Valenti Day

BFam and I aren’t big on Valentine’s Day. You’d figure someone as heartwarmingly loving toward Christmas as I am, would have a greater fondness of the holiday for lovers.

Then you’ll realize I just hurled because I said “lovers”. And now I feel all dirty. Thanks a lot.

So surprise when Mooter, the anti-me, had herself a little countdown for the day. I could have easily sat her down and explained to her the falsehoods and sheer idiocy behind such a farse, but I am constantly reminding myself that she’s eight. And I am an old, bitter thirty two-year-old.

Feh.

And when you’re as wide-eyed and bushy tailed as my endearing, bleeding heart daughter, you get things like this:



Then you feel like this:

So, you know. There’s that.

To show my allegiance to the can’t-beat-’em-join-’em brigade, I did things for my daughters (and husband) I am not proud of.


I baked.

What’s the big deal, you say? If you knew me, you’d know this is an extremely big deal. I don’t bake. I don’t cook. Not to say that I can’t. I can. I’m not too shabby at either. Even better, I love food. I think it’s comforting and sentimental and elevating. Yes, I’m still talking about food. But the work. The slaving. The heat of the stove. The standing. The gnashing of teeth. It’s too much. It’s enough to disprove my love of food.

Then I saw a recipe that spoke to me.


Lucky for my children, it spoke to them, too.

Oh. Oh, my word.

This is… oh.

I feel so dirty. This is not fit for little people. Cover their eyes.

The eating of the cupcake should have been outlawed in several states.

I’m not a foodblogger. The thought of cooking alone sends me into fits of rage. I couldn’t imagine mustering enough patience sitting through shot after shot after shot after shot of the cooking. And the raging. Oh, the raging. It wouldn’t be pretty. And no one would follow it because I’d be too busy cursing and throwing things. God bless those who do it and do it well, but…

It ain’t me.

[The recipe that spoke to me: Life By Chocolate from The Pioneer Woman]

Umm… Yeah

So. Right. You probably want a back story to this… umm… stuff, huh? It’s so embarrassing. I just don’t wanna. But as part of my agreement with myself when I went on this whole tell your life story on a web site-thingie, I vowed to speak the truth. The whole, ugly, sordid truth. And I’m trying not to be all Dooce-like with the CAPS, but some stories just call for it. That, and I am a lazy typer who hates inputting the code to make bold. There. I said it.

I… uh boy, this is hard. I… umm… I, uh… Well, you see… I tried to, um… cook? Is that what this looks like? And before you get all judgy like oh my GAH if this is what her cooking looks like we are NEVER coming to her house-type way, just know that I actually CAN cook. Pinky swear. And this dish?

I know you can’t tell right now, but this is a double boiler holding some, umm… ok, holding what USED to be chocolate. For dipping strawberries. And this is what happens when I try to improvise. I am strictly a recipe person. I make an excellent baker because I need directions. Measurements. Precision. I am not good with add a shake here, or a pinch there. In other words, I could never be Rachel Ray. Have you watched a show with that woman? She measures NOTHING, drives me nuts. Eyeball it, she says. Do you know how quickly I’d be the cause of your first ER visit, or first stomach pumping? Maybe it wouldn’t be your first, I don’t know, but the first by my hand! And I can’t have that on my conscience.

BFam? Excellent cook. PHENOMENAL. And I could so easily go the way of Pioneer Woman and make a cooking section, but I wouldn’t be taking pictures of my creations. I’d be taking pictures of his creations. And he’d be all squirrelly because why am I taking pictures? Who are you showing this to? Who’s gonna see it? But I don’t measure anything! What do you mean you need instructions? It’s a FEELING, woman! FEEEEEEEEELING! And now he’s all foaming at the mouth and I’d have to hit him in the head with a frying pan because the sheer thought of public acknowledgement would leave him in a state of shock. Even if I told him I only have one reader. You, one reader, would probably kill him. And who wants to be responsible for involuntary Internet manslaughter by comment?

I’ve made this dish before. It’s so true. And it was superb. And I felt my way through it. It was my first time with FEELING cooking. But I used baker’s chocolate. And that’s thicker and more dense, or something, and it holds up better when you add things to it like cream. Or, in this instance, milk. Oh, and butter. And it was so good I vowed never to go to another confectionary store during Valentine’s, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day or Sweetest Day (which is the most stupid made-up holiday ever and I would not be surprised if it was originated from OHIO because we do stupid stuff like that) to buy chocolate covered anything ever again. Because look! I did it! All by myself!

So I’m feeling my oats. Or… ovaries? Anyway, I’m feeling really good about my cooking skills, and I’m standing in an aisle at Tar-jay, and I’m all I wonder how this would taste using a name brand chocolate instead, and I see Ghirardelli and that stuff is like CRACK (seriously, have you tasted it?) and I’m all excited because YAY, CHOCOLATE CRACK, and I go home. Throw it in a double boiler. And I’m stirring. And it’s looking a little suspect, so I’m thinking I have the heat too high. And it kind of calms down, so I add my milk. And WHY DID I DO THAT? What is it doing?! Is that… oil?! Is it separating?

And then Mooter – who is at the age where she wants to help with everything in the kitchen because what is that? and what does that button do? and what does that taste like? and have I never had that before? and I don’t think I’ve had that before – waltzes into the kitchen and is all Mommy, what is THAT? Do I have to eat THAT? I don’t wanna eat THAT! Is that yucky?! What’s that smell? Want me to call daddy?

And just like that, I’m in a bad episode of I Love Lucy.