Scaredy Cats
We love nature. Sometimes it just doesn't love us back.
We went up to Kevin's family cabin again this weekend, and I woke up way too early Saturday morning. I told my body to ignore what my bladder was saying, but around 5AM, I gave up and got up, went outside, shuffled down the stairs, and stumbled the length of the cabin to get to the toilet in the far back corner of the building. By the time I got back upstairs, I was too awake to go back to sleep. Dang it!
I turned on the lamp and started reading.
"Whazzuhmatter?" Kevin mumbled from the twin-sized bed on the other side of the end table.
"Nothing," I replied. Pause.
"Can I use your eye mask?"
"Okay," I giggled and tossed it over to him. He looked so cute in my fuzzy white mask.
About an hour later, I noticed he was curled up in the fetal position. I wasn't sure if it was because he was cold or just too big for the bed, but I got up and pulled a quilt over him.
He jumped like he was being attacked . . . and had been struck blind. He jerked his head way back so he could see through the little slit at the bottom of the eye mask . . . and found me laughing at him.
"Sorry, babe," I whispered. "It's just a blanket."
He groaned, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
Later on that afternoon, we were lazing in the lake . . . well, I was
lazing, floating on a little yellow inner tube, while Kevin used a big
rake to muck out some leaves and branches near the dock.
My bikini bottom has strings on the side; from what I can tell, they serve no real purpose, just dangle there. Saturday afternoon, though, they were submerged with the rest of my backside while my arms and legs and head rested on the top of the tube.
And then a string got pulled. I yelped and instinctively thrust my pelvis up and out of the water, but then I realized I didn't really have anywhere to go, being on a flimsy little yellow inner tube. My first thought -- and what does this say about me? -- was not that I was being attacked by a shark or piranha or any other water-dwelling creature. Nope. My first thought was, some psycho guy is in the lake underneath my tube pulling my bikini strings!
And then I realized it was more likely just a fish.
"A fish just tugged on my bikini string!" I called out to Kevin. He gave me one of those old-farmer-head-nod things to acknowledge he'd heard me, but kept on doing what he was doing. Seriously? I could have been maimed, buddy! A little sympathy?
I felt better ten minutes later when he let out a yelp. Taking a break from his work, he was squatting to submerge himself shoulder deep in the shallow water. The only thing visible was his ratty old cowboy hat and the can of beer he was carefully holding above the water . . . until he shot up with that yelp.
"It bit me in the nipple!" he yelled. Seriously. Pretty sure the whole lake heard him.
I laughed.
"It's bleeding!" he called, looking for sympathy like I had.
He'll live.
The next day we went for a hike. I was in the lead on the 4.5-miler since Kevin walks as slow as he drives. I was thinking how nice it is to be married now, having someone to protect me in case of bears or something, when my hand hit a big cobweb. I was wiping it off on my shirt when I heard a roar and a thud behind me, so loud that I fully expected to see my new husband on the ground when I turned around.
Nope. Upright. Wiping wildly at his face. Having a good foot on me in height, I'd caught the bottom corner of a giant cobweb with my hand; it had clothes-lined him. He looked at me with an I'm-trying-to-remain-calm-but-I'm-really-kind-of-freaking-out look in his eyes.
"Is there a spider on my face?"
And then I did a rotten new wife thing. I laughed.
"No, there's nothing on your face," I assured him. And then, trying to be sweeter, I checked his shirt and the back of his neck and his legs while he wiped the web off his face.
Wife of the year I am not.
I picked up the water bottles that had flown out of the pockets on his backpack when he'd done the Matrix-esque move after his face met the cobweb, amazed at how loud they'd sounded. I was sure glad it hadn't been him hitting the dirt; he's just a smidgen too big for me to carry out of the woods on my back.
I got mine twelve hours later. Back in our apartment, lying in my nice, soft bed, plumb tuckered out from our outdoorsy adventure, I heard what I was certain was a rat, right behind my head and surely about to jump on my face. I did a whole-body convulsion thing, the same kind of thing you do when you dream you're falling.
