Monkey Bread, Redux

What is monkey bread anyway?

There are myriad variations. Some are rich and gooey, others are more austere. Some cheat by using refrigerated biscuit dough. Some are baked in a flat cake pan, some are done in a tube pan. Most recipes have you make dough balls, which then get dipped in water or butter, and dipped in cinnamon sugar, and layered in a pan. But some skip the dip in favor of a pouring on of melted butter, others use nuts, and one version I found includes a package of dry butterscotch pudding mix.

In 1976, the New York Times said "the basis of monkey bread is a butter-rich yeast dough that is rolled out, then stamped with a diamond-shaped cookie cutter. The thin diamonds are layered into a ring mold and baked. When reheated in the oven, the leaves flake apart and can be pulled off and eaten, dripping with their own melted butter". While that’s kind of intriguing, rolling out yeast dough is a pain in the neck.

I think almost any bread dough would do. My recipe makes a slightly rich dough – it’s got one egg in it – and the final result isn’t hugely sweet and sticky.

If you want more exhaustive discourse on the history and evolution of monkey bread, visit the rather fascinating Food Time Line. If you just want to make some, here’s my recipe.

Let's Review: Baby Alive

For heaven's sake, does anyone really need a doll that pees? I thought they'd gone the way of all things, but apparently they've made a reappearance. Someone gave my daughter a "Baby Alive Better Now Baby" for her birthday, and I'd like to rip its little molded plastic hair out. For one thing, it only came with ONE disposable diaper. [The packaging said there were supposed to be two - it is possible that the second diaper got thrown out because the packaging was that kind of insane frustration of hard plastic and wire ties that drives parents to drink.] For another thing, the diapers are DISPOSABLE. Meaning, once they get wet, you're supposed to throw them out. Meaning, you're supposed to buy disposable diapers FOR A DOLL. This does not fall into the category of ecologically correct toy.

I have firmly instructed the girl that no more water is to be "fed" to the doll - because I will not buy disposable diapers for a doll.

It could be worse. There's a more expensive version that pees and poops and whimpers, and requires special food and batteries, which was a runner-up in the 2009 TOADY awards:

Want to stamp out your preschooler’s pesky imagination? Try Hasbro’s Baby Alive Learns to Potty. Some version of Baby Alive has been around since the 1980s, but thanks to animatronics the 2008 version does everything. Really everything. In addition to talking, gurgling, eating special Baby Alive food and drinking Special Baby Alive juice, this is the only TOADY award nominee that actually poops. Baby Alive Learns to Potty comes with two packets of food and two diapers—which aren’t reusable when “messed.” In addition to squelching your child's creative play, you'll get big bang out of adding Baby Alive’s food and diaper costs to the family budget!

At least I'm not alone in being such a curmudgeon.

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Disclosure: My kid got this as a birthday present, and no one paid me for this review.

Wordless Wednesday: Red

My mother, in 1956. Her lipstick matches her apple.

Great Interview Experiment: -R-

Yo, people! In a fit of madness I signed up for Neilochka's Great Interview Experiment, and ending up interviewing -R-, who writes And You Know What Else, and can't be summed up in a tidy sentence, but does offer up 100 things about herself. Here's a few more things about R, with her answers in italics.

1) Do you go to your college reunions? Why or why not?

I am guessing my college had a five-year reunion, but I'm not really sure. Obviously, I didn't go. I won't go to the ten-year reunion. I mostly had a small group of close friends when I was in college, and I only keep in touch with one of them, so I don't think I would get a lot of the reunion. Plus, I would have to travel all the way to Texas.

2) Why'd you start the Blog Share project?

I think Lara (of Red Red Whine), Stefanie (of Stefanie Says), and I joked about trading blogs so we could write secret posts. A while later, I had something that I really wanted to write but didn't want easily traced back to me, so I started the Blog Share. I'm really glad I did. I have read both really touching and really hilarious posts because of it.

3) How many cars have you owned? If money were no object, what would you buy next?

I have owned a Hyundai Accent, Nissan Altima, Volkswagen Passat, and Mazda3 - four cars. If money were no object, I would probably buy a BMW 5 series.

4) Tell us about some treasured object in your house and tell us why it's special.

I think one of the things I most treasure is a quilt my grandmother made me when I was a baby. It is a yellow twin-size quilt with little girls in bonnets in each square. It was the quilt I used on my bed growing up, and if I have a daughter, it will be hers.

5) How'd you come up with your baby's name?

I think H and I talked about baby names when we were just dating. Maybe we started talking about names when one of H's nephews was born? Anyway, we started listing names, and had completely different taste. We each HATED the names the other one mentioned. One of us said the name Warren, and it was the first one we both liked, and it's the name we ended up using six or seven years later.

6) What's your favorite thing to eat?

French silk pie. I don't think I've had any for over a year! I will have to rectify that soon.

7) Put your iPod on "shuffle" and list the first five songs that come up.

• Television, Television by OK Go
• New Way Home by Foo Fighters
• Where Is My Mind? by The Pixies
• You've Got to Hide Your Love Away performed by Pearl Jam
• Gone by Kelly Clarkson

I love that R's treasured possession is a quilt, and I'm amused that I don't know any of the songs on her playlist. And I wish I knew where I'd put the recipe for French silk pie that a friend gave me umpteen years ago...

The Monkey Bread Birthday

So, because the girl turned six last week, we threw her a birthday party. And, like all of the other parties we’ve had for her, we had it at home. Because, to me, that’s what you do. I realize that I’m swimming against the current here – in the several years that the girlie’s been going to other people’s parties, only one other kid has had parties at home. All the others – and she seems to get invited to a lot of parties – have been at commercial venues of one kind or another: bowling alley / gym / beauty parlor / ice cream shop / Burger King / pizza place.

Last spring, at a fundraiser, I bought a gift certificate to a place that does cooking classes for kids, thinking that I could use it for her birthday. When I called up to discuss it with them, it turned out that even with the gift certificate, it was going to cost me way more than I wanted to spend. But because I liked the idea of a cooking party, and because we love to cook, we made our own party – which I am going to relate in mundane detail, in the hopes of convincing more people to party on at home.

I ordered plain white kid-sized aprons from Dharma Trading, along with fabric markers. In advance, we stenciled each kid’s name on an apron using fabric paint. When the kids arrived, they decorated their aprons.

Then, they went outside for an egg and spoon race championship, complete with real eggs and a bracket chart (and, yes, we made them run uphill). Luckily, we had unseasonably wonderful weather – but pin-the-hat-on-the-chef would have been the rainy day back up. [While they were outside, we set up the table for monkey bread making.]



