I took a deep breath, grabbed my suitcase and punched my new key into the doorknob of room 569. I was 18 years old and this was the nervous moment when I would meet my first college roommate. Despite never having met this girl, I was fairly confident we would get along. We had both filled out an extensive questionnaire that asked many questions about our likes and dislikes and behaviors. We had been matched as roommates because, according to our questionnaires, we were quite similar.
The first thing I saw when I walked into my freshman dorm room was a small white television on the desk in the far right corner. The evening news was on, very loudly. The bed on the right side of the room had been slept in.
She had already moved in.
I put my suitcase on the bare mattress on the left and looked around at the room that wasn’t much larger than a suburban bedroom walk in closet. I walked over to the window on the opposite side of the room and gazed at the sidewalk, 5 stories down. My roommate’s side of the room looked like she had lived there for quite some time. Very fashionable clothes and piles of makeup and hair products were strewn everywhere. Pictures of, presumably, her friends, were haphazardly posted directly on the walls. The light was flashing on her answering machine. She had 22 messages.
I quickly reasoned that my new roommate was a messy, vain, clothes hound who had a very busy social life. This was nothing like me. I didn’t understand how a mismatch like this could have happened. After all, I had filled out the questionnaire!
The TV suddenly caught my attention. I heard intense, driving music and turned to look at the tiny television. Apparently, there was breaking news. An anchor woman stated that a man had been taken into custody and was being charged with the shockingly brutal rape and murder of a local college girl. While the authorities had only charged this man with the crimes against this one girl, they anticipated many more charges against other victims.
The city prosecutor spoke on the television, “This man is very, very bad. We’ve been looking for him for a long time. He is a brutal, violent and especially dangerous man who has absolutely no regard for human life. Apparently, some friends of his have been assisting him in avoiding capture but after particularly good police work and one lucky tip, we were able to apprehend him this morning. Our city is now a safer place.”
My stomach churned.
It was at that moment that I met my new roommate. She walked through the door of our dorm room and glanced at me. Her attention, however, was quickly diverted to the evil, dangerous man on the television.
She blurted out, somewhat inattentively, “Hi, my name is Shawna. I guess we’re roommates.”
And then she pointed to the television and the recently accused rapist and murderer that was on the screen. “Hey…that’s my friend James. What’s he doing on TV?”
Oh dear. This wasn’t on the questionnaire.
She knew the bad guy. He was her friend.
I would soon learn that Shawna had lots of scary friends. She had friends that would pound on the door at 2 in the morning screaming that they knew I was in there and they were going to mess me up “real bad”. She had friends that would sleep in my bed when I was gone because they needed to “hide somewhere…just for a little while.” And after those friends left, Shawna told me it would be a really good idea if I washed my bedding and all my clothes in really, really hot water and a little bleach…to kill the “little buggers” her friends had left behind.
I survived that first year of college, I survived Shawna and her scary friends and I even survived the “little buggers.” You can be assured however, that when I filled out the roommate questionnaire for my sophomore year, I was very careful to request someone who wasn’t so messy.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated family has recently enjoyed the comedy of ventriloquist Jeff Dunham (www.jeffdunham.com) , s'mores made with the Hershey candy bar Cookies and Cream, and buckets of strawberries from the backyard patch. We highly recommend them all.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
And Then I Blinked
I remember my 10th birthday well. My aunt Debbie 
put both of her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. First she congratulated me. “You are now into double digits! Congratulations!” And then she warned me. “From here on out your life will seem to speed up. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”
And then I blinked. I must have.
Because one day I woke up and everything had changed. My small hometown is big, the strawberry field is a mall and upriver just isn’t that far away anymore. The friends I grew up with couldn’t wait to get out of that small town. And now some can’t wait to get back to it. The brothers I played backyard wiffle ball with and crowded into the back of that old Citation with are now men who have stress and bills and kids. Somewhere along the line my dad stopped driving us kids to practice and started driving a golf ball. Before I blinked my mother had a Kleenex in her pocket and she told me I looked good in the light blue dress because that was my color. After I blinked there was silence. She was gone.
When the husband walked up to me in 1985 he didn’t take his sunglasses off, even though we were indoors. He was tan and lean and confident. He caught my eye and hijacked my heart. And then I blinked and was shocked to find that somehow, 24 years later, 9 houses, 6 states, 6 cars, 13 pets, 2 kids and 20 wedding anniversaries have filled our lives.
It was just yesterday that I tried to keep up with
the 2 year old teenager along the frozen Merrimack river in New Hampshire. She yelled, “I go running! I go running!” And then I blinked and she is running the hurdles at the Jr. High and nobody can keep up with her.
And it was just yesterday that the giggling
toddler boy begged to be pushed higher on the swing. And then I blinked and he’s begging to go on the looping roller coasters and wants to know how old he has to be before he can bungee jump.
Next week I will walk up to the boy and put both of my hands on his shoulders. I will look him straight in the eye and say, “Happy 10th birthday! You are now into double digits! From here on out your life will seem to speed up. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”
I swear he was just born.