"What?" Kevin asked from behind me. I figured if he didn't see it, it must not be real. I rolled over and lifted up my eyemask.
"What was that noise?" I asked. His look of concern change to one of guilt.
"This?" he said, then used his bottom teeth to scratch his upper lip, replicating the sound that had just scared the crap out of me. I grabbed his face with one hand, squeezing his cheeks like a chipmunk.
"I thought a rat was about to jump on my face!" I hissed. He just laughed.
If we ever do see a bear in the woods, we're both totally going to wet our pants.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Hey, I just got you/And this is crazy/But I just love you/So call me Jan Brady
I got a bike. It rocks.
When we moved to La Crescent, one of the first things we noticed was how active the people in this community are -- people were out walking and biking all day, every day.
There were signs up around our neighborhood for a resale bike shop, so we went and checked it out one night . . . and I got a sweet new ride. It's got wide handlebars and a squishy seat, and I feel as giddy as Jan Brady when I'm riding around town on it. (But my handlebars aren't quite as big as hers . . . nor is my hair.)
I'd thought about getting a bike before, but let's face it: I'm cheap. I love the look of those beach cruisers, but even at WalMart they're over $100. Another fact: I don't like to work too hard when I exercise. I hated to spend over a hundred bucks on a bike if it turned out biking was hard. I mean, I biked as a kid, but mostly just to show up my brother. After we grew up, I kind of gave it up as a sport.
So anyway, for just $45, the price was right.
I've taken little jaunts -- up to the grocery store and such -- and Kevin and I often go out for rides at night, once it cools off. The other night we rode to the far side of town to a bar that has sand volleyball courts outside. We thought joining a league might help us meet people. As the only two patrons in the bar, though, we wondered who we're going to have to pay in this town to be our friends. (The only people our age we've seen around here are at the t-ball field with their kids. Not really our crowd.) But the barman said the volleyball season was half over and it was too late to get in. They do have a "bags" league on Sunday afternoons, though, and we could come hang out and see if they'd need subs. (Not likely. Sounds like we'd be standing up against the wall like the last kids picked for kickball during elementary recess time.)
But anyway, back to my sweet new ride. Much as I love it, there is one problem: the new helmet I got for $5 with my resale bike is about two sizes too small. As in, so small I still had an indentation in my forehead when I went to bed an hour after our trip to rejection-bar. (When I went looking for sympathy, Kevin assured me he wasn't looking at my forehead. Such a man.)
We've pedaled up to the local farmer's market the past two weeks for some fresh produce. Here's an easy recipe I found to try out some of our local veggies:
Chocolate Zucchini Bread
3 eggs
1 C vegetable oil
2 C sugar
1 T vanilla extract
2 C shredded peeled zucchini (about 1 medium)
2 1/2 C flour
1/2 C cocoa
1 t. salt
1 t. baking soda
1 t. ground cinnamon
1/4 t. baking powder
In a mixing bowl, beat eggs, oil, sugar, and vanilla. Stir in zucchini. Combine dry ingredients; add to zucchini mixture and mix well. Pour into two greased 8x4x2 inch loaf pans. Bake at 350 for one hour or until a toothpick comes out clean.
I fed this to my non-veggie eating brother and nephews last weekend, not telling them there was zucchini in it. They never knew the difference. :)
I got a bike. It rocks.
When we moved to La Crescent, one of the first things we noticed was how active the people in this community are -- people were out walking and biking all day, every day.
There were signs up around our neighborhood for a resale bike shop, so we went and checked it out one night . . . and I got a sweet new ride. It's got wide handlebars and a squishy seat, and I feel as giddy as Jan Brady when I'm riding around town on it. (But my handlebars aren't quite as big as hers . . . nor is my hair.)
