These are long enough you don't have to choose.  Plus, since they're not adhesived on, you can actually slide them around to get them just right.

What all of this really amounts to though is Adam mocking me because I'm a hippy.  But then, so does everyone else around here.  Apparently "hippy" is the new "liberal."  But I'm not "progressive," I'm liberal, so I'm happy being a hippy.

Catastrophe, Catastrophe

Of many sorts.  Here's the short version (seriously, I'm going to abridge it dramatically), and why I really haven't posted in a bit.

Work: I've been working many hours and many days.  Illness and injuries have abounded, as have holidays.  Most recently, my coworker's husband died (the funeral was today, as a matter of fact).  Karen was on holiday for a week, but instead of heading out of town as planned, her husband had surgery the Monday they were to leave.  She kept the week off, since a week of not being at work is better than a week of being at work.  Sadly though, about 6 days after his surgery, he died; he had had a heart attack (which I presume was brought on by complications from the surgery, but obviously I'm neither a doctor nor the coroner).  Stuart was only 53.  So Karen was out two weeks ago for holiday, last week, this week, and what we presume will be at least two more weeks.  Poor Karen is not doing well, which is unsurprising, but still quite sad.  Additionally, Carmel is going on holiday starting Monday.  That leaves me as the only shop staff for our shop for the next 2.5 weeks.  That means 6 days of work a week for me.  I will be sent help, at least.  But the next person who tells me to think of the money will get a foot in the ass.  I have thought of the money, and it ain't enough.

Computer: To make matters worse, my laptop (Geoff), had a catastrophic failure on Sunday.  I know what caused it, but I don't know why.  For those keeping score, this is the second time in 15 months that I've forced a shut down on Geoff (ie. holding down the power button until it shuts off, something you only do when you have no other options), and the second time in 15 months that it has caused a massive hardware failure.  Last year, it physically broke my hard drive.  Not a "oh, you somehow corrupted the data on the drive" failure, but a "the spindle broke and if you want the data, send it to a data recovery company with a clean room, and pay them about $1500 for it."  This time I'm not getting the "sad Mac" face or folder with a question mark (which means it can't find the boot disc, probably because you corrupted or broke it).  I'm getting nothing but a gray screen (so the monitor isn't toast).  That implies to me that either the logic board is fried, or the processor blew.  If it's the logic board, I'll get a new computer, because replacing it is half the cost of the computer (and they probably replaced my hard drive last year with another faulty one anyway), and I'm betting the same will go for the processor.  If I'm lucky and it's the hard drive though (heh, "luck"), I'll buy one myself and replace it myself.  And I'll get a solid state drive this time, because when there are no moving parts, they cannot break.  Note: I'm not saying solid state drives can't be trashed, just that there are no moving parts to them, meaning spindles cannot break, thereby screwing you out of 9 months of data (how long I'd had the computer before the drive broke.  I now have a nice 1 terabyte external drive on which everything is backed up.  Sadly, Adam's computer cannot access it, stranding me without my videos and music).

So yes.  This is why I haven't posted much.  I've been working loads, not wanting to talk about work for a variety of reasons, and now I'm computerless.  Or to be accurate, using Adam's windows desktop.  And if I end up buying *another* friggin' new computer, it won't be until we're in Oregon in November, so this state of being could last a while.  Plus, Adam's not thrilled, because, despite his complaints about how and when I use my laptop, he also likes it and uses it.  Mine is on whenever I'm home, so it's always easy and quick to look something up, whereas he doesn't like leaving the desktop on, and it's not portable, so it's not as handy to look up porn stuff on IMDb.

Oh well.  I might be getting a MacBook Pro this time (MacBooks don't come with solid state drives, only the Pros do).  I fear I may also waste $300 on an extended warranty, which I hate doing, but it's shown me this time that I need to.

Righto.  I must make tea (supper for those who don't hear it called tea all the time) for tomorrow.  Butternut squash stuffed with lardon, onions, mushrooms, and apples.  And probably some cheddar, since we don't have cream cheese.

