Today was my unofficial return to cubicle-land and it was great! No really! Little did I know all I had to do was fall down a flight of stairs to be overjoyed with the normalcy of showing up to work on a Monday morning. I kid, of course, they’re really very nice to me even when I don’t show up bruised, achy and slinged, regaling them with the now-familiar saga of my drunken bar scrap. But, it was an especially delightfully un-manic Monday as the sharp pain in my right rib cage has finally subsided leaving me with a shoulder that really doesn’t hurt much at all, and also, I’ve gotten this two-hand typing thing mastered so let’s celebrate! Let us eat some cake.
November, 2006 Archive
As should not be surprising, my parents have been a little concerned about me since I called them last Friday night and said I’d had a little run-in with the stairs, but I was fine, except I couldn’t really lift my left arm and I’d bumped my head a couple times on the way down but I didn’t really have to go to the emergency room, did I? Because surely this would all be better in the morning? Alas, in the ten days since they’d explained to me six different ways ’till Sunday why that was the wrong answer, but spared me the told you so when the diagnosis was dealt, all they have wanted to know is what they can do for me. You can only tell people “nothing, I’m fine” so many times before they threaten to storm your apartment and cook you dinner — how hard is my life, eh? — and that pretty much brings us up to tonight.
Except, I am apparently allergic to such fine treatment because when mom said she wanted to make Mexican-spiced chicken cutlets, I said I wanted to make pork riblets instead. She said she’d make salad but I said there was this miso-carrot dressing I’ve been itching to try. So, mom said she would make rice — rice, people — and I said, but we have all these little red potatoes to use up and she finally gave up and just brought cake. See what you get for trying to do nice things for me?
The cake is amazing. But I’m not going to tell you about it until tomorrow, because I am certain this entry has not yet amply exemplified what a pain in the ass I can be.
How to make orangettes: Slice ends off four oranges, score the peel from one end to the other, and remove the peels from the oranges.
Slice the peels into thin strips and trim the edges.
Using a medium size pot, place the peels in boiling water and blanch them for a few minutes. Rinse the peels, and repeat this process a second time. This is done to remove the bitterness of the peels.
On my old iVillage.com site, someone once asked me what the trick was to making those lattice-topped pie crusts fusspots like me hold in such high regard. I admitted that many years ago, before the Food Network was the behemoth it is today, the adorable Sarah Moulton once showed her audience a method of criss-crossing those pieces so simple, I haven’t struggled with torn pieces since. Even Alex quickly learned the Moulton Method, and remains unintimidated by pie season, which is great because you know, one of us has to roll out the doughs next week!
People who have been reading this site since ever before the iVillage year might remember my sad-but-true affection for Microsoft Paint when I need to explain something but lack the language, an all-too-common state for me. Well, I’ve done it again, and I’m going to present it without comment except to say that I hope you find this helpful in either pie-making or resting assured, once and for all, that I’ve gone off the deep end.
[Best viewed at full-size.]
But wait! There’s more!
Confession time again! You see these babies? The brown, spotty, past their prime and about 36 hours from luring in fruit flies bananas? I love them. They’re my absolute favorite. I know, I know how gross that is. I know, I know that most people would pick those up only to walk them over to the trash. I know, I know you’re horrified that I could love something so rotten, and for all of these reasons, I am forced to live my life as a closeted freckled banana eater.
The list of people who know my secret are as follows: Alex, but he married me anyway; my mother-in-law, who was about to throw some old bananas out one day and I gave myself up, yelping “wait!” at the last moment; the lady at the bodega where I get my yogurt and fruit each morning, who watches me sift daily through the bright, yellow ones on top for the sordid, unlovable ones at the bottom of the pile; Molly, who I confessed my banana sin to in a moment of cream cheese-frosted camaraderie; and now you. Go easy on me, please.