I'd thought about getting a bike before, but let's face it: I'm cheap. I love the look of those beach cruisers, but even at WalMart they're over $100. Another fact: I don't like to work too hard when I exercise. I hated to spend over a hundred bucks on a bike if it turned out biking was hard. I mean, I biked as a kid, but mostly just to show up my brother. After we grew up, I kind of gave it up as a sport.
So anyway, for just $45, the price was right.
I've taken little jaunts -- up to the grocery store and such -- and Kevin and I often go out for rides at night, once it cools off. The other night we rode to the far side of town to a bar that has sand volleyball courts outside. We thought joining a league might help us meet people. As the only two patrons in the bar, though, we wondered who we're going to have to pay in this town to be our friends. (The only people our age we've seen around here are at the t-ball field with their kids. Not really our crowd.) But the barman said the volleyball season was half over and it was too late to get in. They do have a "bags" league on Sunday afternoons, though, and we could come hang out and see if they'd need subs. (Not likely. Sounds like we'd be standing up against the wall like the last kids picked for kickball during elementary recess time.)
But anyway, back to my sweet new ride. Much as I love it, there is one problem: the new helmet I got for $5 with my resale bike is about two sizes too small. As in, so small I still had an indentation in my forehead when I went to bed an hour after our trip to rejection-bar. (When I went looking for sympathy, Kevin assured me he wasn't looking at my forehead. Such a man.)
We've pedaled up to the local farmer's market the past two weeks for some fresh produce. Here's an easy recipe I found to try out some of our local veggies:
Chocolate Zucchini Bread
3 eggs
1 C vegetable oil
2 C sugar
1 T vanilla extract
2 C shredded peeled zucchini (about 1 medium)
2 1/2 C flour
1/2 C cocoa
1 t. salt
1 t. baking soda
1 t. ground cinnamon
1/4 t. baking powder
In a mixing bowl, beat eggs, oil, sugar, and vanilla. Stir in zucchini. Combine dry ingredients; add to zucchini mixture and mix well. Pour into two greased 8x4x2 inch loaf pans. Bake at 350 for one hour or until a toothpick comes out clean.
I fed this to my non-veggie eating brother and nephews last weekend, not telling them there was zucchini in it. They never knew the difference. :)
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Next Monday at Midnight . . .
My phone buzzed near midnight last night. I'm surprised I even heard it, really, since I was pretty much exhausted and dead asleep after hosting my family for the weekend, but in my sleep fog I thought maybe they'd had an accident on the way home (despite the fact that we'd talked on the phone a few hours earlier and they were home safe and sound), so I bumbled around on the nightstand until I found and picked up my vibrating phone.
"Hello?" I croaked into my phone, then, "mmbbggtthtththththrrrrrr . . . rrr . . . I think . . . rrrr . . . wrong number . . . " when a woman asked for Angie. "Yeah, I suppose it is," she sassily shot back.
Okay. An "I'm sorry to have woken you," would have been more polite.
I dropped it back on the nightstand and rolled over. It started buzzing again almost immediately but I ignored it. My voicemail message starts out with, "Hey, this is Tiffany," so I figured rather than tell her she had the wrong number again, she'd figure it out on her own.
Nope. I woke up to find I had a voicemail. A long, rambling voicemail. It started out like this:
"Hey Angie, I know we haven't talked in a couple of years . . . "
My first thought was, duh, did you not hear the voicemail message that said my name is Tiffany? My second thought was, man, didn't your mother teach you not to call people after nine? Some people sleep, you know.
The message went along in the "haven't talked in a couple of years" vein for a while, and then a switch flipped or something, and mystery caller started on a rant, directing Angie to, "close your mouth . . . shut your mouth . . ." in about five different ways, ending with a dramatic pause and then . . . "underground."
Huh. Was that a overdramatized death wish, mystery caller?
I was thinking about it today, and I'm not sure which is more sad, a) that she's still mad at someone she hasn't talked to in two years or b) that she was clearly drunk at midnight on a Monday. Seriously? A Monday? Get a life, hon.
