Frozen Grand Central Station
True Confession
Alright, alright, it’s time. You see, I have a secret. A deep dark one. I’ve been having a love affair, and it’s high time I let the cat out of the, um, bag, so to speak. Or actually, the Warcraft character out of the armory. Here’s the thing: I’m a gamer. Some people would even call me “hard core” but that just sounds dirty, so let’s skip it. So, I confess. Even though I rag on my cute bald boy about playing WoW, and try to sabotage his questing by turning his epic flying mount the wrong direction when he’s not looking, I’m secretly just trying to get more achievement points than him. But, since I’ve only been playing in the middle of the night (ever wonder why my posts here show up at midnight? It’s my excuse to stay up the rest of the night doing dungeons and raids!) I’ve had to resort to sabotage in order to beat him.
I’m excited though, because now that the word is out, I expect the rest of you closet gamers to invite me to your guilds, so I can choose the best one. These PUGs are getting old.
Love,
Launi
P.S. My WoW character is a level 80 (!!!) Paladin. For those of you who haven’t joined the cult played WoW, you should know that level 80 is the highest level in the game. It takes a lot of work and dedication to get a character this high. Not to mention that I have some dang fine gear. Oh, and Paladins? They’re basically sturdy mountain women with plate metal armor and holy magic. So pretty much I can kill anything with a sword or my righteous magic, and it can’t even touch me. I figure that pretty much reflects me in real life.
PS–APRIL FOOLS!!
This whole post is a big, fat fib!! I don’t know how to play this game and APRIL wrote this post. Sheesh.
I Quit!!
Ironic Wisdom…of sorts
My son in law–Jacob, sent this to me the other day. Pretty dang funny, and sad at the same time. You’ll see what i mean.
It’s called “You Can’t Fix Stupid.”
Please forgive me…
What goes around comes around!
Did we elect these people??
Did we elect these people??
Civil War planes?
Let me know how that works out.
‘We had no idea anyone was buried there.’
I didn’t know we could choose.
Please, anyone, if you’ve seen this man…
What are the odds?
I would have guessed 20.
Okay…that’s just mean!
P.S.–Happy Birthday Lynnette!
From Puddle to Puddle
We had some big plans for today, April and I. The idea was to tag team watching the babies and baking a busload of Valentine goodies that we could show you for the next couple of days. On the agenda, we had:
Applesauce Cinnamon Dough Hearts…
Penuche Fudge…
and Chocolate Brown Sugar Chiffon Cake.
Sounds pretty great–right? Of course, right. So we dove in.
For the next four hours, we measured and preheated and greased and floured and kneaded and boiled and separated and baked and whipped and poured and stirred and chilled and frosted and rolled.
But alas…
A puddle appeared.
It came in the form of applesauce cinnamon dough that refused to behave like dough. It was almost soppy wet to the touch and yet it crumbled instead of shaping politely into dainty hearts. What the heck? Then
April laughed and pointed out that the non-dough-like dough was also a very “unappealing” color. Eww-wah.
That did it.
I don’t have another picture–so you’ll have to trust me.
Down the drain went the belligerent, ugly dough.
Then puddle two poured in.
We’ll call it the “Penuche Fudge that wished it was.”
I’ve always been a sucker for a good brown sugar fudge and vowed years ago to find a great recipe and master it for myself. So when we spotted this recipe in Living magazine I was pretty sure we couldn’t go wrong.
It’s Martha Stewart for Pete’s sake.
But after about 45 minutes of obeying every order the recipe gave…
every one…I swear….
we had a really good flavored, terribly gritty, rather awful fudge-if you dare call it that.
Oh, I’m not blaming Martha.
Obviously, my stars were not aligned properly.
~sigh~
Into a Ziploc bag went the dreadful fudge to be pondered upon at a later date.
On we go now, to puddle number 3.
The Chocolate Brown Sugar Chiffon Cake. Oh, I had my speech all ready to post about how “a cake made from scratch is more trouble, of course–but so worth every separated egg and stiff peak, bla, bla.” You wouldn’t be sorry that you made the effort.
Yeeeah.
But what turned out to be sadly missing from the recipe was the fact that the cake–as lovely as it is–tastes quite a bit like…
dirt.
Kinda funny to tell the truth.
It’s still sitting on a plate just daring people to try a slice. But I warn them before they do. It’s nice to look at, but it’s a slap to the back of the head in the taste bud department.
So the rain came down and washed the posts away.
But, we don’t care.
Because as Scarlett says, “Tomorrow is another day.”
So true…
…and we look dang fine in bright pink galoshes.
PS–You may have noticed that I haven’t posted any of today’s recipes.
That, my friend, is because I like you.
