Walk That Walk

Thanks to Texts From Last Night, I know all about the walk of shame. In my many trips around the sun, I have never had occasion to experience this as either the walker or the walkee. Until now.

I went on a work related conference that included an overnight stay. Normally, this is cause for great celebration because the conference is at one of the nicer hotels around, children are not allowed and it's a mini-vacation from work without the guilt of not being at work since technically it is work. I think there's supposed something about building supervisory capacities and networking with colleagues in there, too, but those are secondary.

One minor drawback to this conference is that the participants are required to share rooms. Since there were three of us my office going, I assumed I would be rooming with one of them, as always. If you are reading this, you are my friend and surely by now know that I don't like people. I don't like being touched. I don't like socializing. I don't like having my "space" invaded. And this is with my friends and people I love. I had been mentally preparing myself for sharing a room with a friend for days and was ready! I could do this!

When the three of us checked in, Nicole and Wanda were given keys to the same room and mine had a different number on it. No, that couldn't be right. That would mean that I was rooming with neither of them. I quickly reasoned out that since I registered for this conference after the deadline, I was in a room by myself. Nicole, utilizing her wealth of social work skills, comforted me with the knowledge that she saw a name on the check in list next to mine. She coolly pulled rank and shot down my plan of sleeping in her car. As always, I offered to spell "insubordination" for her when she wrote me up.

Instead of going up to our dooms, ummm, rooms, we decided to skip the dinner at the hotel. After dinner, we went shopping because that's what women do. Despite posts that may or may not have been made on Facebook regarding the trip, shoe shopping and Hell, I did have a good time. My ability to look at not just shoes, not even a shoe sale but SEVENTY PERCENT OFF SHOES without so much as an inkling of interest pass through my body still astounds many of my friends. Same with purses. One friend had the nerve to text me and tell me to go to the Coach store and sniff the purses. That's just wrong.

We got back to the hotel some time after 9. I felt like I was going to my doom. Walking the 1589 miles from the elevator to the room, I had convinced myself that this was not going to be as bad as I thought and I would survive. I admit that in the eternity between sliding the key card in the slot and waiting on the green light, I prayed a thousand prayers that there was no one in the room. My heart soared with hope when I turned the knob and pushed open the door and broke in to a million shards when I realized the break-in bar was engaged.

My "Honey, I'm home!" was met with a slight yelp and half glimpses of a figure in a very skimpy robe flitting around the room like a hummingbird, picking up things and moving stuff around, including what I am 93% sure was a towel from her bed. I introduced myself and I think she told me her name. Maybe. She was too busy clutching the itty bitty robe closed and making apologies for having her belongings every where. Was it Kim? Diane? My mind kept wanting to remember her name as Mulva. (Damn you, Jerry Seinfeld!)

Kim/Diane (Mulva) flitted to the bathroom and came out in pajamas that she clearly had not been wearing when I got there. We made some awkward small talk for a few minutes about the conference, the oil spill, an embarrassing drug bust from my county that had made the regional news. She arranged for a 6:30 wake up call and told me that she had already bathed so I could have the shower first thing.

What followed was one of the longest, most miserable nights of my life. The air did not work and the temperature only reinforced the feeling of being in Hell. Sleep came in fitful spurts. I would lay awake, heart pounding with anxiety (how am I supposed to sleep with a stranger 4 feet away? Please God, don't let the shrimp etouffee I ate for dinner come back to embarrassingly haunt me.) until I would doze off. After about 15-20 minutes of sweat drenched sleep, I'd wake with a start, convinced that Mulva was standing over me in the dark waiting to, ironically, stab me with a fork. I almost wept with relief when the phone rang at 6:32.

Mulva (Kim? Was it Kim??) shot out of her bad as fast as any bad cliche I could write. Before I could even sit up, she announced that she would brush her teeth and then the bathroom would be all mine. By the time I got out of the shower, it was only 6:55 and she was already fully dressed, packed and ready to go. Huh? Was I such a bad roomie that she had to leave so quickly? I know I snore on occasion but didn't think I had a chance to do any serious log sawing in 15 minute increments.

I was perplexed. How dare she run out on me like that?! I didn't even know her name or what she looked like. I couldn't point her out to Wanda and Nicole. Worse, I couldn't talk about my experience during any of the lectures because I didn't know who her friends/colleagues might be. Every time I saw someone that resembled the blur that was Mulva, I cringed, especially if she was talking to someone else. Was Mulva going around telling people about what a horrible roomie I was? What if I talked in my sleep? Oh lordy! How do people do this to themselves??

I Review An Episode of Doctor Who

I have watched one whole episode of THE GREATEST SHOW THAT WAS, IS AND EVER SHALL BE (or so I've been told). And since this is America, that makes me more than qualified to render an opinion on this, and many other tangentially related, topics.