I thought about who I could call at midnight next Monday, 'cause if that's the hip new thing to do, I totally want to do it, you know? I started my list of people who'd wronged me so I'd know whose numbers I needed to Google in preparation.
1. Kevin. Yes, Kevin. My beloved. My Delecta Daddy himself. Why? Because on Valentine's Day -- Did you catch that? VALENTINE'S DAY! -- he called me Courtney. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it wasn't this Valentine's Day, when he gave me that fabulous sparkler and asked me to be his wife. And fine, yes, he'd just left work and had been working with his intern Courtney, so the name was on his brain. And yeah, we'd only been dating a couple of months. But still. On Valentine's Day? Unfortunately the midnight phone call probably wasn't going to be as effective with him lying right there in bed beside me. And also, I didn't want to wish him dead. I kinda like him.
I resolved to give him a sharp elbow to the kidneys next Monday at midnight and claim it was an accidental/justrollingover move. I crossed him off my call list.
I needed to think of women who'd done me wrong. Stolen a boyfriend or something. I racked my brain.
Couldn't think of anyone.
Went back to high school . . . scene of all drama, right?
Couldn't think of anyone.
I went further back. Kindergarten. I got one!!
At recess one day, I was doing a headstand. I'd taken off my headband, because the hard plastic would have thrown off my balance and hurt my head. One of my classmates thought it would be funny to knock me down mid-handstand. I'm pretty sure it was because she was jealous of my awesomeness. Down I went . . . and the plastic headband I was holding in my hand BROKE. IN. HALF.
Injustice!
The teacher didn't seem to think it was a big deal, but I was livid. I'm gonna call her next Monday at midnight and let her have it.
But I don't really want to wish her dead. I mean, the headband probably cost, like, a quarter, and I certainly had other fully intact headbands at home. And she was my best friend in seventh grade, so obviously I'd forgiven her by then. So . . . yeah, I'm probably not gonna call her.
Darn it. I gave up the list. I suck at catfighting.
And I think we can all read between the lines here: I'm never going to be a reality TV star. :(
My phone buzzed near midnight last night. I'm surprised I even heard it, really, since I was pretty much exhausted and dead asleep after hosting my family for the weekend, but in my sleep fog I thought maybe they'd had an accident on the way home (despite the fact that we'd talked on the phone a few hours earlier and they were home safe and sound), so I bumbled around on the nightstand until I found and picked up my vibrating phone.
"Hello?" I croaked into my phone, then, "mmbbggtthtththththrrrrrr . . . rrr . . . I think . . . rrrr . . . wrong number . . . " when a woman asked for Angie. "Yeah, I suppose it is," she sassily shot back.
Okay. An "I'm sorry to have woken you," would have been more polite.
I dropped it back on the nightstand and rolled over. It started buzzing again almost immediately but I ignored it. My voicemail message starts out with, "Hey, this is Tiffany," so I figured rather than tell her she had the wrong number again, she'd figure it out on her own.
Nope. I woke up to find I had a voicemail. A long, rambling voicemail. It started out like this:
"Hey Angie, I know we haven't talked in a couple of years . . . "
My first thought was, duh, did you not hear the voicemail message that said my name is Tiffany? My second thought was, man, didn't your mother teach you not to call people after nine? Some people sleep, you know.
The message went along in the "haven't talked in a couple of years" vein for a while, and then a switch flipped or something, and mystery caller started on a rant, directing Angie to, "close your mouth . . . shut your mouth . . ." in about five different ways, ending with a dramatic pause and then . . . "underground."
Huh. Was that a overdramatized death wish, mystery caller?
I was thinking about it today, and I'm not sure which is more sad, a) that she's still mad at someone she hasn't talked to in two years or b) that she was clearly drunk at midnight on a Monday. Seriously? A Monday? Get a life, hon.
I thought about who I could call at midnight next Monday, 'cause if that's the hip new thing to do, I totally want to do it, you know? I started my list of people who'd wronged me so I'd know whose numbers I needed to Google in preparation.
