Does anyone remember the pants that ripped? Well, they ripped again. I have no idea how it happened this time. I just happened to notice it on a trip to the bathroom when I had been at work for hours. I didn't remember hearing a rip noise. And of course, the shirt I was wearing wasn't long enough to cover the hole. Nope, it was dead center. So I have two choices: 1.) Wear my coat for the rest of the day and it happened to be an unusually warm day in the office. Normally it's like a meat locker most days; or 2.) Figure out a way to fix it. Luckily, Victoria was able to help with the second option.
She pulls out a small sewing kit left from the a previous legal assistant who had tried to repair a torn silk skirt. For those of you taking notes, silk isn't exactly cooperative when it comes to repairing. Anyway, I spend part of my lunch break fixing the quarter-size hole in the seam of my dress pants. So now I'm even more skittish to wear these pants since I machine-stitched them closed. I just have to face the harsh reality of perhaps the pants are too small despite fitting everywhere else perfectly. *sigh*
I normally wear a pair of plain dress pants to work, so they're kinda my favorite. They had also had a previous touch-up because the shotty factory hemming came undone. So I bust out my handy dandy needle and thread and go to town. Everything's great until I start noticing that after one washing, some of the threads are loose. "Oh that's just from the previous sewing job since I didn't cut the extra threads when I was repairing them." Nope. That'd be my sewing job that's unraveling. So today again during my lunch break, I'll be borrowing Vicki's sewing kit (at least I brought my own thread this time) and fixing my pants in the handicap stall. I should just set up shop there. Be my own little tailoring side business. Just have people who need repairs leave their items in the handicap stall on my floor. Or even better, repairs while you wait. You're already able to be preoccupied being in the bathroom. Or not.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Funky Chicken, Revisited
I decided after yesterday's rant, I would give the chicken another try. Start off slow by cooking the chicken in something per Victoria's suggestion to ease myself back into the poultry world. So I went to Campbell's website and poked around because I had heard they had easy, quick recipes involving, big surprise, their soups. I stumbled upon this one and thought it'd be the perfect stepping stone. I mean, it's pasta! It's kinda hard to screw up pasta. Oh wait.
The ingredients were simple: Cream of Mushroom soup, pasta, parmesan, milk, pepper, butter, and chicken. I substituted margarine because it was what I had out in the butter dish all cut up, but it didn't make a difference. The only glitch was I used the whole box of pasta thinking it'd be plenty for leftovers, but it only made the sauce not go as far. So next time, I'll either cut back on the pasta or increase the sauce. Crazy how those directions work.
I was concerned about how the Cream of Mushroom soup would taste as alfredo sauce, but it was actually great. I think I'll add more cheese and maybe more milk to the mixture as well as maybe some Italian spices. Overall, the dinner was a success. Not to mention, I have enough leftovers for 2 meals. Hooray!
However, there was one thing about the meal that made me sad. I guess I should have taken a picture of it, but I couldn't bring myself to. My grandparents, to whom my lovely cast iron skillet belonged, are spinning round and round in their graves. I let pasta touch the pan. And alfredo sauce. What kind of Southern girl am I? But! On the bright side, the pasta was probably given a hint of bacon flavor due to the seasoning of the skillet. As long as bacon's involved, I'm saved, right?
The ingredients were simple: Cream of Mushroom soup, pasta, parmesan, milk, pepper, butter, and chicken. I substituted margarine because it was what I had out in the butter dish all cut up, but it didn't make a difference. The only glitch was I used the whole box of pasta thinking it'd be plenty for leftovers, but it only made the sauce not go as far. So next time, I'll either cut back on the pasta or increase the sauce. Crazy how those directions work.
I was concerned about how the Cream of Mushroom soup would taste as alfredo sauce, but it was actually great. I think I'll add more cheese and maybe more milk to the mixture as well as maybe some Italian spices. Overall, the dinner was a success. Not to mention, I have enough leftovers for 2 meals. Hooray!
However, there was one thing about the meal that made me sad. I guess I should have taken a picture of it, but I couldn't bring myself to. My grandparents, to whom my lovely cast iron skillet belonged, are spinning round and round in their graves. I let pasta touch the pan. And alfredo sauce. What kind of Southern girl am I? But! On the bright side, the pasta was probably given a hint of bacon flavor due to the seasoning of the skillet. As long as bacon's involved, I'm saved, right?
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Funky Chicken
I've come to realize something the more I've experimenting with cooking more: I can't stand the taste of chicken.
In restaurants, it'll be marinated with some goodness and/or deep fried and/or smothered with some cheese, onions, or sauce. There's just something that I can't do to the chicken to make it taste good. And forget reheating it. That makes the natural chicken taste extremely potent. I swear I'm not crazy.
Surely there's someone else that understands me. No? Yeah I'm not surprised.
I'll just stick with cooking fish and steak. At least those I know I can do with little to no failure. Unless it's in gumbo or under the broiler. Then funky chicken might be sounding better.