I remember my 40th birthday well. For on that milestone day last week I stared at myself in the mirror, eyes wide open, and I willed myself not to blink.
Check This Out!
When I was 10 my favorite treat was a Mountain Bar candy bar. I've recently rediscovered the Mountain Bar and am happy to report that the Mountain Bar is one thing in life that hasn't changed. You should go get one now.
put both of her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. First she congratulated me. “You are now into double digits! Congratulations!” And then she warned me. “From here on out your life will seem to speed up. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.” And then I blinked. I must have.
Because one day I woke up and everything had changed. My small hometown is big, the strawberry field is a mall and upriver just isn’t that far away anymore. The friends I grew up with couldn’t wait to get out of that small town. And now some can’t wait to get back to it. The brothers I played backyard wiffle ball with and crowded into the back of that old Citation with are now men who have stress and bills and kids. Somewhere along the line my dad stopped driving us kids to practice and started driving a golf ball. Before I blinked my mother had a Kleenex in her pocket and she told me I looked good in the light blue dress because that was my color. After I blinked there was silence. She was gone.
When the husband walked up to me in 1985 he didn’t take his sunglasses off, even though we were indoors. He was tan and lean and confident. He caught my eye and hijacked my heart. And then I blinked and was shocked to find that somehow, 24 years later, 9 houses, 6 states, 6 cars, 13 pets, 2 kids and 20 wedding anniversaries have filled our lives.
It was just yesterday that I tried to keep up with
the 2 year old teenager along the frozen Merrimack river in New Hampshire. She yelled, “I go running! I go running!” And then I blinked and she is running the hurdles at the Jr. High and nobody can keep up with her.And it was just yesterday that the giggling
toddler boy begged to be pushed higher on the swing. And then I blinked and he’s begging to go on the looping roller coasters and wants to know how old he has to be before he can bungee jump. Next week I will walk up to the boy and put both of my hands on his shoulders. I will look him straight in the eye and say, “Happy 10th birthday! You are now into double digits! From here on out your life will seem to speed up. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”
I swear he was just born.
I remember my 40th birthday well. For on that milestone day last week I stared at myself in the mirror, eyes wide open, and I willed myself not to blink.
Check This Out!
When I was 10 my favorite treat was a Mountain Bar candy bar. I've recently rediscovered the Mountain Bar and am happy to report that the Mountain Bar is one thing in life that hasn't changed. You should go get one now.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Keep Marching!
Having been a mother for 14 years, 9 months and 2 days, I was quite confident in my ability to counsel the teenager. She was rather worried about marching in her first parade with the high school marching band. After carefully assessing the situation, I astutely determined that standard parental guidance was all that was required.
I began with the usual reassuring opening of, “Oh honey, it’s gonna be ok!” I peppered in a few small self esteem boosts discretely disguised as caring parental sympathy. I then went on to recite a few lesson filled idioms, followed by the typical thought provoking series of rhetorical questions and finally ended with the obligatory and always empathetic parental anecdote from my own marching band days.
And just for good measure, because this was her first high school event and it felt like some kind of milestone moment, I decided to add on the always effective parental guarantee. “So you see honey? I am absolutely sure that everything is going to be just fine. All you have to do is walk and play at the same time. I mean really…what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
When I first saw the teenager after the parade, she was most definitely unhappy. She approached me in her stocking feet. She carried her trumpet in one hand. In the other hand she carried her shoes. One shoe was covered in black electrical tape. The other shoe was in pieces. She held the shoes up, shook them at me and yelled, “I’ll tell you what’s the worst thing that could happen, mom…THIS! My shoes exploded! That is the worst thing that could happen!”
Halfway through the first song, the sole of her left shoe started flapping, making it difficult to march. Then the sole of her left shoe fell off completely. The teenager, in horror, bent down to pick it up. All those around her started yelling, “Keep marching! Keep marching!” And so
she left the sole of her shoe in the middle of the road. The brass section marched right over the sole, the flutes tried to step over it and the percussion section took turns kicking it around the road. The top part of the teenager's shoe now began to roll away from the side of her foot. Her left sock was marching on pavement.
A band helper managed to grab the sole from the middle of the road. She borrowed black electrical tape from a tow truck driver who was also in the parade. The teenager was unceremoniously pulled out of line and her sole was quickly taped back to the rest of the shoe. With the entire world watching, the teenager most conspicuously made her way back to her spot in the middle of the band.
And then the sole of her right shoe started flapping. And it flapped, awkwardly, until the last few yards of the parade when it too, fell off completely. Her right sock was marching on pavement. The temporary tape repair to the left shoe was beginning to fail. She took both shoes off and started the walk back to the car with her peers, who could all be heard muttering, “Did you see that somebody’s shoe exploded?”
And after marching in that memorable first parade, the teenager went home, put away her trumpet, and spent the next 3 days trying to get the splinters out of the bottoms of her feet.
Having been a mother for 14 years, 9 months and 3 days, I was quite confident in my ability to counsel the boy. He was rather worried about speaking in front of his class the next day. After carefully assessing the situation, I astutely determined that standard parental guidance was all that was required. I began with the usual reassuring opening of, “Oh honey, it’s gonna be ok!” and I ended with, “I mean really…what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
And then I went and took a good long look at his shoes.