1. Kevin. Yes, Kevin. My beloved. My Delecta Daddy himself. Why? Because on Valentine's Day -- Did you catch that? VALENTINE'S DAY! -- he called me Courtney. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it wasn't this Valentine's Day, when he gave me that fabulous sparkler and asked me to be his wife. And fine, yes, he'd just left work and had been working with his intern Courtney, so the name was on his brain. And yeah, we'd only been dating a couple of months. But still. On Valentine's Day? Unfortunately the midnight phone call probably wasn't going to be as effective with him lying right there in bed beside me. And also, I didn't want to wish him dead. I kinda like him.
I resolved to give him a sharp elbow to the kidneys next Monday at midnight and claim it was an accidental/justrollingover move. I crossed him off my call list.
I needed to think of women who'd done me wrong. Stolen a boyfriend or something. I racked my brain.
Couldn't think of anyone.
Went back to high school . . . scene of all drama, right?
Couldn't think of anyone.
I went further back. Kindergarten. I got one!!
At recess one day, I was doing a headstand. I'd taken off my headband, because the hard plastic would have thrown off my balance and hurt my head. One of my classmates thought it would be funny to knock me down mid-handstand. I'm pretty sure it was because she was jealous of my awesomeness. Down I went . . . and the plastic headband I was holding in my hand BROKE. IN. HALF.
Injustice!
The teacher didn't seem to think it was a big deal, but I was livid. I'm gonna call her next Monday at midnight and let her have it.
But I don't really want to wish her dead. I mean, the headband probably cost, like, a quarter, and I certainly had other fully intact headbands at home. And she was my best friend in seventh grade, so obviously I'd forgiven her by then. So . . . yeah, I'm probably not gonna call her.
Darn it. I gave up the list. I suck at catfighting.
And I think we can all read between the lines here: I'm never going to be a reality TV star. :(
Friday, July 13, 2012
If you were wondering how to annoy me at Zumba . . .
I went to Zumba at the La Crosse YMCA yesterday. I loved it in Dubuque, and since my Dubuque membership is still valid and I have some guest passes through it, it was free to try here. Yay!
I got there fifteen minutes early, not because I'm a stickler for punctuality but because, as previously mentioned, I don't have a lot of other pressing appointments these days. My early arrival meant I was able to pick out pretty much any spot in the room I wanted. I didn't want to be in the front row since I wasn't sure whether or not they used the same routines as the Dubuque Y. I didn't want to be too far back, though, because if they did have different routines, I wanted to be able to see the instructor so I'd have a clue what was going on. I planted myself firmly in the second row, slightly left of center, with a clear view of the instructor.
Imagine my frustration when, three minutes after class began, a straggler came in and stood right in front of me. Seriously? Go find a spot in that wide open back row, lady! Can you not see that you're not in an actual row? There's the first row, and here's the second -- you are in neither! Technically she was between me and the lady to my left, so saying she stood right in front of me is a slight exaggeration. But seriously, one late step on her part and I'd be kicking her in the keester. She was that close.
It became clear, though, that she would not be making any missteps. She was clearly an every-weeker and knew all of the routines without looking at the instructor. How do I know this? Because she rarely broke eye contact with herself. Facing the front, she admired herself in the front mirror. Turning to the side, she admired herself in the side mirror.
What do I mean by admiring?
Have you seen Toddlers in Tiaras? Or the cheerleading competitions they sometimes have on ESPN? I'm gonna guess this lady has lots of that stuff on her DVR and watches it frequently. You know the facial expressions I'm talking about -- extra cheese. Cheese overload. Cheese that's not attractive on little girls or teenagers, let alone forty-something Zumba class participants. The kind of cheese that makes you uncomfortable, because you're not sure if they think they're sexy, or want you to think they're sexy, or what it is exactly they're going for.
I tried to look around and see if anyone else was noticing this. Or heck, were other people doing this? Maybe here in La Crosse these faces were encouraged during Zumba. I glanced surreptitiously at my dancing comrades and realized, nope, just her. Some women were laughing at themselves. Some women were huffing and puffing. But only one was seducing her reflection.