Back inside, they donned their aprons, rolled up their sleeves and “made” monkey bread. I’d made a huge quantity of the dough the day before. Each kid got an 8” cake pan and a lump of dough, and they shared several bowls of melted butter, and of cinnamon-sugar. We’d had the foresight to put a drop cloth under the dining room table, otherwise I think the rug would be on the curb now. They made dough balls, dipped them in butter & sugar, and filled up their pans.

After a good hand-washing all around, the girlie opened her presents. [While that was going on, we re-set the dining table for cake.]

Lastly came singing and cake, singing complete with "cha-cha-cha", and chocolate cake with raspberry fluff icing. The cake recipe came from The Cake Bible; the icing was Julia Child’s italian meringue with a couple of blobs of seedless raspberry preserves beat in.

The small guests went home with an apron, a monkey bread ready for the oven, a recipe card* and a wooden spoon.

Lest you think we did this all without help, think again. The girlie’s grandmother – a once schoolteacher – helped out with apron decorating and monkey-breading. Several parents stayed and got pressed into service. All the grownups got wine & nibbles for their troubles.

And I collapsed into a fragrant, unctuous bubble bath.

Yeah - it's a lot of work. But it was a whole lot of fun.


*If you want the recipe, let me know and I'll email it to you.

Things Learned From My Mother: Thrift

When I was a little girl, sleeping in the wrought iron bed with brass finial balls that is now my daughter's, I slept under a quilt that my mother had made. It wasn't anything complicated, just 4" patchwork squares. She quilted a lot, my mother. She made pillows, and clothes, and blanket-like quilts out of old wool suiting backed with fleece. The summer before I went to college, we made a quilt together. Mostly, I made it, with her guidance, but I think of it as something we did together. Again, it was nothing fancy, a rail fence pattern made with 2" x 6" rectangles, shades of blue anchoring each patch. It's not even quilted, but merely tied with white wool - a tie at each four square meeting.


That quilt is now on my daughter's bed, that self-same iron bed I'd slept on when I was her age. Because it was made from fabric scraps of many vintages, including fabric from my childhood, and from my mother's, some of the pieces are failing. Every so often, I cut a handful more patches, iron the edges, and contemplatively appliqué them into place. If I'm feeling fancy, I'll do a little crazy quilt embroidery in a contrasting color, but mostly I'm just trying to fix the holes and keep the decay at bay.


Over the weekend, I realized it was beyond hand-sewing - there were far too many holes, split seams, frayed patches. Someone else might have thrown in the towel and headed for a department store for a cozy new comforter; I headed for the sewing machine. Casting tradition to the winds, I machine-appliquéd new rectangles, and machine-darned some of the seams, sewing all the way through to the backing.

Even as I was doing it, I questioned my sanity. But I have to keep fixing that quilt. My initials are on the corner, and my initials are the same as my child's (though I see some broken stitching in the "M" which I ought to address). It's her quilt and mine, and my mother's too, and it wraps us in memory and thrift.

Now We Are Six

The A. A. Milne poem titled The End is obligatory upon becoming six:

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three
I was hardly Me.

When I was Four,
I was not much more.

When I was Five,
I was just alive.

But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.

Happy birthday, clever little goose.

Stigma // Taboo

"The In The Know Short Film Competition sought to eliminate the stigma of infertility and encourage couples who have struggled with infertility to share their stories and lend support for other couples hesitant in openly discussing their journey."

I know. Who'd a thunk it? An infertility film festival? But I was there the other night, as the guest of the very lovely Mel, Queen of the Stirrup Queens and The Land of If, who happened to be one of the judges. We had drinks and snacks, we saw the three films that made the finals, and Mel and I talked about the ballet.

But go back and read that opening paragraph. Stigma. A few of the speakers at the event used the word "stigma", and it rattled me, enough so that I had to look it up in the dictionary, because there is nothing better than pulling a redolent dusty dictionary off the shelf for some aimless archeology.

Stigma: 1. a mark of disgrace or infamy; a stain or reproach, as on one's reputation

Or

Stigma: In sociological theory, a stigma is an attribute, behavior, or reputation which is socially discrediting in a particular way: it causes an individual to be mentally classified by others in an undesirable, rejected stereotype rather than in an accepted, normal one.

Being infertile does not disgrace you, it doesn't detract from your character, it doesn't mark you in any way, it doesn't make you into an outcast. However, it is something that people don't generally talk about, a taboo subject.

Why is that? And what can we do? Talk about it.

After my husband and I got married, we stopped using birth control and started trying to have a baby. And whenever anyone asked, I coyly deflected the question of "when are you going to have kids" with "we have cats". I did this so successfully that when I told people I was pregnant - eight years into the marriage - they said "we thought you didn't want children". If I had talked about it, perhaps someone would have suggested a medical investigation sooner - because I just didn't realize that yeah, your fertility decreases as you get older. In retrospect, I was an idiot.

Besides the happy production of a child, the experience of doctors and needles and dildo cams and surgeries and so many blood draws it's amazing that I'm not anemic made me hyper-aware of other women struggling with infertility - almost as though I developed a sixth sense for it, an intuition. And once you start talking about it, it's there, and there, and oh, there too. It's everywhere. It's one in eight couples.

Reading infertility blogs was my gateway into blogging. After reading for a while, I started writing, and while I'm in no way an "infertility blogger", having come to blogging after my fertility treatment days were over, I still feel a resonance there, and it's how I met Mel in the first place.

Incidentally, there's a fine irony in the phrase "stigma of infertility". One of the definitions of "stigma" has to do with something at the very core of conception - the release of the ripe egg from the ovary.

"A stigma in mammalian reproductive anatomy refers to the area of the ovarian surface where the Graafian follicle will burst through during ovulation and release the ovum."

Infertility isn't a stigma, and it shouldn't be a taboo.

In Which We Mock The Supermarket

There is a simple joy in going to the supermarket with my husband, but without our child. It's calm. There are no pleas for this (No, we are not getting Dora fruit rollups), or that (No, we're not going to buy Gogurt). And we can pause to contemplate the absurd, like "milk flavoring straws".


You drink your milk with this product, and it tastes like Oreos? For twenty five cents a straw? Are those crumbled Oreos glued to the inside of the straw? I am mystified.

Or how about Pirates of the Caribbean bubble bath?



Come on, everyone knows that pirates don't bathe. And when they get smelly? They jump in the sea and swim around the ship. They don't take bubble baths, and they certainly don't want to smell like "Mariner Musk".