Check This Out!
In remembrance of Michael Jackson, I urge you to check out this video by Alien Ant Farm. Their version of Smooth Criminal, one of my favorite Michael Jackson songs, contains numerous references to many of Jackson's most famous videos and personal quirks. See if you can pick them all out.
I began with the usual reassuring opening of, “Oh honey, it’s gonna be ok!” I peppered in a few small self esteem boosts discretely disguised as caring parental sympathy. I then went on to recite a few lesson filled idioms, followed by the typical thought provoking series of rhetorical questions and finally ended with the obligatory and always empathetic parental anecdote from my own marching band days.
And just for good measure, because this was her first high school event and it felt like some kind of milestone moment, I decided to add on the always effective parental guarantee. “So you see honey? I am absolutely sure that everything is going to be just fine. All you have to do is walk and play at the same time. I mean really…what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
When I first saw the teenager after the parade, she was most definitely unhappy. She approached me in her stocking feet. She carried her trumpet in one hand. In the other hand she carried her shoes. One shoe was covered in black electrical tape. The other shoe was in pieces. She held the shoes up, shook them at me and yelled, “I’ll tell you what’s the worst thing that could happen, mom…THIS! My shoes exploded! That is the worst thing that could happen!”
Halfway through the first song, the sole of her left shoe started flapping, making it difficult to march. Then the sole of her left shoe fell off completely. The teenager, in horror, bent down to pick it up. All those around her started yelling, “Keep marching! Keep marching!” And so
she left the sole of her shoe in the middle of the road. The brass section marched right over the sole, the flutes tried to step over it and the percussion section took turns kicking it around the road. The top part of the teenager's shoe now began to roll away from the side of her foot. Her left sock was marching on pavement.A band helper managed to grab the sole from the middle of the road. She borrowed black electrical tape from a tow truck driver who was also in the parade. The teenager was unceremoniously pulled out of line and her sole was quickly taped back to the rest of the shoe. With the entire world watching, the teenager most conspicuously made her way back to her spot in the middle of the band.
And then the sole of her right shoe started flapping. And it flapped, awkwardly, until the last few yards of the parade when it too, fell off completely. Her right sock was marching on pavement. The temporary tape repair to the left shoe was beginning to fail. She took both shoes off and started the walk back to the car with her peers, who could all be heard muttering, “Did you see that somebody’s shoe exploded?”
And after marching in that memorable first parade, the teenager went home, put away her trumpet, and spent the next 3 days trying to get the splinters out of the bottoms of her feet.
Having been a mother for 14 years, 9 months and 3 days, I was quite confident in my ability to counsel the boy. He was rather worried about speaking in front of his class the next day. After carefully assessing the situation, I astutely determined that standard parental guidance was all that was required. I began with the usual reassuring opening of, “Oh honey, it’s gonna be ok!” and I ended with, “I mean really…what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
And then I went and took a good long look at his shoes.
Check This Out!
In remembrance of Michael Jackson, I urge you to check out this video by Alien Ant Farm. Their version of Smooth Criminal, one of my favorite Michael Jackson songs, contains numerous references to many of Jackson's most famous videos and personal quirks. See if you can pick them all out.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Itchy, Swollen and Dimpled
I suppose I should have been more concerned when my 9 year old boy asked me if I thought his breasts were an unusual shape. But stranger things than that have come out of that boy’s mouth in the past and quite honestly, I wasn’t particularly shocked by his breast question.
“Why no, honey,” I murmured. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
I was distracted by the pile of bills that had just arrived in the mail. The husband and the teenager had both received magazines and were already absent from the conversation. The boy was perusing the junk mail that had arrived with his name on it.
He continued to ask questions. “Mom, have my breasts been itchy or swollen lately?”
“Itchy? Are you itchy? Do you need some lotion?” I questioned back without pause or thought.
Amused by my lack of attention, the boy continued. “No, I’m not itchy but I am very concerned about this discharge I have coming from my...um...dimpled...nipple.”
I quickly looked up from the bills to see that he had also caught the attention of the husband and the teenager. The wide eyed husband was looking most confused and a tiny bit afraid. The teenager rolled her eyeballs and sighed. “You’re such a punk, you know?”
“I am not a punk!” the boy yelled back shaking his junk mail at her. “But...I just might have a thickening of my breast tissue!”
He had our complete and full attention now. “What the heck are you talking about? You don’t even have breasts! You don’t even like saying the word!” I shouted at the boy.
“Well, I may not have b-r-e-a-s-t-s,“ the boy declared, in elongated form, “but according to this postcard that I got today… from the doctor…” he yelled, glaring specifically at the teenager, ”which was addressed to me and to ME only……well…..you should all know that it is time for my yearly mammogram.”
We stared in silence at the boy for a good 10 seconds. He had a grin on his face that could not be erased.
“See, I told you that you were a punk,” the teenager finally muttered.
I grabbed the postcard out of the boy’s hand. It was true. It was addressed to him and apparently, it was time for his yearly mammogram.