Don't be so judgmental, I told myself. Maybe she has a really tough job, or an unhappy marriage, or teenagers who are embarrassed to be seen with her. Maybe this is her one outlet . . . her one chance to really live it up. I tried to give her some grace.
But then she winked at herself.
I kid you not. In one particularly risque Zumba move, we did two chest bumps and a booty roll . . . at which time ilovemyselflady gave her reflection a naughty come-hither look and winked.
I considered vomiting. Really, I did. It was super hot in that room, with fifty women sweating bullets, so the conditions were right with or without this lady making me want to hurl.
I kept going though, pretty much because a) with all the baking I've been doing, I needed the calorie burn, and b) I'm hoping to make some friends here, and interrupting Zumba class with a pukefest probably isn't the way to do it.
The jury is still out on whether or not I'll go back . . .
I went to Zumba at the La Crosse YMCA yesterday. I loved it in Dubuque, and since my Dubuque membership is still valid and I have some guest passes through it, it was free to try here. Yay!
I got there fifteen minutes early, not because I'm a stickler for punctuality but because, as previously mentioned, I don't have a lot of other pressing appointments these days. My early arrival meant I was able to pick out pretty much any spot in the room I wanted. I didn't want to be in the front row since I wasn't sure whether or not they used the same routines as the Dubuque Y. I didn't want to be too far back, though, because if they did have different routines, I wanted to be able to see the instructor so I'd have a clue what was going on. I planted myself firmly in the second row, slightly left of center, with a clear view of the instructor.
Imagine my frustration when, three minutes after class began, a straggler came in and stood right in front of me. Seriously? Go find a spot in that wide open back row, lady! Can you not see that you're not in an actual row? There's the first row, and here's the second -- you are in neither! Technically she was between me and the lady to my left, so saying she stood right in front of me is a slight exaggeration. But seriously, one late step on her part and I'd be kicking her in the keester. She was that close.
It became clear, though, that she would not be making any missteps. She was clearly an every-weeker and knew all of the routines without looking at the instructor. How do I know this? Because she rarely broke eye contact with herself. Facing the front, she admired herself in the front mirror. Turning to the side, she admired herself in the side mirror.
What do I mean by admiring?
Have you seen Toddlers in Tiaras? Or the cheerleading competitions they sometimes have on ESPN? I'm gonna guess this lady has lots of that stuff on her DVR and watches it frequently. You know the facial expressions I'm talking about -- extra cheese. Cheese overload. Cheese that's not attractive on little girls or teenagers, let alone forty-something Zumba class participants. The kind of cheese that makes you uncomfortable, because you're not sure if they think they're sexy, or want you to think they're sexy, or what it is exactly they're going for.
I tried to look around and see if anyone else was noticing this. Or heck, were other people doing this? Maybe here in La Crosse these faces were encouraged during Zumba. I glanced surreptitiously at my dancing comrades and realized, nope, just her. Some women were laughing at themselves. Some women were huffing and puffing. But only one was seducing her reflection.
Don't be so judgmental, I told myself. Maybe she has a really tough job, or an unhappy marriage, or teenagers who are embarrassed to be seen with her. Maybe this is her one outlet . . . her one chance to really live it up. I tried to give her some grace.
But then she winked at herself.
I kid you not. In one particularly risque Zumba move, we did two chest bumps and a booty roll . . . at which time ilovemyselflady gave her reflection a naughty come-hither look and winked.
I considered vomiting. Really, I did. It was super hot in that room, with fifty women sweating bullets, so the conditions were right with or without this lady making me want to hurl.
I kept going though, pretty much because a) with all the baking I've been doing, I needed the calorie burn, and b) I'm hoping to make some friends here, and interrupting Zumba class with a pukefest probably isn't the way to do it.
The jury is still out on whether or not I'll go back . . .