The episode I watched was "Rose" from 2005 and featured the Doctor in the pimping leather jacket. Speaking of pimping, the first 10 minutes or so reminded me of a bad porn, minus the porn, with the lighting, mood and scene set up. Plus, the chick had porn actress lips.

Bow chicka wow wow

If you've seen 5 minutes of porn,and I'm betting all of you have, you know what I'm talking about. It's impossible to look at them and not wonder where they've been or why they might be so puffy. Anyways, I've always been intrigued about how you're supposed to watch this show since it's been airing since 1788 or something like that. In my family, if you miss the first five minutes of a movie, you're screwed and you may as well kill yourself instead of trying to muddle through without those pivotal opening minutes. So how in the bloody hell (see what I did there?) are you supposed to just pick this show up at any point and know what's going on. I was very pleased with how things were explained without being heavy handed and pedantic or treating the viewer like they were totally brain dead, like most American shows do.

Do you see the moron?

I'm not going to discuss the actual story, there's no need to. One thing I do know is that if you watch this show, you really watch this show and can wax poetic on every single, minute detail of everything ever related to it. That dustbin that ate the nice bloke? A true fan can tell you every piece of rubbish that was ever deposited in it. No fooling.

Typical Doctor Who Fan

The acting was cheesy, slightly above bad porn level, but not unbearable. The effects were cheesy, which I've been told are part of the charm of the show and a BBC thing. 

SPOILER ALERT! The Doctor gets a new TARDIS next season.

Overall, I would rate the show as tolerable and something I could watch again and actually pay attention to, sorta. In every day terms, that would be better than Kate + 8 but not as good as iCarly.

White Girl Problem #45

Annabeth had to have bloodwork recently, a task that is not easy to accomplish. She doesn't do well with medical procedures, this oddly healthy middle Heathen, and some intreresting and dramatic times have ensued during her rare forays in to the world of hurty things to make you better. Yes, this is the child that told me she needed medicinal marijuana as the doctor was repairing her ripped off toenail last year. Usually an obscure quote or two and a nice threat of something vile happening (I'm a big fan of breaking off toes and fingers for some reason.) plus an ocean of tears (Another paranthetical here, God have mercy on whatever male falls for this one because the tears she can shed with those big blue eyes and the freckles and the...it's bad.) and she can be convinced to cooperate. I was feeling so bad that morning with my own health problems, I had to actually rely on Tradional Mothering Tactics and let the tech work with her patient. And let me tell you, this little girl was good. She did a great job talking to Annabeth, giving her a choice about where she wanted to be stuck, giving her time to process and breathe, didn't even look mortified when I replied "I don't know, it's been a while since I stabbed her" to questions about how easily she bled. Fabulous job with a difficult situation and things were going so smoothly. We were almost done and then "OH MY GOD! DON'T LET HER STAND UP!! LOOK HOW PALE SHE IS!" A nurse that had nothing to with Annabeth walked by and saw her face and decided she was about to pass out. She barged in, threw a trash can around and was barking orders to the tech, the tech who was doing an amazing job. I kept insisting Annabeth was fine. Annabeth said she was fine but this woman insisted my child was about to pass out and throw up. She was nice enough to get a cold cloth for us which really helped clean up from all the tears. Then she left. The point of this? Annabeth was not even pale. She's just one of my kids.

The Mighty T. Mex Cooks, Part the Dos

The second phase of my Mexican cooking indoctrination involved pastel de tres leches. My main sponsor for Mexicanism and BFF insisted (I believe there were some threats involving knives at one point but that's how we roll. I'll kick him in the teeth and he knows it.) I make this and was adamant that I'd like it.

I did more research for a recipe for this cake since there are so many variations. The choices for the cake part seemed to be a basic sponge cake, angel food type cake or a more sturdy version of the sponge cake. I went with the sturdy cake because I didn't want soggy, gross cake. All of the recipes I looked at used evaporated milk and sweetened condensed milk (Pet milk and Eagle brand, respectively, for my Alabama readers) and either whole milk or heavy cream for the third. I opted for heavy cream since I was making a whipped cream topping. I also looked at recipes that used a cooked Italian meringue topping and one with cream cheese in it. Making whipped cream is one of my favorite things to do so that was the topping of choice.

Okay, time to cook! I read over the directions and got a little intimidated. My typical cake baking technique is to dump all the ingredients in one bowl and mix it up, regardless of what the directions may call for. This is an effective method 99% of the time. However, I wanted to do JB proud (even though he wouldn't even get to have a single bite) so I resolved to follow the recipe to the letter. Holy Cheezus, this was going to require a bunch of dirty dishes and effort.