“Honey, this is some mistake. It’s probably meant for me. We can just recycle it.”
“No!” the boy chuckled loudly. “Don’t recycle that! If I make my appointment by July 1st I can get a free digital thermometer with that special coupon on the back!”
The husband shook his head and went back to reading his magazine. The teenager, mumbling something teenager-ish under her breath, shook her head and went back to her magazine. The boy, giggling the whole way, went upstairs to the computer to check on his Club Penguin Puffles.
I shook my head and went back to dealing with my own mail problems. Apparently, our dead cat was eligible for a credit card with a $5,000 limit and I wanted to get started right away filling out the application.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated family has gone country this week. We are obsessed with Jason Aldean’s song, Big Green Tractor. Listen to the link below, over and over, at sunset, while rocking on your porch swing that overlooks the vast landscape that is your yard. Make sure that you're also drinking some of this lemonade.
Strawberry Lemonade
Add one cup of sugar to two cups of water in a large pot. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until sugar is dissolved. Squeeze the juice of 6 or 8 lemons into the pot. Add one or two small tubs of already sweetened, sliced frozen strawberries. (Or add some fresh or frozen unsweetened strawberries. If you do this, you may want to add a little more sugar at the beginning. As with anything, adjust to your taste. You can also puree the strawberries before adding to the pot if you don't like your drinks chunky. I usually mash things up a bit with my potato masher.) Stir well, add as much water and ice as you need to make it to your liking, and refrigerate. If it is a special occasion, such as a Thursday, you can also add a bit of sparkling water or club soda.
“Why no, honey,” I murmured. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
I was distracted by the pile of bills that had just arrived in the mail. The husband and the teenager had both received magazines and were already absent from the conversation. The boy was perusing the junk mail that had arrived with his name on it.
He continued to ask questions. “Mom, have my breasts been itchy or swollen lately?”
“Itchy? Are you itchy? Do you need some lotion?” I questioned back without pause or thought.
Amused by my lack of attention, the boy continued. “No, I’m not itchy but I am very concerned about this discharge I have coming from my...um...dimpled...nipple.”
I quickly looked up from the bills to see that he had also caught the attention of the husband and the teenager. The wide eyed husband was looking most confused and a tiny bit afraid. The teenager rolled her eyeballs and sighed. “You’re such a punk, you know?”
“I am not a punk!” the boy yelled back shaking his junk mail at her. “But...I just might have a thickening of my breast tissue!”
He had our complete and full attention now. “What the heck are you talking about? You don’t even have breasts! You don’t even like saying the word!” I shouted at the boy.
“Well, I may not have b-r-e-a-s-t-s,“ the boy declared, in elongated form, “but according to this postcard that I got today… from the doctor…” he yelled, glaring specifically at the teenager, ”which was addressed to me and to ME only……well…..you should all know that it is time for my yearly mammogram.”
We stared in silence at the boy for a good 10 seconds. He had a grin on his face that could not be erased.
“See, I told you that you were a punk,” the teenager finally muttered.
I grabbed the postcard out of the boy’s hand. It was true. It was addressed to him and apparently, it was time for his yearly mammogram.
“Honey, this is some mistake. It’s probably meant for me. We can just recycle it.”
“No!” the boy chuckled loudly. “Don’t recycle that! If I make my appointment by July 1st I can get a free digital thermometer with that special coupon on the back!”
The husband shook his head and went back to reading his magazine. The teenager, mumbling something teenager-ish under her breath, shook her head and went back to her magazine. The boy, giggling the whole way, went upstairs to the computer to check on his Club Penguin Puffles.
I shook my head and went back to dealing with my own mail problems. Apparently, our dead cat was eligible for a credit card with a $5,000 limit and I wanted to get started right away filling out the application.
Check This Out!
The Slightly Exaggerated family has gone country this week. We are obsessed with Jason Aldean’s song, Big Green Tractor. Listen to the link below, over and over, at sunset, while rocking on your porch swing that overlooks the vast landscape that is your yard. Make sure that you're also drinking some of this lemonade.
Strawberry Lemonade
Add one cup of sugar to two cups of water in a large pot. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until sugar is dissolved. Squeeze the juice of 6 or 8 lemons into the pot. Add one or two small tubs of already sweetened, sliced frozen strawberries. (Or add some fresh or frozen unsweetened strawberries. If you do this, you may want to add a little more sugar at the beginning. As with anything, adjust to your taste. You can also puree the strawberries before adding to the pot if you don't like your drinks chunky. I usually mash things up a bit with my potato masher.) Stir well, add as much water and ice as you need to make it to your liking, and refrigerate. If it is a special occasion, such as a Thursday, you can also add a bit of sparkling water or club soda.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
FRIED
Does your family complain about your cooking? Does your family prefer to go out to eat instead of eating at home? Does your family not give a rip about their arterial health? I’ve been there my friend and I’m here to tell you, there is hope. There is a solution to your problems. Your family will soon love your cooking! Dinner at home will be fun again! And you will quickly learn to live in denial about your family's health status just as they do!