More wedding photos, finally

If only iPhoto, Blogger, and the Apple Finder would play nicely, posting wedding photos--or any photos, really--wouldn't be such a chore.  I'm sorry it's been so long since I posted any wedding photos over on the photo blog, but a few more are up now, this time of the actual wedding ceremony.  There are so few posted, even though Mark took so many, because the ceremony was only 2.5 - 3 minutes long.  The single longest part was the poem and poor Judge Zennaché's stumbling over it.  Yeah, e.e. cummings is awesome, but a bitch to try and read out loud.  And I even rewrote the poem so he didn't have to try and decipher the e.e. cummings unique formatting.  The poem (with original formatting) and full text of the wedding ceremony can be found in this post, and the wedding photo blog is here.

And now, back to work.  Semi-literally.  I'm working every day at the moment (until Thursday, when I've got holiday time booked to go to Leicester for the weekend), and was last week and the couple of weeks before that, between other coworker's holidays, other coworker's illnesses, and now larger illnesses and alleged injuries (alleged because we've been getting rather conflicting information and info that doesn't make sense).  So since I'm at work all the time, I have to make food for Adam when I'm not at work so he can eat it when I am.  If that makes sense.  If not, I have to make tomorrow's lunch now (our main meal of the day, and tomorrow is scalloped potatoes and ham, with pineapple-brown sugar-mustard sauce).  And tonight's supper (pork chops, applesauce, baked potato, and whatever veg I decide to throw together).  And sandwich filler (tinned pork, which I will turn into my version of deviled ham--it involves BBQ sauce, amongst other things) for Adam to eat at work this week.  No rest for the wicked, which may be why I pass out and take naps when I get home from work.  Only three days this week, which is nice, but three long days.  Long days of people asking about my accent and my finding various ways to politely tell them to fuck off.  Or less polite, in some cases.

Life, Frustrated

So I was, impressively enough, not even slightly hungover on Sunday, after my boozefest of 8+ drinks on Saturday.  As Adam was quick to point out, those drinks were spread out over about 8 hours--we are nothing if not thorough about our drinking--but even so, quite impressive, at least to my mind.  Sadly, it was shockingly expensive for the two of us to down 16 or 18 (maybe 17) drinks over the course of the evening, and I shudder to think what the caloric count was.  I will say that I was slightly weak on Sunday, but that was due to a distinct lack of water.  I must have drank some before I went to bed, but when I woke up about 3:30am, I chugged a litre's worth then, and again about 5:30.  And 7:00.  And so on.  Well, I suppose it wasn't a full litre each time, but at least half of one.  All I know is I filled the nalgene bottle up every time, though it wasn't always empty.

Tea went well.  The salmon I made for Tony went over a treat (not for Pam; she had chicken), and Adam and I both like the recipe, so yay.  If you care, salmon fillet with a bit of lemon juice, loads of brown sugar, and lots of dill (or tarragon, but we used dill).  Bake until done.  Do not overcook your fish.  You can also do it on the grill--extra tasty--but don't be so crazy as to think you can put it straight on the grill.  Sugar + Fire = Very Large, Very Smelly Fire - Fish.  Put foil down first, or a (soaked) cedar plank or something.  The carrots also went over a treat.  Pam, besides disliking fish, also dislikes cooked carrots, but she tried 2 out of politeness.  Or maybe because I told her we tossed them in butter and brown sugar.  Brown sugar makes everything better.

In the frustration realm, I'm dealing with the US side having all their goals written off due to shitty reffing, England probably advancing (thank His Noodly Appendage that I'm not working tomorrow), and the world's worst package delivery company outside of "that bloke over there."  I'm slightly less frustrated by that one now, since part of Adam's birthday present just arrived, but the Father's Day present Adam ordered for Tony is scheduled for redelivery--AGAIN--tomorrow.  They don't ring the flat, they don't leave delivery attempt slips, and they lie.  Tracking told me that yesterday, when there was always someone in the flat, they attempted delivery at 8:56pm, but were back in the Leed's depot by 9:01pm.  We do not live 5 minutes from Leeds.  Also, they're supposed to attempt deliveries between 7am and 7pm, so that's weird as well.  Sheesh.  Oh well, at least Adam's present is here.  We'll deal with Tony's again if it's not delivered tomorrow (again, someone should be here the whole day).  Sometimes I really hate how Titanic is set up.  We're supposedly "secure," but the doors never shut properly to activate the maglock, we have no stairs that we can use to get up to our flats (they're all fire stairs, so they're locked from inside the stairwells), which would be "secure" except that when the power goes out, the lifts shut down, meaning you can't get home unless someone propped open the stairwell doors (hi, I do).  Plus, we don't have a concierge desk like we were promised, so we can't get packages, because delivery people can't get in, and even if they do, they have no place to leave the packages.  Argh!

