Archive: February 2007

“How do you feel about pancakes this morning?”

JG wanted pancakes, partially because we had a carton of buttermilk in the fridge. I agreed enthusiastically and he got to work, mixing up batter and heating up a griddle. We usually cheat our way past buying buttermilk (mixing a tablespoon of vinegar for every cup of milk) and it usually works, but lately, we’ve had a rash of runny, floppy, pancakes of disappointment. Having the buttermilk around gave us the first opportunity to actually follow the recipe.

“Your pancakes are almost ready,” JG called from the kitchen. “I think these are the best ones I’ve ever made.”

Well! This should be good.

I sat down at the table with a glass of orange juice and JG set down a plate stacked with four fluffy, steaming pancakes. “Ooh,” I breathed. The aroma alone indicated superior pancakes and I inhaled deeply. Following my usual procedure, I buttered between each layer and then spangled maple syrup over the whole stack. I’m a minimalist when it comes to syrup. I cut a wedge out of the quivering tower and steam wafted up. I admired the distinct strata of golden-brown-deliciousness, glistening butter, and gooey syrup. I speared the top two layers for my first bite. Each piece had absorbed a touch of butter and sweet syrup, but not too much so that the cake itself was overwhelmed. Puffy enough for a good bite but tender so as to melt in one’s mouth, the pancake was exactly the right answer on a Sunday morning.

“So, how is it?” he asked.

Oh, my.

“I think we should buy buttermilk from now on.”

Sunday Scribblings #46: Yummy

Evidently, I am not the only person who enjoys a good pun! When I was a kid, I had a whole shelf full of joke books: 101 Dinosaur / Hamburger / Vampire / etc. Jokes, The Biggest Riddle Book Ever, and 1,001 Knock-Knock Jokes. I knew them all, but the ones with puns were my favorites. I mean, how great is, “Orange you glad you didn’t say banana?” It’s a classic!

Unfortunately, JG does not share this opinion; even worse, he insists on calling puns “the lowest form of humor”! I always respond, “But it’s okay because I’m a low person,” emphasizing my shortness and – ha! – slipping in a pun, kind of, for good measure. When I told him over dinner that I was going to post my 21-Pun Salute, he groaned dramatically.

“Hey! My mom gave me that card and I love it!”

Another groan.

I narrowed my eyes and pointed my fork at him. “Your bad attitude will be properly documented, mister.”

I had to dig out the card from a shoebox of old birthday cards, postcards from friends, and mementos from studying abroad. Being a pack rat does pay off at times! I thought I would simply transcribe everything, but the illustrations added so much. I’m uncertain of the copyright situation, so here is a disclaimer: this card was manufactured by Ambassador Cards, a Hallmark brand.

Lastly, I have to give a big shout-out to my mom for sending me this awesome card back in the day. It still makes me laugh out loud, especially #6 and 20, but I will understand if some people can’t help but groan. Meanwhile, JG will be writhing around in pain if he happens to read this post. Heh.

(click for a super-zoomed-in version)

#31

In honor of my centennial entry, I present 100 things about me, including some I’ve already revealed around here. I’ll try and elaborate on some of these in the future, too.

Let me know if you make to end of the list!

My checklist for our Super Bowl party:

• Steaming slow cookers of chili
• Baked potatoes
• Cheese and sour cream
• Chips and salsa
• Veggies and dip
• Giant cookies
• Puff-painted “I Heart Peyton” t-shirt

That’s right. Puff paint. Peyton. It was a fabulous combination.

Let me explain that I don’t know that much about professional football. I like watching college football, but to me, the professional version seems to have a lot of bells and whistles, plus a generous smattering of illegal and distasteful shenanigans going on, like with the Minnesota Vikings, for example. It’s safe to say that I can’t match the teams to their states with the exception of maybe three lucky teams. (I mean, which Carolina gets to claim the Panthers? It’s like saying something is from Dakota.) When Super Bowl comes around every year, it’s more an excuse to get together with friends than a serious sporting event for me. And I do enjoy a good commercial.

I really enjoy a commercial with Peyton Manning, especially the one when he puts accountants on his fantasy team. Ha. I like that he hasn’t been arrested. I enjoyed his tango in an 8th grade musical. I saw an endearing interview with his mom before the Colts-Giants game and she was so cute! And there we have my main reasons for liking Peyton even though I have no clue about the rest of the Colts. There was no better way to express this affection than with a puff-painted t-shirt.

Fortunately, I had an accomplice in this operation in a friend who was coming for our Super Bowl party. She loves Peyton with fervor approximating my own and also enjoys a good puff-painting session. Last Friday, during a game of Monopoly, I said jokingly, “I thought about doing this to surprise you, but would it have been scary or pathetic if I puff-painted Peyton t-shirts for us?”

She whipped her head around. “No! Let’s do it tomorrow!”

“Yes!”

And so we did. Hunched over my kitchen table, we dressed up plain black t-shirts with sparkly puff paint in lopsided letters, footballs, horseshoes, tufts of grass, and lucky #18. JG noticed a strange lack of conversation between the two of us and remarked, “This is serious business, huh? No small talk, even. Wow.”

That’s right. The shirts were amazing. One of the other girls at our party took one look at the two of us and simply said, “Oh. My.” How about that for admiration?

Now that I’m no longer nine years old, jittery from soda at a slumber party, or lacking fine motor skills, I’m actually kind of good at puff-painting. If this skill were even slightly profitable I might try doing it more often. And look – the Colts won! That is what puff paint can do.