For many years I’ve mistakenly believed that my family liked meals made with chicken and fish and shrimp. They’ve happily consumed many restaurant meals of fried chicken, fish tacos and breaded shrimp. At home however, the healthier roasted chicken, salmon tacos and shrimp pasta I lovingly prepared them were eaten a bit less enthusiastically. When my family didn’t enjoy the food I had made, I blamed myself. Imagine my relief when I realized that I could place the blame on someone else! I wasn’t a bad cook. I was a victim.
My family’s taste buds had been hijacked. Scientists have proven that taste bud hijacking and the accompanying changes in food preferences can be blamed almost entirely on a Mr. Colonel Sanders. There as also been extensive subversive support of the Colonel from a Mr. Ray Kroc and quite possibly the entire tempura and panko loving population of Japan. Because of the Colonel and his posse's reprehensible and ultimately addictive actions, good people such as my family and yours, have through no fault of our own, come to prefer food that is fried.
Research has also proven that while most people do prefer food that is fried, they really are most happy when consuming the actual fried coating itself. The food it was covering is merely an incidental delivery vehicle for the crispy goodness and crunchy fun that only fried breading can provide. Studies have shown that once exposed to this fried breading, it becomes nearly impossible for the average person to resist it's tempting and ultimately habit forming draw.
That is why in my home, we have finally stopped fighting the pull of the entire FRIED world. We have decided to fully embrace our hijacked taste buds. We now ignorantly focus on what really makes us happy. We are now a FRIED family. It's just easier this way. We have stopped wasting our money buying chicken and fish and shrimp. We have stopped wasting time preparing these expensive store bought ingredients. We now spend more time together as a family enjoying FRIED. We don’t worry about the chicken; we just go straight for the fried outside part. We don’t bread our shrimp; we just fry the breading. I'm here to tell you that my family is happier than they have ever been because they are finally getting the juicy, greasy goodness they prefer. And I am happy spending less money on food, spending less time cooking in the kitchen and most importantly, I am enjoying the rave reviews my family now gives me at every FRIED meal.
All of this joy can be yours. You too can live in denial and have this kind of bliss in your home. Whether you choose tempura batter, an egg/flour/crushed cornflake coating, or the ever popular buttermilk/breadcrumb dip with the Colonel’s own 11 herbs and spices, I guarantee that your family will no longer complain about your cooking.
So go fill a pot with oil, turn on the burner and start your journey of making mealtime a happy time in your household again. And the next time your family asks what is for dinner, do what I have done and scream like a crazy woman, “FRIED! We are having FRIED because that’s the only thing you people seem to like!” Ahem.
You won’t be sorry.
Check This Out!
When the Slightly Exaggerated family wants to annoy the neighbors, we open all of the windows, turn on the ABC show Wipeout and set the husband down in front of the TV. He laughs so loudly and and obnoxiously that we think he might need some Depends.
And while you're watching Wipeout, you can have this super easy non FRIED meal for dinner.
Slow Cooked Italian Chicken
Empty two packets of powdered Italian dressing into a crock pot. Add a cup or so of water and mix. Put in 4, or so, boneless, skinless chicken breasts and coat with the dressing mixture. Cook on low for 3 hours. Mix one 8 oz package of softened cream cheese with a big can of cream of chicken soup. Add mushrooms if you like them. Pour over the top of the chicken, stir and cook on low for another hour. At this point, you can dice or shred the chicken and put it back in the pot. Or leave the breasts whole, if you prefer. During the last few minutes of cooking you can throw in some peas or broccoli too. Serve the whole thing over rice or noodles.
The Slightly Exaggerated family version of this meal included shredding the chicken. We also used low fat versions of the soup and cream cheese. Mushrooms and peas were served separately at the table and added by those who weren't 9 year old boys.
For many years I’ve mistakenly believed that my family liked meals made with chicken and fish and shrimp. They’ve happily consumed many restaurant meals of fried chicken, fish tacos and breaded shrimp. At home however, the healthier roasted chicken, salmon tacos and shrimp pasta I lovingly prepared them were eaten a bit less enthusiastically. When my family didn’t enjoy the food I had made, I blamed myself. Imagine my relief when I realized that I could place the blame on someone else! I wasn’t a bad cook. I was a victim.
My family’s taste buds had been hijacked. Scientists have proven that taste bud hijacking and the accompanying changes in food preferences can be blamed almost entirely on a Mr. Colonel Sanders. There as also been extensive subversive support of the Colonel from a Mr. Ray Kroc and quite possibly the entire tempura and panko loving population of Japan. Because of the Colonel and his posse's reprehensible and ultimately addictive actions, good people such as my family and yours, have through no fault of our own, come to prefer food that is fried.
Research has also proven that while most people do prefer food that is fried, they really are most happy when consuming the actual fried coating itself. The food it was covering is merely an incidental delivery vehicle for the crispy goodness and crunchy fun that only fried breading can provide. Studies have shown that once exposed to this fried breading, it becomes nearly impossible for the average person to resist it's tempting and ultimately habit forming draw.