What got me thoroughly grossed out, though, was a small stack of plastic containers of freshly cooked pumpkin. Not processed, in a can, like solid pack pumpkin (which I've been hearing is in short supply for the coming pumpkin pie holiday). Nah, this is like the store decided to repurpose the unsold Halloween pumpkins by cooking them, and scooping the flesh, and packing it.



No expiration date, and it was shelved over by the dairy department, not in produce where you might expect. I think I'll stick to apple pie, thanks.

I've Spawned an Auteur

If you give a kid a camera, she's going to want to make a movie.

Foreign Phrases

The Bloggess is in Japan. Her Japanese is, apparently, lacking. My foreign language skills are mediocre, though je parle un peu Français and ich spreche ein bißchen Deutsch.

The only thing that my husband knows how to say in Italian is "your eyes are the color of my Ferrari" (which, if you think about it, is damning with faint praise, since a Ferrari is nearly always red). I can say "you're dog shit" in Chinese, but that's it.

And once upon a time, my sister got off an airplane in Brazil having memorized only one phrase out of her guidebook, from the going-to-the-doctor section, namely "please remove your trousers and underpants", which wasn't much use when she got pulled aside by Brazilian immigration because she didn't have a proper visa.

Please, tell me the odd phrases that you know, in your choice of language other than English.

Savory Sweet Potatoes

I know I've said this before, but one of the things about the CSA is that it is strangely liberating to have no choice in what you get. You must cook the sweet potatoes, even though you'd never have bought them in the first place. So you try to find a way to like the sweet potatoes (or fill-in-the-blank with your own personal bête noire).

Yesterday, when faced with a need to make dinner and a need to address the largish bag of sweet potatoes, I turned to Twitter/Facebook, and asked for help.



The replies poured in. Apparently people have strong feelings about sweet potatoes. Go figure. However, there’s no consensus! Lots of people want to turn them into something so sweet that it might as well be dessert:

• Brown sugar, but not a ton, butter, and cinnamon if your tastes go that way.
• Add butter and brown sugar, LOTS.
• With pecans and brown sugar. Tastes like candy.
• Marshmallows baby, marshmallows.

Then there was the mashed and/or fried contingent:

• Two tone potatoes (complete with a link provided by Thordora)
• Mash & add some fresh lime juice--brightens them up. Or sweet potato latkes.
• Mashed. Or make 'em like baked french fries in the oven.
• I love sweet potato fries.
• Sweet potato fries, made with olive oil in the oven, plus salt.
• Sweet potato fries. Why does anyone make fries with regular potatoes?

There were a bunch of outliers:

• Pie 'em.
• Roasted together with various other potatoes and balsamic vinegar.
• I make a savory gratin: thin slices, some crumbled sausage and seasoning between layers, pour white sauce over, top with bread crumbs, bake covered except the last few minutes.
• Roasted with olive oil, sea salt and brown sugar.
• I always love them in a casserole. No marshmallows, but with walnuts and bourbon.
• Sweet potatoes are nice in stew. Or candied.
• Go to Japan and get a roasted sweet potato from the yaki imo man! Delish!!!

But Midlife Mama had a whole mess of suggestions:

Roasted with rosemary, red peppers, and regular potatoes. Or cut into "fries" and roasted with a spicy mix--chili powder, cumin, cinnamon, salt. Or sliced in rounds, layered in a shallow casserole with leeks also sliced into rounds and lots of butter (sweet potatoes anna). Substituted for squash or pumpkin in breads, muffins, cakes. Then again, I love them, so anything is good.

I riffed on her first idea, and came up with something that even the husband liked - earlier he'd been insisting that sweet potatoes would make him gag. I peeled and chunked some white potatoes, some sweet potatoes and an onion. I chopped up some garlic, and a sweet red pepper. We still have rosemary in the garden, so I minced a spring of it, and tossed everything together in a baking dish, with a glug or two of olive oil, and some kosher salt. It went into a 350° oven for about 45 minutes, at which point I tossed in some chopped cooked bacon that was in the freezer, and baked it for another 15 minutes. We ate it on top of some toothy polenta that I'd found at the Greenmarket last month, with a green salad alongside. And it was good.

Let's Review: The Prima Princessa Nutcracker

A big part of my childhood was seeing the New York City Ballet Nutcracker every couple of years. For me, it's the ur Nutcracker: the sets, the costumes, the choreography, the specifics of the plot. I love the movie of it that was made in 1997, even though Macaulay Caulkin should have been left on the cutting room floor - all he does is mug for the camera - but I guess they felt that they needed a "name" "star" for a theatrical release. I digress.

The child has been captivated by the Prima Princessa Swan Lake that I brought home from BlogHer, so I was happy when they offered to send me their new release: Prima Princessa Presents The Nutcracker. I'm happy to report that their Nutcracker is equally as charming as their Swan Lake.

Again, there's the animated fairy as narrator - intercut with pre-schoolers dancing around on the lawn and in the snow, serious young ballet students from the School of American Ballet demonstrating steps like passé, glissade and sauté, and clips from the San Francisco Ballet's Nutcracker.

You get the flavor of the ballet's story, in a kind of Cliff Notes way. I was interested in seeing the bits of the SF Nutcracker - the differences between it and NYCB were fascinating to me (the mouse king gets done in by a mousetrap, Mother Ginger has a pet bear). There's a little education going on - you see ballet steps as demonstrated in a classroom, as attempted by the little ones, and in the choreography. And while the DVD is likely to appeal to little girls, the producers were careful to include male dancers: there are little boys cavorting around, and boys demonstrating steps in ballet class, and plenty of men in the stage production.

I was disappointed that the credits didn't identify any of the dancers (or if they do, I completely missed it) and I couldn't find that information on the Prima Princessa website. But I'm the kind of geek that wants to know who's who - most people probably don't care. (I'm guessing that all of the SF Ballet footage was from their fairly recent DVD of The Nutcracker.)

The verdict from the five year old? "I love that movie."

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Disclosure: I got a free copy of this DVD from the producer. If you buy it on Amazon, it'll cost you about $11.49. No one paid me for this review.

The Nightgown

She went off to the undertaker in a nightgown. A soft cotton-knit nightgown from Lands' End. Heather grey, with a henley neck and a handful of buttons and long sleeves. It hung to below the knee, and had side slits at the hem.

I'd bought it for her around the time she started sleeping in the living room. All of her other nightgowns were cotton flannel, and harder to get on and off; the stretchy knit was easier. Over time, though, both side slits tore farther up the seam. All of that pulling and rolling and tugging - to change the diaper, change the bedding, get her positioned in her bed just so - took its toll on the fragile seams, already weakened by the slit running up from the hem.