In restaurants, it'll be marinated with some goodness and/or deep fried and/or smothered with some cheese, onions, or sauce. There's just something that I can't do to the chicken to make it taste good. And forget reheating it. That makes the natural chicken taste extremely potent. I swear I'm not crazy.
Surely there's someone else that understands me. No? Yeah I'm not surprised.
I'll just stick with cooking fish and steak. At least those I know I can do with little to no failure. Unless it's in gumbo or under the broiler. Then funky chicken might be sounding better.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Over the River and Through the Woods
Over Easter weekend, my mom and I had to begin the painful process of moving our things out of her parents' house. My grandmother died in 1997 and my grandfather put up a good fight until last February when he couldn't bear to be without his beloved any longer. My grandmother's memory was everywhere in that house, so I wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't lurking around watching us grow as well as drop by to hold my grandfather's hand as he went.
That house is, and will always be, magical to me. I spent every Christmas there and it was always exciting to be going to see my grandparents. We'd load up the car and make the 4-5 hour trek through the mountains and beautiful countryside. They lived in a small town, population around 200, and owned 200+ acres of land.
The house was built in the 1900s by my grandmother's family and once my great-grandmother died, it was given to the youngest daughter, my grandmother. The other sister already had another family house across the street, so the family remained close in the small town. My mom moved to that house when she was about 6 years old and spent every Christmas there as well. You can imagine how hard our first Christmas was at home. Anyway, Mom took me to visit often and I have countless memories hiding behind every corner of that house and the land.
That pen between the lower shop and the Potato House used to hold sheep and goats. My earliest memory of playing around the house was going out there to pet the goats and then climb on the feeders in the back of the pen where it opened up to the rest of the pasture. I always wanted to be able to climb that tree.
Next, there's the water tower that's in front of the main gate for the pasture where all the sheep and goats would run up if they thought they were going to get a treat. In addition, blackberries grew wild around the water pump and Mom and I would pick enough for a pie in the summer. When I was really little, there used to be horses there, including my mom's horse growing up, Dandelion, that she would enter into jumping contests. Side note: this horse never would jump over anything she couldn't see through. Dandy would somehow sidestep the jump and send Mom flying over the jump without her. I doubt they gave Mom points for her "graceful" leap. Dandelion is actually buried to the left of the picture in the pasture. I also had a game for the water tower where I would try to balance and walk all around the bottom pipe without falling. I'd pretend the center was a pit of alligators or I had to save someone tied up on the other side or whatever. The plot would change, but the game was always the same.
That's the upper shop. It was where my grandfather would make his clocks and chairs. That place had all kinds of fun toys in it; however, saws and the like make Mom nervous (my grandfather lost most of his finger in one), so I wasn't allowed to touch anything. In the attic housed all kinds of historic goodies like ox yokes, a pony buggy, and old telephones. To the left of the shop was another way to get to the pasture: crawl through the barbed wire. At the mulberry tree were big round, concrete tubes that the goats would play on as well as me. My worthless cousin and I would jump around on. One time as were coming back to the house, he held the wire for me to crawl through. He let it go too soon and it punctured my leg leaving an oval scar. It's still there on the inside of my left thigh. It's a wonder I didn't get tetanus from the fence. That jerk.
This is the back door where I would run to be the first one in the house and hug my grandparents. To the left is the cellar where old plates and jars were kept. I was never allowed in there growing up because my mom is afraid of snakes and knew they'd be lurking about just waiting to sink their teeth into me. So I was always afraid of the cellar. Still kinda creeps me out. There used to be rocking chairs on the porch that my grandfather would sit in and watch his tomato plants grow in the summer. Also, there used to be around thirty cats living on this property and you'd always see them curled up asleep in various places on the porch. I used to look forward to summer when I knew there'd be cuddly new kittens to play with. Next to the rocking chairs used to be an old butter churn that I would pretend I was a pioneer girl helping Ma make butter. This house was perfect for pretend.
When inside, there was all kinds of old clothes and accessories to play dress up with. My mom had plenty of colorful clothes from the '60s and '70s as well as cute '50s style dresses that never fit me quite right because of my man shoulders. (You can start to see how I evolved into a tomboy...I had shoulders bigger than the guys!) Anyway, I mostly ran around playing outside when I came over because of all the land and fun things to play with including livestock, tractors, and hay bales. I had so much fun. However, on those occasional rainy days, I had my inside games as well. I made a library with my grandfather's books, played Indiana Jones discovering ancient artifacts in the attic, and played with some of Mom's old toys and games that were still around pretending I was her.
That ledge on the right side was where I played Indiana Jones when I got to be outside. I would map out elaborate escape routes if the house was taken over by the enemy, which is coincidentally the same thing Mom did once. There used to be a rail around that part and once her and her best friend mapped out an escape route. They tied a rope from the rail to the ground and were going to slide down it. The plan was perfect except they forgot to consider their weight. Mom went down first and took the rail with her. I never acted out my escape routes except to climb on to the ledge above the window. I just knew I could make it to the balcony; however, I never tried. I was too scared of falling and breaking something on the concrete. Like my face. When I got older, I would go up there to read and enjoy the breeze and fresh air.