That is why in my home, we have finally stopped fighting the pull of the entire FRIED world. We have decided to fully embrace our hijacked taste buds. We now ignorantly focus on what really makes us happy. We are now a FRIED family. It's just easier this way. We have stopped wasting our money buying chicken and fish and shrimp. We have stopped wasting time preparing these expensive store bought ingredients. We now spend more time together as a family enjoying FRIED. We don’t worry about the chicken; we just go straight for the fried outside part. We don’t bread our shrimp; we just fry the breading. I'm here to tell you that my family is happier than they have ever been because they are finally getting the juicy, greasy goodness they prefer. And I am happy spending less money on food, spending less time cooking in the kitchen and most importantly, I am enjoying the rave reviews my family now gives me at every FRIED meal.
All of this joy can be yours. You too can live in denial and have this kind of bliss in your home. Whether you choose tempura batter, an egg/flour/crushed cornflake coating, or the ever popular buttermilk/breadcrumb dip with the Colonel’s own 11 herbs and spices, I guarantee that your family will no longer complain about your cooking.
So go fill a pot with oil, turn on the burner and start your journey of making mealtime a happy time in your household again. And the next time your family asks what is for dinner, do what I have done and scream like a crazy woman, “FRIED! We are having FRIED because that’s the only thing you people seem to like!” Ahem.
You won’t be sorry.
Check This Out!
When the Slightly Exaggerated family wants to annoy the neighbors, we open all of the windows, turn on the ABC show Wipeout and set the husband down in front of the TV. He laughs so loudly and and obnoxiously that we think he might need some Depends.
And while you're watching Wipeout, you can have this super easy non FRIED meal for dinner.
Slow Cooked Italian Chicken
Empty two packets of powdered Italian dressing into a crock pot. Add a cup or so of water and mix. Put in 4, or so, boneless, skinless chicken breasts and coat with the dressing mixture. Cook on low for 3 hours. Mix one 8 oz package of softened cream cheese with a big can of cream of chicken soup. Add mushrooms if you like them. Pour over the top of the chicken, stir and cook on low for another hour. At this point, you can dice or shred the chicken and put it back in the pot. Or leave the breasts whole, if you prefer. During the last few minutes of cooking you can throw in some peas or broccoli too. Serve the whole thing over rice or noodles.
The Slightly Exaggerated family version of this meal included shredding the chicken. We also used low fat versions of the soup and cream cheese. Mushrooms and peas were served separately at the table and added by those who weren't 9 year old boys.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Lime Rickey, On the Rocks
When I arrived fashionably late it was clear that some women weren’t taking things slowly at all. A tall redhead with crazy wild eyes held on to a Green Dragon with both hands. A petite brunette kept pointing and laughing at the candy pink Sexy Rexy in her hands. I saw one older woman push her way through the crowd to the front. She forcefully asked the man behind the counter, “Do you have a double for me?”
The woman next to me couldn’t decide between getting a Sweet Rocket and going for the Many Happy Returns. “Oh, who am I kidding. “she said. “You know I’m gonna get both! I’m sooo bad!”
Two other women held on to each other as they pointed across the room. “I don’t know about you but I think it’s about time one of us went native!” They giggled loudly as they walked away.
I struck up a conversation with a man leaning on a table. “I never thought I’d get this lucky.” he beamed. “That lady just gave me an Ace of Diamonds. I hit the jackpot! Now I’m off to get some Sultan’s Water.”
The place was crowded and overwhelming. It was loud and busy and chaotic. It was full of people who were crazy and confident and full of character. They seemed to be having the time of their lives. They were throwing money around like they had just won the lottery. And I was pretty sure after hearing the word “labiatae” twice that some of them might have even been talking dirty. I was intimidated and uncomfortable. I knew that I didn’t fit in with these people.
I was pushing my way through the crowd toward the exit when that all changed. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I’d like to say that I was different than those crazy people. I’d like to say that I was able to have complete self control. I’d like to say that I just said no.
But I didn’t say no. I took one look and I knew I had to have it. It was when I couldn’t say no to that gallon of Lime Rickey, that I knew I might have a problem. I tried to stop the grinning and the laughing and the money from flying out of my pockets. I was powerless. I was addicted. I really was a plant person-just like all of the other crazy people there.
After ultimately spending two hours at that arboretum plant sale, I went home to plant my own supply of labiatae in my herb garden and the double petunias in the front yard and the Lime Rickey heuchera in the rock garden. And I vowed that next year, I was going to get in line early. My new plant friends told me that you’ve got to show up early if you want to have a chance at getting some Aunt Eliza’s Rat Tail. Apparently, it sells out quickly every year.
Check This Out!
When I arrived in the husband's family it was clear there was one woman who didn't take things slowly at all. I began to hear stories about this woman being struck by lightning and memorizing the bible and having something to do with runaway horses and buggies. Regular readers of this blog may remember a posting from January 8, 2009 about this same woman flying a Volkswagen over a snow bank.