She went off to the undertaker in a nightgown with ripped seams. I wonder, did they take it off, that nightgown? Did the funeral home send it off to St. Vincent de Paul? Or did she go to the crematorium in that nightgown?

It was one of the last things that I bought her.

Stories that Stick

Books. I surround myself with books. There are books in every room in the house, save the bathrooms, because I think reading on the toilet is wrong. There's a pile next to the bed that'll hurt if it falls over, there's always a book in my bag, and my Amazon wish list (which is more like an aide-mémoire) is longer than my arm. I compulsively catalog books read via Good Reads because I like making lists, and I like spending time on my couch dipping into long ago read books as though meeting old friends.

Some number of times in my recent wanderings in cyberspace, I've come across the meme that Sweet/Salty Kate started in connection with the imminent release of her pirate book, The Dread Crew. Reading these posts is kind of exhilarating, and daunting. Huh, I never read that, it sounds great. And, yes, I loved that book. But, no way, that's a terrible piece of dreck.

So you know I had to do the meme:

1) You are facing an epic journey. You may choose one companion, one tool and one vehicle from any book or film to accompany you. Or just one of the three. It's up to you. What do you choose?

As companion, I'd take Stephen Maturin (from the Patrick O'Brian books), because he's smart and sensitive, and a spy and a doctor, and he plays the cello in his spare time. As tool, I'd take the alethiometer from The Golden Compass - after all, it tells the truth. The vehicle would have to be one of James Bond's cars as breathed upon by Q.

2) You can escape to the insides of any book. Where do you go, and why?

To the estate of Malplaquet, in Mistress Masham's Repose. The heroine is an orphan, doing battle with her evil governess and a dastardly cleric, with the help of the kindly cook and a distracted professor. There are Lilliputians! And maps for endpapers! It's magic.

3) You can bring one literary character into your current life. Who do you choose, and why?

Lord Peter Wimsey would be fun to hang out with. He's smart and rich and cultivated, and he drives a fine car.

4) The 27th Kingdom is my go-to book. I could read that book fifty-seven times in a row without a break for food or a pee and not be remotely bored. In fact I’ve already done that but it wasn’t fifty-seven times. It was sixty-four.

5) Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most enviable?

I wanted to be Claudia, in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. She runs away, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and then solves a mystery.

6) Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most frightening?

I read The Crying of Lot 49 when I was 16, and it terrified me. And I can't remember why. I sort of want to re-read it and see if it's still terrifying, and I sort of want to let sleeping dogs lie.

7) Every time I read A Room With A View, I see something in it that I haven’t seen before.

8) It is imperative that The Dread Crew be made into a movie. Now. I am already picketing Hollywood for this—but if they cast Hugh Grant as Johnnie Golden, I will not be happy. I will, however, be appeased if they cast Peter Stormare.

9) A Suitable Boy is a book that should never be made (or should have never been made) into a film.

10) After all these years, the gynecological instruments scene in the book/movie Dead Ringers still manages to give me the queebs.

11) After all these years, the wedding scene in the book/movie The Philadelphia Story still manages to give me a thrill.

12) If I could corner the author Charles Palliser, here’s what I’d say to him in one minute or less about their book, The Quincunx: But what about Johnnie's inheritance?

13) The coolest non-fiction book I’ve ever read is Water in the lake. Every time I flip through it, it makes me want to put a book in the freezer and add mindful whimsy to my life.

Here's hoping that Kate's book is a story that sticks!

Honestly Honesty

Nora thought I might have something interesting to say.

1. There's a "flat cat" on the shelf in my office. She's been with me in every office I've worked in, for more than 20 years.
2. I came with only two wisdom teeth. They're dormant and non-threatening. I like to tell my husband that I'm on the cutting edge of evolution, because we don't need wisdom teeth.
3. My daughter asked me last night if I ever wore shirts that weren't either black, or white. Rarely! I pointed out that I'd had a grey shirt on last week, but then we discussed that grey was a mix of black AND white. So, she might be right. Is it because of children that people decide to dress more colorfully? I am wearing a green sweater today. With a white shirt and jeans.
4. I do have a pair of red shoes.
5. After breakfast, and before getting dressed, I like nothing better than to crawl back into my still warm bed with a cup of coffee, just for a few minutes, alone.
6. The only team sport I have ever done was crew, and it wasn't even real crew. It was in college, and it was intramural crew, in bargelike training shells. But the feel of slipping across the water, pulling, pushing, all in unison, was magical and exhilarating.
7. Sharks patrol these waters.
8. There are two suction lizards on the tile walls of our shower. I get sad when one falls off and gets scooped up into the bucket of the girl's bath toys - I think it's lost and gone for ever.
9. I feel banal today.
10. But perhaps I am a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

You?

With My Friendship For This Reason

Great gems sometimes drop into my lap, like this letter that arrived in my office yesterday, from an autograph seeker in Spain (seeking someone else's autograph, not mine).

It reads as though it was badly translated by a robot, so to amuse myself, I stuck it into Babelfish and translated it from English to Italian and back again. Herewith:

Me a lot and series a great relative honor that has the company/companies and that it designs nell' accumulation of the artists of the dance, thus attached he it corresponding paper so that I pray me that it compliments. Un' illustration its has dedicated un' image to me. Thanks a lot for that reason and to attend its news much pleasant he salutes with my friendship.

You could do it all day long, like some demented electronic game of Telephone. I did wend my way through to German, back to English, to Russian, back to English again.

With thanks are much its pleasant communications themselves in order to ensure much [gostepriimsva] it with my friendship for this reason i.

With my friendship for this reason. It's the found poetry at the end of the exercise.

Thursday Thirteen In My Pants

When Alejna commands you to add pants to everything, one must obey. More specifically, her edict was to append "in my pants" to a random selection of song titles obtained by using the shuffle feature in iTunes. So I did.

1. Speeding Motorcycle In My Pants (Yo La Tengo)
2. I Cried Last Night In My Pants (Junior Kimbrough)
3. Heart of Stone In My Pants (Rolling Stones)
4. Shine On Harvest Moon In My Pants (Leon Redbone)
5. April After All In My Pants (Elvis Costello/Anne Sofie von Otter)
6. So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright In My Pants (Simon & Garfunkel)
7. Love Is For Strangers In My Pants (Luciana Souza)
8. Because The Night In My Pants (Bruce Springsteen)
9. Freight Train In My Pants (Peggy Seeger)
10. Big Yellow Taxi In My Pants (Joni Mitchell)
11. Private Idaho In My Pants (B-52s)
12. I've Got To See You Again In My Pants (Norah Jones)
13. The Valley In My Pants (k.d. lang)

The performing artist is in parentheses. The composer/songwriter is not listed.