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Chocolate Chip Banana Bread Pudding
I have A LOT of time on my hands these days. I cook dinner pretty much every night. Kevin's getting fat. Yesterday I got up at the crack of dawn to make something special for breakfast since Kevin was feeling anxious about having to take the Minnesota driver's test (which, by the way, I think is completely ridiculous . . . but that's another post altogether). I'd made this once before and it was super yummy (I'm pretty sure it was what made him decide to marry me). Here's the recipe if you've got a little time on your hands, too.
Chocolate Chip Banana Bread Pudding
4 eggs
2 C milk
1 C sugar
1 T vanilla
4 C cubed French bread
2 bananas, mashed
1 C chocolate chips
Night before:
Grease a loaf pan. In a large bowl, mix eggs, milk, sugar, and vanilla until smooth. Stir in bread, bananas, and chocolate chips. Pour into pan, cover with plastic wrap, and store in refrigerator overnight.
Morning:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Get the loaf pan out of the refrigerator and let it sit at room temperature while the oven heats. Line a roasting pan with a damp kitchen towel. Place the loaf pan on the towel in the roasting pan and place it on the center oven rack. Carefully fill the roasting pan with water to reach halfway up the sides of the loaf pan. Bake for 1 hour or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.
It makes about six servings . . . we had leftovers this morning and it was just as yummy as it was on day one. We agreed, though, that you could cut down on the chocolate chips -- as is, it's a lot of sweetness first thing in the morning!
I have A LOT of time on my hands these days. I cook dinner pretty much every night. Kevin's getting fat. Yesterday I got up at the crack of dawn to make something special for breakfast since Kevin was feeling anxious about having to take the Minnesota driver's test (which, by the way, I think is completely ridiculous . . . but that's another post altogether). I'd made this once before and it was super yummy (I'm pretty sure it was what made him decide to marry me). Here's the recipe if you've got a little time on your hands, too.
Chocolate Chip Banana Bread Pudding
4 eggs
2 C milk
1 C sugar
1 T vanilla
4 C cubed French bread
2 bananas, mashed
1 C chocolate chips
Night before:
Grease a loaf pan. In a large bowl, mix eggs, milk, sugar, and vanilla until smooth. Stir in bread, bananas, and chocolate chips. Pour into pan, cover with plastic wrap, and store in refrigerator overnight.
Morning:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Get the loaf pan out of the refrigerator and let it sit at room temperature while the oven heats. Line a roasting pan with a damp kitchen towel. Place the loaf pan on the towel in the roasting pan and place it on the center oven rack. Carefully fill the roasting pan with water to reach halfway up the sides of the loaf pan. Bake for 1 hour or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.
It makes about six servings . . . we had leftovers this morning and it was just as yummy as it was on day one. We agreed, though, that you could cut down on the chocolate chips -- as is, it's a lot of sweetness first thing in the morning!
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Since I don't have much else to do . . .
I'm bored. You'd think I'd love my new role as happy housewife, but it's strange to have so much free time and nothing to do! Some people were joking a few weekends ago that Kevin is now my sugar daddy, working all day while I have no responsibilities . . . but since we're not rich, he'd be like generic sugar . . . for example, Delecta, the generic sugar substitute sold at Hy-Vee grocery stores around Iowa. Thus, Delecta Daddy.
I don't really know what I'll blog about since I don't do much but read, cook, watch movies, and surf the web trying to find a job . . . but at least I'll have something new to do. :)
I'm bored. You'd think I'd love my new role as happy housewife, but it's strange to have so much free time and nothing to do! Some people were joking a few weekends ago that Kevin is now my sugar daddy, working all day while I have no responsibilities . . . but since we're not rich, he'd be like generic sugar . . . for example, Delecta, the generic sugar substitute sold at Hy-Vee grocery stores around Iowa. Thus, Delecta Daddy.
I don't really know what I'll blog about since I don't do much but read, cook, watch movies, and surf the web trying to find a job . . . but at least I'll have something new to do. :)
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