Once in a great while, if you are lucky, you will meet a person who is larger than life. If you are really lucky she’ll share
a Dr. Pepper with you and tell you some of her stories. The husband’s great aunt, Katherine “Kay” Keating,
passed away this week. She really was a larger than life person, full of more stories and fortitude and gumption than 10 men. The husband had the great honor of having her commission him as a United States Naval Officer. Because of Kay I learned that heaven really does exist underneath a lilac bush in the foothills of the Rockies. The teenager has learned, without one shred of doubt,
that a woman can absolutely do whatever she sets her mind to. The boy has learned that barns are cool and mules are cool and falling on a barbed wire fence is definitely not cool.
I cannot encourage you enough to check out the link to Kay's obituary and a hometown editorial about her. She was quite a woman and she will be missed.
The woman next to me couldn’t decide between getting a Sweet Rocket and going for the Many Happy Returns. “Oh, who am I kidding. “she said. “You know I’m gonna get both! I’m sooo bad!”
Two other women held on to each other as they pointed across the room. “I don’t know about you but I think it’s about time one of us went native!” They giggled loudly as they walked away.
I struck up a conversation with a man leaning on a table. “I never thought I’d get this lucky.” he beamed. “That lady just gave me an Ace of Diamonds. I hit the jackpot! Now I’m off to get some Sultan’s Water.”
The place was crowded and overwhelming. It was loud and busy and chaotic. It was full of people who were crazy and confident and full of character. They seemed to be having the time of their lives. They were throwing money around like they had just won the lottery. And I was pretty sure after hearing the word “labiatae” twice that some of them might have even been talking dirty. I was intimidated and uncomfortable. I knew that I didn’t fit in with these people.
I was pushing my way through the crowd toward the exit when that all changed. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I’d like to say that I was different than those crazy people. I’d like to say that I was able to have complete self control. I’d like to say that I just said no.
But I didn’t say no. I took one look and I knew I had to have it. It was when I couldn’t say no to that gallon of Lime Rickey, that I knew I might have a problem. I tried to stop the grinning and the laughing and the money from flying out of my pockets. I was powerless. I was addicted. I really was a plant person-just like all of the other crazy people there.
After ultimately spending two hours at that arboretum plant sale, I went home to plant my own supply of labiatae in my herb garden and the double petunias in the front yard and the Lime Rickey heuchera in the rock garden. And I vowed that next year, I was going to get in line early. My new plant friends told me that you’ve got to show up early if you want to have a chance at getting some Aunt Eliza’s Rat Tail. Apparently, it sells out quickly every year.
Check This Out!
When I arrived in the husband's family it was clear there was one woman who didn't take things slowly at all. I began to hear stories about this woman being struck by lightning and memorizing the bible and having something to do with runaway horses and buggies. Regular readers of this blog may remember a posting from January 8, 2009 about this same woman flying a Volkswagen over a snow bank.
Once in a great while, if you are lucky, you will meet a person who is larger than life. If you are really lucky she’ll share
a Dr. Pepper with you and tell you some of her stories. The husband’s great aunt, Katherine “Kay” Keating, passed away this week. She really was a larger than life person, full of more stories and fortitude and gumption than 10 men. The husband had the great honor of having her commission him as a United States Naval Officer. Because of Kay I learned that heaven really does exist underneath a lilac bush in the foothills of the Rockies. The teenager has learned, without one shred of doubt,
that a woman can absolutely do whatever she sets her mind to. The boy has learned that barns are cool and mules are cool and falling on a barbed wire fence is definitely not cool.I cannot encourage you enough to check out the link to Kay's obituary and a hometown editorial about her. She was quite a woman and she will be missed.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
The Occasional Tickle
It started with an almost silent, innocent and occasional tickle. It ended with violent, debilitating and constant hacking. Somewhere in between we found the drugs, he fell asleep exhausted and I cried.
We were saved when the calm soothing voice of the doctor told him to “just relax, be the boss of your cough, everything is going to be ok, push your belly out when you breathe, use your nose to overcome your inflamed airway and it will all be ok….” Apparently, all we needed was a little hypno-babble, a bottle of water, a referral to a speech therapist for breathing lessons and a permission slip to pee…and cough… as much as he wanted to at school.
Go figure.
The boy has been ill the last few weeks. It was nothing more serious than a simple virus that morphed into his attempt to remove both of his lungs by violent expulsion.
At an earsplitting level.
Every 3 seconds.
We’ve been to the doctor too many times. He’s had hot baths and hot cocoa and Life Savers. He’s had nose sprays and allergy medications and antibiotics. He’s had pep talks and motherly love and fatherly concern. He’s had codeine and cough suppressants and ibuprofen. He’s had enough steroids to make him either ineligible for his Little League team or the MVP of the entire region. He’s had x rays and blood draws and breathing treatments.
We’ve been charged more co-pays in the last two weeks than we normally pay in a year. The bills that will arrive in the next few weeks will be more money than my so called writing career produced all of last year. The boy has missed more school in two weeks than the teenager has in 9 years. The family has been stressed. The family has been annoyed. The family has been altered. We’ve been put out. We’ve been inconvenienced. We’ve eaten too much pizza. The boy has eaten too much chicken soup. The boy has lost 3 pounds. I’ve probably gained them. The teenager accused him of faking it. The husband secretly wanted to escape to work.