A pants-less aside: It is a frequent frustration for me that the performer is supreme in the iPod metadata - while the composer can be included in the "info" panel of iTunes, that information doesn't flow over to the iPod. So, while I have two copies of April After All on my iPod, one by Elvis and Anne, and the other by Ron Sexsmith, there's no way to know that the song was written by Ron Sexsmith and and, therefore, that the Elvis/Anne version is a cover. Although I do know it. But I digress. Though while I'm at it? Freight Train was written by Elizabeth Cotten. And The Valley was written by Jane Siberry. In fact, only six of the above songs were written by the above listed performers. Which six? For bonus points, discuss the history of #8.

If you want to play, consider yourself tagged, in your pants. You can skip the singer/songwriter/composer performer discussion.

Wardrobe Pink Wednesday

Stripes and flowers and ruffles and ears. Pink goes with pink, right? This outfit, sans kitty ears, was what she wore for picture day at school. And I'm sure that she would have tried to wear the kitty ears for picture day, except they only just came in the mail from the pinkalicious Painted Maypole!

Why do we get disturbing thoughts?

Why oh why did someone visit my blog early this morning using the search terms "review best pomegranate juice" and then, instead of leaving a comment on a post that’s two months old, send me a 532 word email about research done in Israel on the benefits of pomegranate juice?

What is it with Amanda Hesser and her twins? Just today, someone was looking for "'amanda hesser' twins preschool" – I hope they aren’t planning to stalk her, not that they would have found any information on my site. And it’s not the first time – according to Google Analytics, Amanda Hesser is one of the top ten searches that land on my blog.

Four of the top ten searches are for Lava Girl costumes. And I’m terribly sorry, but our Lava Girl costume doesn’t have anything to do with the Lavagirl character. Kid told me she wanted to be Lava Girl, and described the costume she wanted. She’d never seen Lavagirl, I’d never even heard of the character. But apparently, a lot of people want to be Lavagirl for Halloween.

Checking Sitemeter this morning, (because of the pomegranate email, I rarely bother unless I want to try and pinpoint a recent comment), I found that three of the 100 last visitors reached my blog because they were looking for information on the price of a colonoscopy, or how much insurance would pay. That’s sad, and speaks to the incredible lack of transparency in the health care industry.

And if you're wondering about the post title, it was another Google search. Go figure. Why do we get disturbing thoughts, anyway?

Monday Mission: Nonet

Beige grains in the old green Mason jar
In suspended animation
Await warm water and food.
Feed them the miller’s wheat,
Flavor them with salt.
Knead, rest, rise, bake:
Crusty joy,
Magic.
Bread.

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This post has been a Monday Mission, this week's mission being to write a post in the form of a Tanga or a Nonet. I think I'm done writing about bread, at least for a while.

The Staff of Life, part 2

The close reader may well have wondered why I made two different loaves of bread the other day. One was the crusty little boule that accompanied our soup and salad dinner; the other was a basic sandwich loaf for school lunches and toast breakfasts.

I can, and do, make a nice plain white bread by hand, with the usual kneading and whatnot. But more often, I rely on a shortcut - a homemade mix done up in the bread machine.

The recipe is pretty basic - the only non-dry ingredients are water and butter. In assembly line fashion, I measure out all of the dry stuff (flour, salt, yeast, sugar, powdered milk) into one quart plastic containers. Usually I batch up four quarts at a time, in addition to making a loaf right then and there. The mix gets stored in the fridge - which isn't completely necessary, but yeast keeps longer at cold temperatures. (I buy yeast in bulk and keep it in the freezer.) When it's time to make a loaf, I just need to add water and butter. Most of the time, I use the bread machine only for the knead and first rise - because I don't love the way it bakes the bread. It's easy enough to plop the dough into a bread pan for the second rise and bake it in the oven.

Why bother? Because it's cheaper than buying supermarket bread, and it's not full of ingredients that I can't pronounce.

Turn Down Your Thermostat

Did you know that is Blog Action Day, and that this year's theme is Climate Change? I'd forgotten until Ilina posted a list of simple ways to be more environmentally conscious. Her list is pretty comprehensive, but she forgot one thing: turn down your thermostat in the winter. She's forgiven, though, because she lives in the south.

We haven't yet turned on the heat in our house - partially out of frugality, partially out of energy consciousness - even though the early morning outside temperatures have been in the 30s, and it is decidedly chilly in the house. (There hasn't yet been a frost.) Last year, we made it to the beginning of November; the other day, my husband quipped that we should aim for the first of December.

Once we do deign to put the heat on, we use a programmable thermostat that keeps the heat at 55°F at night and during the middle of the day. For the morning and evening rush, the temperature spikes up to 64°F. On weekends, we compromise at 60°F during the day. Yeah, it's not toasty warm in the house, but move around! Wear a sweater!

Tonight, I'll probably dig out the second duvet - I layer a newish medium weight one with a worn out thin one to get a nice winter weight down comforter.

And I'm not going to turn on the heat until I have to.

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Edited to add - Apparently, it's snowing big juicy clumps at home. At work? Just rain. Perhaps we won't make it to the end of the month...

Wisdom and Knowledge

There is something magnificent about the (biblical) slogan above the entrance to the RCA Building, also known as 30 Rock or the GE Building. Alas, wisdom and knowledge have been denigrated and are no longer held in esteem. When wisdom and knowledge are again admired, will stability return?

The Staff of Life

I spent yesterday puttering around in the kitchen, making two different loaves of bread, a pot of squash soup, toasted squash seeds (as a garnish for the soup), and a plum cake. I could go on and on about the mediocre soup, the awesome seeds, and the excellent cake which the child wouldn't eat. But I won't. I need to proselytize instead.

On a hunch not too long ago, maybe as a result of a stray comment from Mad, I bought a copy of Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day. It's seriously easy, and seriously wonderful. The basic recipe has four ingredients (flour, water, salt, yeast). There is no kneading, and no special equipment is needed. The five minutes a day part isn't hyperbole. And, as I said to my husband last night, there's no reason to buy bread ever again.

You could run out and buy a copy of the book - but if you don't want to spend the money, you're in luck! The good grey lady ran the recipe and it's available on the internet - for nothing! (Is it any wonder that newspapers and book publishers are struggling?)

In essence, you make a big batch of wet dough, let it sit for a while, yank off a piece, tidy it up and let it rest, and then fling it into a hot oven. The leftover dough goes into the fridge until you're ready for another loaf. That's it. A perfect crusty little boule.

What are you waiting for?