First I had to go all racist and separate the eggs.

Separate but equal, my foot. Tell that to my broken yolks.

Then the whites were beaten until stiff peaks formed and the sugar was incorporated.

Stiff peaks, don't give me limp peaks.

 Next, the yolks had to beaten separately until they lost their color (more racism?) and gently folded in to the whites, so that no volume is lost. Although my recipes typically involve instructions like "mush, smash and crockpot the hell out of," I do know how to utilize proper terms and techniques.

Gently fold the yolks to incorporate them in to the whites, bitches.

After gently re-introducing the egg components to one another, flour was gently added to the mix, a culinary   menage a trois of sorts.

Gently fold in the flour to the white and yolk mixture.

Into to oven for twenty minutes or so, then on the counter to cool completely. Then the poor cake had to be stabbed repeatedly to allow the milks to permeate (HA! another fancified cooking term) all the way through and not just sit in the bottom of the pan and get yucky. Luckily, I had an assistant to do this for me...

Mr. Stabbity, Le Cordon Bleu Class of 2009

This is the part that I messed up a little. The recipe called for a can of evaporated milk but did not specify what size. I went with the 5 oz can instead of the 12 oz and the cake was a little dry. Live and learn. I mixed the leches, uno, dos, tres and made a lovely milk syrup.

Yeah, not much happening here.

Poured the milk over the cake and then popped it in the fridge for a bit to set. While that was happening, the metal mixing bowl and beaters hung out in the freezer for an hour or so to help combat the Fourth of July heat in my kitchen. Through much trial and error, I've learned that an icy cold bowl and beaters make for a better whipped cream. The key to the topping I wanted to make was to beat the cream hard and fast to get it past the Cool Whip stage and more of a frosting consistency.

You know you thought it.

 Right before that stage was reached (it's an intuitive process, I can't tell you how to do it.), I mixed in a little powdered sugar for an oomph of sweetness. Perfect! 

I've edited this 8 times, just turn your head.

As I mentioned earlier, the cake was a little dry in the middle because I didn't use enough evaporated milk. However, I was very pleased with the texture of the cake. Also, the cake was not overly sweet so the milks were not too syrupy. My cake lounged in the fridge for almost a week and retained its integrity (i.e. did not turn in to soggy slime) and flavor. I will definitely be making this again. I saw one variation called pastel borracho (Google translate hehehe) that I really want to try at some point. I didn't take a picture of me trying it but I give it two thumbs up.


Chente agrees with me.



The Mighty T. Mex Cooks

I haven't blogged in quite some time but I think all of you know that I am now a probationary Mexican (I may get around to telling that story one day.) working on full Latina status. My two mentors got in to a heated debate over what was the better dessert, flan or pastel de tres leches. I agreed to try them both and thought I'd make them myself because, why not? Flan got chosen first because I had everything I needed for it at home except ramekins and I needed to run to the store to get some cash back while I was out and about. After a fun night out with a friend that I had not seen in years, I decide to tackle the flan at 11:22 PM.

The recipe I chose seemed to be very simple and straight forward, sugar, eggs, milk, vanilla. Easy peasy. This was going to be a slam dunk. The first step said to brown two cups of sugar in a saucepan for 5-8 minutes for the caramel topping. See, 5-8 minutes.

Right there, in black and white.

In goes the sugar, and I stir. I wonder if I have time to watch a movie when I'm done. And I stir the beautiful, white sugar.

Sugar

As that is heating, I go ahead and prepare the rest of the sugar, eggs and vanilla so that everything can be assembled efficiently. And I stir the sugar. Ten minutes later, this is what I have....

I swear, it's not the same picture

Hmm, is the eye on? Yep. Is it hot? Yep. Crap. Let's stir some more. Half an hour (and 6 pictures) later, still the same thing. It is now midnight. My boiled milk has cooled, my eggs and sugar have collapsed in to a gross mess of yuck and I still have nothing but lily white sugar. You know what would make the sugar caramelize faster? Margaritas! What an excellent idea...My Drunk Kitchen, Alabama Edition. I don't even take responsibility for this decision, I blame James Marsters. He was staring at me the whole time, using subliminal messages to make me want a margarita.

Spike, Jose and Bethany, a winning combination

After hanging out with Spike and Jose, taking a picture of the sugar every two minutes seemed like a stellar plan, judging by the photos I uploaded. I will spare you the riveting sight of an entire album of two cups of sugar in my saucepan. After 73 minutes, achievement caramel was unlocked. There was much rejoicing in the kitchen, but careful rejoicing because melted sugar is hot!

Rejoice, dammit.