But I'm buying more beer making supplies tomorrow.  Yay!  Third batch should--if the heat breaks and then stays cooler for a week or two--go in the fermenter in a week and a half.  Go beer!

EDIT:  What the hell?!  Somehow, by virtue of a miracle, both England and the US are through to the next round.  Though I'm still pissed about the shitty reffing the US has faced.  Two perfectly valid goals, wiped off because--as I'm starting to think--the refs don't want the US through.  I don't see that being the case, but it's certainly starting to get questionable.

Sunday Review #7: Homemade Pizza

In a slight departure this week, I'm reviewing food, not books or movies or TV shows, primarily because I haven't read anything new that I can reasonably review (mid-series books), I don't feel like reviewing Burn Notice or In Plain Sight, and any movies we've watched haven't really been worth my time. So Saturday's supper it is (along with other random pizza recipes).

I've used the same pizza dough recipe since I've started making homemade pizza. I got it from Mom, who got it from a book she was given at her retirement party (several years ago). It's not the best recipe out there, I'm sure, but it's good, and easy enough to make. Easier, if you have a stand mixer (I miss Mommy's Kitchen-Aid!), and I've had to modify the amount of yeast and raising time, since I think the yeast I get here in the UK is more powerful than the stuff Mom and I use in the States. But it's straightforward and flexible, and pretty forgiving. If anyone wants the recipe, I can send it on, or post it here, provided I can find all the citations. I can also add my minor changes.

Topping-wise, I've made some weird-ass pizzas in my time. One that looked freaky and sounded really strange, but was great, was a "breakfast" pizza. The sauce was a mix of sour cream, salsa, and ketchup, topped with seasoned tater-tots (already baked), pieces of bacon (already fried), and a couple of sunny-side up eggs. And cheese (mozzarella and cheddar, but jack/pepperjack would work too). The egg(s) should be fried while the rest of the pizza is in the oven, and laid over the top when it comes out. This pizza looks really odd, but it tasted really great. Or at least Mom, Dad, and I thought so. Adam is afraid of the concept, and I haven't bothered to look and see if I can buy tater-tots here. I suppose homemade potato wedges would work as well.

The pizzas we had on Saturday we had made variants of before. Actually, pretty much every time we make pizza (almost every week, but sometimes we skip a week) I make a BBQ pizza. It's dead easy: I don't have to make a pizza sauce, and instead just mix some of the ultra-cheap Morrison's brand BBQ sauce (which is surprisingly tasty) with a bit of cream...or sour cream, or milk, or ricotta--you know, something dairy to cut it--and spread that on the crust. Top it with some thin sliced onions (red, if I have one), some bell peppers if I have them (yellow, given a choice), some sliced mushrooms, and some nice fried bacon. Mozzarella, a bit of bleu cheese (mmm....), and if I bother, a bit of real parmesan (not that crap in a can, which has other uses) or a tasty aged hard gouda. I even had pineapple chunks on it Saturday--they were left over from something I made earlier in the week. I suppose you could leave them off, but people who don't like fruit on their pizza can bite me. You know who you are...

Adam made the other pizza, as is usual in our house. The recipe makes two 9 inch crusts (or the square equivalent...I can't seem to stretch them in a decent circle, so squarish it is), so I top one, and Adam gets the other. Last week he went a little...uh, ape shit, on the pizza, but he perfected the recipe this week. A quasi-curry pizza, he mixed some mango chutney with some crunch peanut butter (he hates peanut butter, by the way) and some of Morrison's pre-mixed Thai Curry powder (they mix curry, coconut milk powder, garlic, coriander, and so forth so you don't have to) for the sauce, and somehow made it so creamy and light and delicious. On top of that delicious sauce, he put onions, mushrooms, yellow bell pepper (needed some red for colour as well), pineapple, and mozzarella cheese. It was delicious.

Oh, and we topped both pizzas with a bit of fresh cilantro when they came out of the onion.

So this wasn't really a review, I suppose. Oh well. Perhaps next week I'll review the "Real Men of Genius" series of commercials. I'm slowly working on restoring them to my iTunes library (I lost probably 70 of them).