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Tangentially, "the staff of life" popped into my head as the right name for this post and because I am wont to do so, I googled it. The phrase, that is. Luckily for me, I found a blogger who had tried to chase down that phrase already, because I was getting lost in the biblical and the Latin and the Hebrew. It's confusing, the staff of life.

Why Yes, I Am A Nerd

Did you know I was a nerd? I kind of am. I like word games, like Scrabble (in the flesh and on FaceBook) and Moxie (on my iPhone). I spent countless hours in college playing Boggle with my roommate, while we listened to Springsteen and drank Black Russians. I think logic puzzles – the kind that you need a grid (and a pencil eraser) to figure out – are fun. Back in the day, I got an 800 on the analytic section of the GRE. Most mornings, I do the Ken-Ken in the Times, though it makes me crazy when they print it across the fold.

I have a Nintendo DS, but the games I had for it never really grabbed my attention. I tried MillionHeir/Mystery Case Files – but it’s kind of tedious, and not terribly challenging (and the music is annoying). Rhythm Heaven is fun, but it’s more about timing, not logic. But what’s really gotten under my skin?

Professor Layton.

I haven’t played the first one (Curious Village), but I’m in the midst of the Diabolical Box and it’s enchanting. It has a meandering little story line with a lot of puzzles – some tricky, some simple, many varieties. The scenery and people are somewhat reminiscent of those in the Miyazaki films. Sometimes the story advances through little videos, sometimes it’s more interactive in that you have to "talk" to the characters you encounter. I like that you can play it with the sound off because all of the dialogue is also shown as sub-titles - but the spoken dialogue is pretty well acted, with a mess of British accents. The puzzles are clever, and there's a "memo" feature that lets you scribble on the screen to figure out sums or paths. I did, however, resort to modeling a cube out of folded paper to solve one of the brainteasers.

The only bad thing? It's keeping me from reading! Instead of climbing into bed with my current book, I'm playing a video game. My husband thinks I've lost my mind. In point of fact though, I may be exercising it to enhance plasticity and stave off forgetfulness. Good justification, right?

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Disclosure: The lovely ladies at Brand About Town sent me a copy of Professor Layton and the Diabolical Box; I didn't pay for it. They neither asked for a review, nor paid for one.

True Confessions

Laugh Mom's guest post at Aiming Low - in which she confesses to her small child that she, too, had peed in the pool - prompts me to reveal something that I've been holding close to my heart for a very long time.

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I peed in Madeleine Albright's swimming pool. I was a mere child, and she was decades away from becoming Secretary of State.

Your turn. What's your true confession for today?

I Never Learned How To Be A Girl

How is it that I never learned how to be a girl? A real girlische girlie girl?

When I was a child, my mother would get dressed up to go out to dinner, or to the ballet, and she'd put on make-up (and Youth Dew). Not a lot, but a spot of blush and some lipstick, and maybe a little eye shadow. And she always painted her toenails, and for a while she had a hairpiece, a fake bun thing that attached to the back of her head with a comb.

In the past week, two bloggers have posted about the contents of their bathroom cabinets: Mayberry's daughter had a "playdate makeover" which involved serious quantities of lipstick, eye shadow and nail polish, and Ilina catalogued the astonishing amount of "product" under her bathroom sink.

I confess to owning two bottles of nail polish - one pale pink for bribing the child ("I'll paint your toenails if you let me cut them first"), one dark metallic grey to horrify the husband. My usual morning toilette is simple: I take a shower, put moisturizer on my face and legs, brush my hair, apply deodorant, and I'm done. I'm semi-convinced that the reason that the skin on my face looks good is because I never wash it. Instead, I rely on the water rinsing off from the top of my head. I don't wear eye shadow, mascara, blush or lipstick; I never polish my fingernails; I paint my toenails with the afore-mentioned dark grey once every couple of summers; and though I did dye a blue streak in my hair twice this year, I've never otherwise colored my (greying) hair.

My daughter, therefore, is growing up with an unpainted role model. I dress casually, in jeans 95% of the time, I make my own pie crust, I patch and repatch her patchwork quilt. I'm some kind of quasi-hippie, crunchy around the edges. And I'm worried about backlash. Is my daughter destined to grow up and never leave the house without foundation and fake lashes?

Chanterelle

Last week's news that Chanterelle had closed made me sad. It's not like I was a regular or anything, but it's the only really high end restaurant that I've had the great good fortune to eat at more than once - maybe ten times in the past twenty years. Some of those times were galas; I work for a non-profit and for several years running we did a fancy fabulous dinner at Chanterelle as a fund-raising event. But some of those meals were just dinners out, for a birthday, an occasion, a celebration. And there are memory fragments from those evenings seared into my head. I can conjure up the taste of an appetizer, a layered terrine of 1/8" stripes of beef shin and foie gras, the unctuous foie gras contrasted with the meaty beef, enhanced with a dribbles of a vaguely Asian sauce. Squirreled away in my jewelry box is an irregular pearl - the bonus in a diver-caught Maine scallop that my husband ate one night. For a while, a good friend worked in the kitchen - which meant extra dishes just because, and once, a raucous late night game of ibble-dibble with the waitstaff after the restaurant had closed. Another night, it snowed. We sat snugly in the warm golden room, watching the snow fall through the big windows.

The food was perfect, the setting was elegant without being stuffy, and the waitstaff was the antithesis of supercilious. Thank you. We'll miss you.

At the Intersection of Blog and Child Rearing

The first grader brings home an eccentric mishmosh of books from the school library. The other day, it was a book about Korea - a "photographic alphabet" called K is for Korea. I think she'd asked for a book about either China or Japan; somehow she ended up with Korea.

In any case, I duly read the book to her one evening, and was amused to find the entry for the letter G:
Perhaps my next blog should be called Ggachi Gamboling.

Meat

Did you read the appalling story about meat and E. coli in yesterday's New York Times? You will never eat ground beef from the supermarket again. One of the most egregious comments was from one Dr. Kenneth Petersen of the USDA, who was quoted as follows:

Dr. Kenneth Petersen, an assistant administrator with the department’s Food Safety and Inspection Service, said that the department could mandate testing, but that it needed to consider the impact on companies as well as consumers. “I have to look at the entire industry, not just what is best for public health,” Dr. Petersen said.

I'm sorry, but letting corporations dance willy-nilly on the packing house floor without putting public health first is criminal and cynical. The impact on companies should not be a consideration when addressing the health and safety of the food supply for the American public. I hope that Dr. Petersen has had his head handed to him and I faxed a letter to that effect to his boss.