The bottom of the ramekins were coated with the molten sugar, in went the rest of the goop.

Goop

Somehow I even managed to correctly prepare a water bath to bake the flan (which was now flan de cafe since I added coffee to the milk while stirring the sugar.) without making a mess. By now it 12:45 and I know I will fall asleep while the flan is baking. My friend Fernando says flan is to die for but I don't think he means it literally so I set my alarm to wake me up 40 minutes later. Fast forward 40 minutes later, and my alarm goes off. Have I mentioned my alarm is the intro to Slayer's Raining Blood? Guaranteed to wake you up but still stops my heart for a half second every time.

Rise and shine, beautiful.

I run to the kitchen, still mostly asleep and not totally convinced Satan is not chasing me...Did I succeed? Will I be one step closer to taking the training wheels off my black eyeliner? BINGO! Flanny goodness has been achieved. The flan was a perfect creamy color, the jiggly factor was somewhere between cheesecake and jello, the aroma was heavenly caramel coffee. By Jorge, I think I did it. However, I had to wait until the next day to taste the fruits of my efforts to give the flan time to chill and set.

Just chillin'

The flan was easier to dislodge than I thought it would be. It plopped right down on the plate and retained its shape. I was very disappointed when I saw how much of the caramel remained in the ramekin. Seriously? I stirred sugar for 73 minutes for 90% of it to be trashed? Not cool at all.

Flan.

Now for the moment of truth. Would I find this to be the slice of heaven I was promised? Would it feel like a cold loogie as I feared?

Loogie. You guessed loogie, right?

Overall, this was much too sweet and the texture was as disgusting as I feared it would be. My cooking fiend Denise has assured me she has a recipe with a much improved texture and I am willing to try it eventually.

Mexican 1UP

Big Changes A-Comin'

See this baby? This sweet, bald, melon headed baby?

I swear that picture was taken last week, it had to have been. Surely fourteen years haven't flown by. Is this the same sweet thing?

As if turning fourteen on me wasn't treacherous enough, Annabeth has gone and gotten herself accepted in to the Alabama School of Fine Arts. She submitted a hefty application that included a portfolio of recent writings and some essays about herself and why she wanted to attend ASFA. Out of 65 applicants to the creative writing department, she was one of 21 invited to audition. She received her acceptance letter during her birthday party Saturday. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, what do you think this one is saying?

A Week In The Life, Day 7

Wow, I am just a little behind in getting this done but since my Day 7 happened to be the last day of my 30's, you all can just bite me.

Sunday, March 4, 2012, started out quiet and slow because the Heathens were at their dad's. He gave Annabeth tickets to see the Broadway production of Wicked for her birthday so she and Savannah were gone to that. Annabeth is mad for musicals and this is one of her favorites. I was a little bummed that I did not get to go with her but happy that parental guilt scored her front row seats. She's so pretty!

To be honest, I was totally useless this day. I played around online and goofed off with my bestie a large portion of the day. The plan was for Savannah to take me out to dinner for my birthday after Wicked. She and the little ones (14 and 11 and I still call them that) came breezing in and pronounced me presentable and we took off to O'Charley's.

When we arrived, I knew something was up because Savannah and Emmy were stalling for time and they are as subtle as a dead skunk in August. I was rushed in to the building amid much squealing, whispering and giggling. Even though I spoke to my best friend Wendy and her entire family standing in the lobby, Savannah whisked me to the bathroom because apparently I had to go and didn't know it. After more stalling, I was allowed to come out and act surprised at seeing Wendy and her crew there bearing gifts. To be honest, I was totally and completely surprised that Savannah did this but come on, I had just seen them in the lobby! I'm not that blonde :) A few minutes later, my other dear friends Mowry and Emily (Big Emily to some of you) came walking in and I truly was surprised then! They both live an hour away and have small children. Plus, Emily's sweet Buster was not feeling well. But they came to party with me and brought cake! Targaryen Dragon Cake no less!

Savannah and Emmy made me a poster that was presented to me in the restaurant with a little song and dance.

The Heathens even got me a cake, in Lannister colors of course.

And I'm telling you, I really need to go ahead and change my name....

The meal was very nice and I enjoyed my two worlds colliding and was beyond thrilled that they all liked each other. Did I mention I was wearing a tiara the entire time?

It says "Happy Birthday" above the tinsel. I thought I carried the look off with my usual grace and poise.

Savannah had to rush back to the land of college and fun after dinner. I always hate to see her go. Annabeth and Emmy had gifts that came in my birthday box the day before so they got to open them. They were most pleased.

Emmy has never even heard of Thundercats but she thought the hat and matching wrist band were the best thing ever. She even slept in them.

And that was pretty much the last thing I saw before I turned 40.