We’ve filled out more forms than it takes to become a citizen. We’ve divulged our inner most secrets to the computer system. The thread count of our bed sheets, the sleeping preferences of our pets and my penchant for nasty Mexican TV dinners during pregnancy has been thoroughly analyzed and critiqued by those who apparently know more than we do. I’ve been asked if I’ve ever been concerned about the boy’s heart rate. I’ve been asked if the boy’s toe lint has ever appeared abnormal. I’ve been asked if I feel safe in my own home and if the husband is a threat to a stable family environment.
I’ve been asked why I wasn’t concerned when I heard that first tickle in his throat.
What I heard was, “Why aren’t you a better mother?”
I’ve been upset. This has been rough. We’ve had it hard.
And then, finally, we walked out of the children’s hospital, after our final visit with our specialist, the one who’s from the Mayo Clinic, the one who ALL the coughing people go to, the one who held the magical answers.
It was then that we saw the girl.
She was 2 weeks old. She was tiny. Her parents seemed so very young. She was in an adorable pink car seat attached to a stroller. She was sleeping.
Her father carried her oxygen tank while her mother pushed the stroller.
She needed that tank to live.
And as we waited for our elevator, we glanced back at that sweet baby girl.
And we felt lucky.
Check This Out!
In our many days of illness the Slightly Exaggerated family has watched Bolt, Hotel for Dogs and Journey to the Center of the Earth. Not being picky folk, we enjoyed them all. The coughing boy would like to point out that Journey to the Center of the Earth was his favorite. The husband would like to recommend the book, The Age of American Unreason, by Susan Jacoby. This has kept him occupied during many waiting room sessions. I would like to recommend the August, 2006 issue of Good Housekeeping. They have a great chicken recipe that I know you’ll love.
We were saved when the calm soothing voice of the doctor told him to “just relax, be the boss of your cough, everything is going to be ok, push your belly out when you breathe, use your nose to overcome your inflamed airway and it will all be ok….” Apparently, all we needed was a little hypno-babble, a bottle of water, a referral to a speech therapist for breathing lessons and a permission slip to pee…and cough… as much as he wanted to at school.
Go figure.
The boy has been ill the last few weeks. It was nothing more serious than a simple virus that morphed into his attempt to remove both of his lungs by violent expulsion.
At an earsplitting level.
Every 3 seconds.
We’ve been to the doctor too many times. He’s had hot baths and hot cocoa and Life Savers. He’s had nose sprays and allergy medications and antibiotics. He’s had pep talks and motherly love and fatherly concern. He’s had codeine and cough suppressants and ibuprofen. He’s had enough steroids to make him either ineligible for his Little League team or the MVP of the entire region. He’s had x rays and blood draws and breathing treatments.
We’ve been charged more co-pays in the last two weeks than we normally pay in a year. The bills that will arrive in the next few weeks will be more money than my so called writing career produced all of last year. The boy has missed more school in two weeks than the teenager has in 9 years. The family has been stressed. The family has been annoyed. The family has been altered. We’ve been put out. We’ve been inconvenienced. We’ve eaten too much pizza. The boy has eaten too much chicken soup. The boy has lost 3 pounds. I’ve probably gained them. The teenager accused him of faking it. The husband secretly wanted to escape to work.
We’ve filled out more forms than it takes to become a citizen. We’ve divulged our inner most secrets to the computer system. The thread count of our bed sheets, the sleeping preferences of our pets and my penchant for nasty Mexican TV dinners during pregnancy has been thoroughly analyzed and critiqued by those who apparently know more than we do. I’ve been asked if I’ve ever been concerned about the boy’s heart rate. I’ve been asked if the boy’s toe lint has ever appeared abnormal. I’ve been asked if I feel safe in my own home and if the husband is a threat to a stable family environment.
I’ve been asked why I wasn’t concerned when I heard that first tickle in his throat.
What I heard was, “Why aren’t you a better mother?”
I’ve been upset. This has been rough. We’ve had it hard.
And then, finally, we walked out of the children’s hospital, after our final visit with our specialist, the one who’s from the Mayo Clinic, the one who ALL the coughing people go to, the one who held the magical answers.
It was then that we saw the girl.
She was 2 weeks old. She was tiny. Her parents seemed so very young. She was in an adorable pink car seat attached to a stroller. She was sleeping.
Her father carried her oxygen tank while her mother pushed the stroller.
She needed that tank to live.
And as we waited for our elevator, we glanced back at that sweet baby girl.
And we felt lucky.
Check This Out!
In our many days of illness the Slightly Exaggerated family has watched Bolt, Hotel for Dogs and Journey to the Center of the Earth. Not being picky folk, we enjoyed them all. The coughing boy would like to point out that Journey to the Center of the Earth was his favorite. The husband would like to recommend the book, The Age of American Unreason, by Susan Jacoby. This has kept him occupied during many waiting room sessions. I would like to recommend the August, 2006 issue of Good Housekeeping. They have a great chicken recipe that I know you’ll love.
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