Ever since reading Fast Food Nation, we've tried hard to eliminate supermarket meat from our diet. In each of the past two years, we've bought about a quarter of a steer - grass fed, locally raised, artisanally butchered, excellent beef. The meat is not hugely more expensive than what comes from the supermarket - we pay one price per pound, not less for ground beef and more for filet - though we do have to lay out the cash for a lot of meat all at once, and have freezer space to hold it all.

We know where to get live chickens in our county (though we opt for the recently dead ones), and I can find humanely raised pork and lamb at the Greenmarket. And since joining the CSA a few years ago, our diet - especially in the summer/fall - has skewed towards vegetables. Meat's become an accent, an occasional meal.

I don't think humans should forgo meat - animals eat animals, after all - but I do think that it's incumbent upon us to do it as graciously as possible, and to remember what Michael Pollan said: "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants."

Wordless Wednesday: Canning

My Italian grandmother of a husband has been at it again. A bushel of tomatoes, and a half a bushel of peaches, have become:

• Tomato sauce (a/k/a pommarola)
• Halved tomatoes packed in puree
• Bolognese sauce
• Tomato puree (1 jar)
• Peach halves in light syrup
• Spiced peach butter
• Peach syrup

Warm

She climbs into our bed
somewhere in the middle
of the night
and throws an arm over me,
proprietary,
"you're mine, Mama".

I have a hard time denying her,
me,
this simple pleasure.

Someday she won't want
such sweet proximity,
she'll cut her apron strings,
she'll grow into her own,
she'll proudly sleep all night in her own bed.

But now,
the little, warm, sleeping body
with the heavy arm draped across my belly
is far closer to the babe in the womb
- my babe -
than I'd ever thought possible
almost six years ago.

She takes my breath away.

On Language

Dear C&B2:

"Cylinder" is not a verb.

Yours,

Magpie


The news that William Safire has died leaves me a bit wistful. On the one hand, his politics were execrable. On the other, his explorations of language both written and oral were erudite and entertaining, not to mention a reason to open the New York Times magazine every Sunday. And, though it was words for Spiro Agnew, you have to respect one who can pen such an ace archetype of alliteration as "nattering nabobs of negativism".

I do believe that he would have agreed that "cylinder" is not a verb.

Forty Nine

Seven squared.

Indium.

The number of strings on a harp.

The number of keys on a celesta

The code for international direct dial phone calls to Germany.

The Crying of Lot 49.

Alaska.

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William Faulkner was born on this day. So were Mark Rothko, Ethel Rosenberg and Glenn Gould. Emily Post died on the 25th of September. And it's the feast day of Saint Finbarr.

But today? Today, today? It's my husband's birthday. Happy birthday, sweetie.

Greek Synchronicity

The inimitable Niobe finds all manner of electronic ephemera, most recently the website of the Oracle of Delphi. One of my teeth has been bugging me, so I thought I'd address the problem to the Oracle.

You have asked:
What's the matter with my tooth?

I respond:
Find glory in a storied industry
Whose wrought chronologies be not to scale.

My dentist, whose office is adorned with a cringe inducing foot-powered drill and and antique dental cabinet of many small drawers, will be amused to hear that his is a "storied industry".

Later in the day, I was poking around my child's elementary school's website. The site has links to some other educational sites, including the National Library of Virtual Manipulatives. Putting aside the weird jargon of "manipulatives", I was struck by the notion that children in the K-2 age group might be expected to know what the Sieve of Eratosthenes is. Do you know? I'd never heard of it, but, as ever, Wikipedia elucidated me: it's an algorithm for finding prime numbers.

So, dear readers, where have you found Greek today?

Family Game Homework Night

I thought only Congress could decree things to be "National Day of Thus and Such", but Hasbro has proclaimed tonight to be "National Family Game Night".

And even though I'm kind of viscerally opposed to participating, sheep-like, in invented holidays, I rather like sitting down en famille and playing games. Unfortunately, while we could play Jenga, or Chutes and Ladders, or Pictureka tonight, I think we're stuck playing an Everyday Math version of War instead.

The joys of homework: it involves the entire family.

Let's Review: Recycled Pencils

Oh, I know, I've been down this road before, what with my evisceration of the Smencils and their packaging. But at some point while I was mulling over the whole recycled pencil situation, and poking around on the intertubes, I came across another purveyor of recycled pencils. One thing led to another, and a week or so later, I had a bunch of O'Bon pencils and a couple of their notebooks on my doorstep.


Let's start with the obvious: they're not scented. You don't need to wash your hands when you're done writing with them, because they're not scented. You don't have to wrinkle up your nose and cringe, because they're not scented. This is a good thing. The mere idea of scented pencils is just bewildering - why did someone think that was a good idea?

So, O'Bon = good, because they don't smell. But they are also fetchingly designed. The company sent me five packs of pencils. A dozen colored pencils, each one wrapped with a vibrant photograph of fruit in the appropriate color. Three 10 packs of black pencils: pop-art rainbows, animal prints, and my favorite, newsprint. And a set of artist pencils - 10 pencils graduated in hardness. Each set is packed in a cardboard box; the 10 packs are in an efficient triangular box - no plastic tubes! no vinyl case!

They sharpened easily, and did I mention that they don't smell?


The company's mission is pretty good, and unlike Smencils, I can't find any holes in their environmental argument. In their own words:

Why buy O'BON products such as O'BON pencils?

Multiple reasons. By using old newspaper to make our pencils, we aren't cutting down any trees or using any new raw materials to make our products. By choosing O'BON, our customers are making the better environmental choice. The graphite in the pencils are wrapped with used newspaper so tightly that the graphite inside is given a strong layer of protection. This means that the graphite hardly ever breaks, resulting in a pencil that lasts about 3 times longer than the average wood one. And to top it all off, our designs are the best in the business.

See for yourself. I can't possibly use all of the pencils I got, even what with having a first grader who has homework to do, so I'm giving away a set of the wildlife pencils and a matching notebook. Leave me a comment on this post before day's end on Friday, and I'll choose a winner at random. [Edited to add: Mama Goose wins the pencils and pad!]

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Disclosure: The company sent me 52 pencils and two notebooks, for which I paid nothing, but which have a retail value of under $30 in the aggregate. Nobody paid me for this review, and the giveaway was my idea.

Ave Verum Corpus

It's my mother's birthday. Or it would be. Actually, I guess it is. After all, January 27 is Mozart's birthday, and he's been dead for a lot longer than Moky has.

What to say, what to say? I kind of want to mark the day in somehow, and she has been in the back of my head all day.