Non-productive Day

Ugh. I have done nothing today. Well, I did a load of laundry, and I read a bunch of Harry Potter 5 (yeah, I told you I've read them more than you). But what I haven't done is cook anything, write anything, or, well, anything. I took a nap of an undetermined amount of time. Maybe only an hour and a half, maybe as long as four hours. I have no idea what time it was when I fell asleep. And despite Adam's claims that it's a "sleep" if it's more than an hour, I was on the couch--the one in the living room, not the bedroom--so it's still a nap.

I hate days like this. Even more when I can't work myself up to feeling guilty about them. Especially since I get about 9 hours of sleep a night. A long nap is unnecessary. And I'm still tired now.

Additionally, I feel bloated. The cous cous I made (and I made enough to feed everyone starving in Sudan for a year) didn't taste salty, but clearly had my annual intake of salt in one serving. And because I made so much of it, that's all I ate today. Yay, heart disease. And boo for not sucessfully making a Morrocan style transcendent dish. Reasonably tasty, but nowhere close to my dreams of sweet and spicy and delicious.

A day late and a dollar short.

I got swept up by such things as forgetting to make a bleu cheese potato gratin (which never seems to cook properly when I make it) and trying to fit a chicken in our tiny oven. When it's impaled--sodomized, really--on a beer can a chicken is quite tall, and in my experience British ovens are tiny compared to their American counterparts. Then I called my folks and played a board game with Adam (I lost). So now it's quite late, and my weekly Sunday review hasn't happened. Which saddens me, because I was hoping to go a full month before I starting screwing them up. But it will be up tomorrow, and better written than anything I post tonight.

I was thinking about reviewing the most recent season of Lost, but WTF is not really a review, and that's more or less how it left me feeling. I enjoyed it overall, but still, WTF. That said, I've decided that I trust Ben more than Locke, and I love Frank Lepedius--sarcastic and smart and resourceful. Also, I would marry Hurley, but fuck Sayid blue first. And Jack's a whiny, insecure ass.

Instead, I shall be doing a joint review of Cloverfield and Diary of the Dead. Watched Cloverfield on Saturday and Diary of the Dead (second time) today, and there are similarities in how the stories are told. And that method of storytelling intrigues me at the moment. So yes, tomorrow, Cloverfield and Diary of the Dead.

In other news, Chapter Two is now frustrating me something shocking. I need him to become an adult. Now. But I think and work chronologically, so I can't skip ahead to write later sections. Still, by Chapter 4 (which seems so far away) he'll be based more in fact and less in my weird, twisted making up of English history.

New kitchen-related things learned...

Apparently glass isn't impermeable.  I just assumed it was.  The applesauce I made a couple of weeks ago and froze in a jar that once contained something else (why, why would you buy news jars unless you're canning?) tasted vaguely of jalapeños.  I like applesauce, and I like salsa (the previous use of said jar) but together?  Mmm...not so much.

That jar is now in the recycling pile.  Too bad really, but I'm not risking that again.

I suppose all that jalapeñoeyness could have come from the lid, but best to not be taking chances.  I like my applesauce to taste like apples.

Also, and this is not so new a revelation, pork only needs to reach an internal temperature of 137º F and stay there for 11 minutes to kill anything that could be in it.  I cooked my roast today to an internal temp. of 150º (yeah, set the probe, forgot to turn on the alarm--should have gone off at 148º).  Juicy and moist, full of flavour.  De-lish-ous.  Even with the slightly spicy applesauce.  And a 2.5 pound roast took less than 30 minutes/pound.  Lesson here?  DO NOT overcook your pork.  That delicate flavour is smothered when you do that.  Except for bacon.  Crispy bacon is tasty.  Though Adam cries whenever I cook bacon.

31 December 2008 Tasting Menu

Appetizers:

Shellfish Bisque

Coleslaw

Roasted Beet, Chèvre, and Hazelnut Salad

Main Course:

Shrimp Thai-style Curry

"Soup-n-Sandwich": Open-faced Mushroom, Apple, Bacon, and Gjetost Sandwich & Roasted Root Vegetable Soup

Beef Carpaccio and Bleu Cheese-Horseradish Scalloped Potatoes

Dessert:

Warm Smoked Mozzarella with Iced Sour Cherries and Sponge Cake

Sponge and Marscapone Layer Cake with Chambord-Fruit Syrup and Hazelnuts

Vanilla-Lime Cheesecake with Sour Cream Topping and Amaretti Crumb Crust