Thursday, September 14, 2006
The worst place to burn
For some reason, I burn myself. A lot. I am careful and actually afraid of things like heat, fire, and electricity, yet there it is. Never badly, rarely requiring medical treatment. Just those annoying little burns that make you swear and dance around a bit in the kitchen. The kinds that make your family laugh out loud, even though IT IS NOT FUNNY. I know this about myself and take as much precaution as possible. I am talking wearing oven mitts to take toast out of the toaster. But it rarely helps me. I have this odd karma thing going on - and I would really like to know what horrific things I did in that past life, because it is getting ridiculous, by the way. For example, one time I managed to successfully remove a glass pyrex dish from the oven, full of boiling chicken fat and juices, and get it onto the cooling rack without incident. This dish came out of a 450 degree oven and almost guaranteed I would get burnt, splattered, steamed, something. But I was victorious! I took the oven mitts off and tucked them under my arm to close the oven door, and promptly scorched my armpit with the hot fabric. See? See how that is not normal, and something cosmic must be going on? Well there is more. This morning while making DD's lunch I used the hot tap to make instant soup. A hot tap as in "Insta-hot" tap that dispenses water at an extrememly warm (almost boiling) 190 degrees F. When I filled the measuring cup, it fell just short of the mark so I tweaked the tap one more time. A dollop of hot water was displaced and splashed out of the measuring cup, and plupped unceremoniously in my exposed belly button. Darn that pajama shirt that rides up! If you want to know what might ruin a morning, burning hot liquid INSIDE the belly button for sure is a contender. I can't adequately describe the reaction when a blob of hot wet lands in your belly button, because I think my sub-conscious blocked it out to save my sanity and perhaps keep me from having a nervous breakdown while rolling around on the floor and holding my navel. My family of course was worried at first, then found the whole thing quite funny. Hilariously funny. Uproariously funny. They should note that laughing at the plight of the person making your lunch might not be the best idea. Laugh it up, little nutballs, and think on it while eating your plain whole wheat crackers and unpeeled apple at snack time. Make it up to me tomorrow and we will discuss the possibility of pudding or one of those granola bars with the marhsmallows and chocolate chips. Bwa-hahahaaaaaaaa! On the plus side, my belly button does not itch like it normally does any more. I have problems with it, I have for years. It gets itchy and icky and gross, despite taking very good care of it and using special creams and soaps and alcohol wipes. Not enough trouble to be a medical concern, but when conditions are right it gets a bit infected. And when it is not infected it is irritated from the cleaning and the creams and soaps and swabs and whatnot. There is a surgery they can do to fix it, but I am a chicken and a scaredy cat and the thought of a stranger LOOKING inside there and doing stuff gives me the willies. But now, today, after that blast of steaming hot water, it is not itchy. And it is not red, which is unexpected if I managed to burn it. In fact, it looks like a normal belly button to me, which is a miracle. Turns out, all I had to do was boil it. Who knew? The shoes I bought are not working out. While they fit fine and are comfortable when I am standing still, the instep bothers the top of my foot while I am walking. Just on the left side. This morning I had a nice big purple bruise on the top of my foot, I guess it was pushing in more than I thought. Poop. I am posting a picture of how little I am done of my mother's scarf, in the hopes that the embarassment and shame will kick me in the butt and get me moving on it. This little snippet is oh, four inches long. Last time I looked the fashion trend was not for SHORT scarves, was it. Though this tough-love tactic did not work on the still-unfinished-poncho-turned-wrap, I am hoping it will for the scarf. I really do love the result, if only I didn't hate the process so much. Darn those friggen yarn overs. If I don't make it through at least 4 repeats of the 8 row pattern tonight I am going to abandon the pattern and look for something else. If it is painful and I hate it I won't finish it, and it is time to listen to the music, know what I mean? And what kind of vibe am I working in with the stitches if I just hate what I am doing - yes, I am just the kind of wierdo that thinks like that. Last night there was a quiet moment (when does THAT ever happen) and I had a chance to use up some apples and flour. Cake and pastry flour that I don't know what to do with, and some Paula Red apples that aren't good for eating out of hand. Their texture is just too soft to eat that way. When they cook they completely dissintegrate, but their flavour becomes very complex and quite good. Dh came home early from work so we could go to a meet-the-teacher night at her school and I almost got teary eyed LOL. I was quite touched that he did that. When we got home, he brought DD downstairs to help him build some shelf units we bought for the storage space. They "played nicely" the whole time, and he said she was a big help and held things for him etc. While they did that I whipped up some apple turnovers. I mixed the apples with a touch of cinnamon but no sugar, wrapped them in basic butter flavoured crisco pastry, and drizzled them with icing sugar glaze after baking. Not sure I completely understand or like cake and pastry flour, but I am not a dessert eater so maybe it's just cross-over hate LOLOL. These are too fragile to eat out of hand, but I think I made a good decision regarding not sweetening the apples then adding the glaze. It made them more complex and special, compared to a basic apple pie for instance. They didn't brown well on top, and I think that was the flour again. Oh well, DH and DD like them and that is what counts, right? I am trying not to think about the trans-fats in the Crisco. Imagine my mind covering it's ears and singing "la la la la la!".