We still have things in the house to get before it's given to my worthless cousin, so I can capture some more images of my youth and salvage a little more family history. I would love to have this house be mine, but I know things will never be the same. I'm having hard time separating common sense and sentiment. Call me crazy.
That house is, and will always be, magical to me. I spent every Christmas there and it was always exciting to be going to see my grandparents. We'd load up the car and make the 4-5 hour trek through the mountains and beautiful countryside. They lived in a small town, population around 200, and owned 200+ acres of land.
The house was built in the 1900s by my grandmother's family and once my great-grandmother died, it was given to the youngest daughter, my grandmother. The other sister already had another family house across the street, so the family remained close in the small town. My mom moved to that house when she was about 6 years old and spent every Christmas there as well. You can imagine how hard our first Christmas was at home. Anyway, Mom took me to visit often and I have countless memories hiding behind every corner of that house and the land.
That pen between the lower shop and the Potato House used to hold sheep and goats. My earliest memory of playing around the house was going out there to pet the goats and then climb on the feeders in the back of the pen where it opened up to the rest of the pasture. I always wanted to be able to climb that tree.
Next, there's the water tower that's in front of the main gate for the pasture where all the sheep and goats would run up if they thought they were going to get a treat. In addition, blackberries grew wild around the water pump and Mom and I would pick enough for a pie in the summer. When I was really little, there used to be horses there, including my mom's horse growing up, Dandelion, that she would enter into jumping contests. Side note: this horse never would jump over anything she couldn't see through. Dandy would somehow sidestep the jump and send Mom flying over the jump without her. I doubt they gave Mom points for her "graceful" leap. Dandelion is actually buried to the left of the picture in the pasture. I also had a game for the water tower where I would try to balance and walk all around the bottom pipe without falling. I'd pretend the center was a pit of alligators or I had to save someone tied up on the other side or whatever. The plot would change, but the game was always the same.
That's the upper shop. It was where my grandfather would make his clocks and chairs. That place had all kinds of fun toys in it; however, saws and the like make Mom nervous (my grandfather lost most of his finger in one), so I wasn't allowed to touch anything. In the attic housed all kinds of historic goodies like ox yokes, a pony buggy, and old telephones. To the left of the shop was another way to get to the pasture: crawl through the barbed wire. At the mulberry tree were big round, concrete tubes that the goats would play on as well as me. My worthless cousin and I would jump around on. One time as were coming back to the house, he held the wire for me to crawl through. He let it go too soon and it punctured my leg leaving an oval scar. It's still there on the inside of my left thigh. It's a wonder I didn't get tetanus from the fence. That jerk.
This is the back door where I would run to be the first one in the house and hug my grandparents. To the left is the cellar where old plates and jars were kept. I was never allowed in there growing up because my mom is afraid of snakes and knew they'd be lurking about just waiting to sink their teeth into me. So I was always afraid of the cellar. Still kinda creeps me out. There used to be rocking chairs on the porch that my grandfather would sit in and watch his tomato plants grow in the summer. Also, there used to be around thirty cats living on this property and you'd always see them curled up asleep in various places on the porch. I used to look forward to summer when I knew there'd be cuddly new kittens to play with. Next to the rocking chairs used to be an old butter churn that I would pretend I was a pioneer girl helping Ma make butter. This house was perfect for pretend.
When inside, there was all kinds of old clothes and accessories to play dress up with. My mom had plenty of colorful clothes from the '60s and '70s as well as cute '50s style dresses that never fit me quite right because of my man shoulders. (You can start to see how I evolved into a tomboy...I had shoulders bigger than the guys!) Anyway, I mostly ran around playing outside when I came over because of all the land and fun things to play with including livestock, tractors, and hay bales. I had so much fun. However, on those occasional rainy days, I had my inside games as well. I made a library with my grandfather's books, played Indiana Jones discovering ancient artifacts in the attic, and played with some of Mom's old toys and games that were still around pretending I was her.
That ledge on the right side was where I played Indiana Jones when I got to be outside. I would map out elaborate escape routes if the house was taken over by the enemy, which is coincidentally the same thing Mom did once. There used to be a rail around that part and once her and her best friend mapped out an escape route. They tied a rope from the rail to the ground and were going to slide down it. The plan was perfect except they forgot to consider their weight. Mom went down first and took the rail with her. I never acted out my escape routes except to climb on to the ledge above the window. I just knew I could make it to the balcony; however, I never tried. I was too scared of falling and breaking something on the concrete. Like my face. When I got older, I would go up there to read and enjoy the breeze and fresh air.
We still have things in the house to get before it's given to my worthless cousin, so I can capture some more images of my youth and salvage a little more family history. I would love to have this house be mine, but I know things will never be the same. I'm having hard time separating common sense and sentiment. Call me crazy.
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