In some strange detour on the web earlier, I found a plastic birdhouse that repels dogs - if the dog barks, the birdhouse makes a noise that shuts up the dog. It would have been a perfect gift, a yard ornament to combat the neighbor's barker that drove her bananas - especially because she'd never have spent $69 on a plastic birdhouse of dubious merit.

I thought about the last time I saw her - I kissed her cheek before the undertaker zipped her up. And then they bumped the removal trolley down the front steps and hoisted her into the waiting Cadillac hearse. At that point, my sister turned to me and said "she'd have hated that". "Yeah", I added, "it's a good thing it's so early that none of the neighbors are up."

She was easy to buy presents for - she was abstemious and frugal - so I could get her a stellar piece of cheese or some fancy chocolates or a soft and lovely sweater or the fleece hat she's wearing in the photo to the left or a brand-spanking-new hard cover book just out - and she would be pleased and tickled and happy to eat the cheese, washed down with some boxed wine. But a ride in a limo would have appalled her, just as she had no interest in manicures and massages - too indulgent, too ostentatious.

She would have been 74 today, and I wonder what she might have liked, this time, this year.

Happy birthday, Moky. Requiscat in Pace. And I hope Mozart is there singing the Ave Verum Corpus with you.



(Note: photo taken by my sister on my mother's 73rd birthday.)

Executive Chef

On the other hand, the fact that my husband isn't going to work every day means that he's cooking dinner every night. Oh, he cooked a lot before, but now he's got more time to devote to it, so it's not just hamburgers and a salad alternating with pasta. And I've become the executive chef. What's been happening is I look at the list of vegetables from the CSA, the list we keep on the fridge because otherwise stuff gets skanky because we forget about it, and I say "how about you make ______?"

We had beautiful baby Red River kale, plenty of onions, and one Delicata squash. So the other day, I suggested risotto with roasted squash, kale and caramelized onions. He makes a fine risotto, though he usually sticks to ham and peas, or ham and asparagus - but he was game for the vegetable variation I suggested. Both the squash and the onions take a while to do, so it's totally not the kind of thing you start after work.

I can't give you a recipe, but he roasted the squash, pulled it out of its shell, and chopped it. He cooked four onions until they were nice and golden brown. The squash and onions were added to the risotto about midway through. The kale got rough chopped and thrown into the risotto about five minutes before the end - just enough time to wilt it. There was plenty of parmesan involved.

And it was good.

Friable

Easily crumbled or crushed into powder. It’s how I’m feeling these days. I don’t think I’m toxic, as in friable asbestos, but I’m certainly frayed around the edges, and in need of binding. Or a new hem.

I don’t know why. Could be that it’s getting darker earlier. Could be that I keep getting calendar reminders that my mother’s birthday is – would be? – next week. Could be that the child is pushing all of my buttons. Could be that I’m just worried.

Sunday, we headed off in the car for an adventure – lunch and a garden tour. We hadn’t even gotten to the bottom of our street when the kid burst into hysterics and wailed that she wanted to go home. Naturally, I kept driving. She continued to sob, her father started to glower, and I wanted to leave the two of them on the side of the highway to walk home. As we pulled into the iconic roadside attraction hamburger joint for lunch, she sniffed and asked for a Coke – and perked right up when I said yes. A Coke, some chicken nuggets and a ride on the 50¢ helicopter and she was right as rain.

Like everyone else I know, I’m kind of worried about money. My husband has been out of work since April – not because he was laid off, but because he’s gone blind in one eye. When it first happened, he was told that there was a good chance that the vision that spontaneously disappeared would spontaneously return. It’s now been nearly six months, and there’s been no change. He received short term disability for a while, but that ran out, and the process of filing for long term disability is deeply convoluted and increasingly attenuated. So, we’re short a salary, and we’re paying more for health insurance, and there are property taxes and mortgages and bills bills bills to be paid, and the girlie needs new shoes. On top of the worry brought on by the eye problems and attendant absence of cash is the fact that I was hoping, dearly and not unreasonably hoping, that his job was going to morph into the kind of wonderful that would allow me to quit mine and find something part time and close to home. Alas, that wasn’t meant to be. And I shouldn’t whine – I do have a job after all, and we do have health insurance, and we do have a roof over our heads.

But I’m tired, and on Sunday, after we got home from our salvaged outing, I was struck by a palpable feeling of not rightness, a physical manifestation of whatever dark cloud is sitting on my soul right now. If you look at me sideways, I’ll burst into tears. I turned off my alarm this morning, and forgot to get up. I'm waylaid by inertia and I'm cranky to a fare-thee-well.

Do tell me that this too shall pass.

Wordless Wednesday: File Folders

It isn't the best photo, but I needed to memorialize the contents of a file drawer of my mother's. There's a file in there labeled "Nuts and Cranks" and another labeled "Madness". I don't even know what's in them, but it doesn't much matter, does it? Sometimes you can judge the book by its cover.

Let's Review: Reduced Calorie Orange "Juice"

Really, the only reason I bought a container of Trop50 was because I had a free coupon and a hare-brained idea for a so-called performance art piece for my own amusement. But then, once home, I had to try it. Right? Waste not, want not?

It cavorts in the grocery case with the real orange juice, all those 64 ounce cartons lined up, with a little pulp, a lot of pulp, no pulp at all, from concentrate, not from concentrate. But it's sneaky, it's a 59 ounce carton, a little taller than the others, a little bit more slender, and holding 8% less. Deceptive, if you ask me.

And it's got 50% less sugar and calories - because it's really not orange juice, it's an "orange juice beverage with vitamins", containing 42% juice. Here's the ingredients list, not including the vitamins and minerals:

Filtered water, not from concentrate pasteurized orange juice, modified food starch, citric acid, malic acid, natural flavors and Reb A (PureVia brand)

So, they took regular orange juice, watered it down, and added stuff back in - like sweetener (the Reb A, also known as stevia) and thickener (modified food starch) and flavor.

Okay, okay. The real question is - how does it taste? Frankly, it's not very good. I tried it side by side against a glass of regular Tropicana orange juice - in a blind tasting (yeah, I roped my husband into serving as my lab assistant). The Trop50 doesn't have the same mouthfeel of the orange juice, it tastes artificially sweetened, and it has a vaguely bitter, unpleasant aftertaste.

You want fewer calories than the 110 in an eight ounce glass of orange juice? Drink less juice. Or water it down yourself. Or drink water with a lemon wedge squeezed into it. Or just have a glass of water, and save all the calories for a nice, refreshing gin & tonic on the back porch at the end of the day.

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Disclosure: I got a free coupon for this "juice" at the BlogHer conference, so I paid nothing for it. And no one paid me for this review.