Today at work I met a sheep in dog's clothing. This deluded farm creature had a thick, shaggy coat of wool and a blanket to wear on top of that (just like the many dogs in coats I saw today), but no, the barn would not do for her day at the vet. Dale the sheep made herself at home in a dog run, contentedly munching hay from her make-shift manger and watching people through the bars.
I never did get a good answer to why she was allowed indoors; she was quite a bit larger than most house pets. I heard people refer to her as a "lamb", but they were "kid"ding themselves (wait, that's a goat. Whatever. I'd love to see a goat in a dog kennel, too...). Dale was no Easter baby. She had substantial girth and would run you over in a stampede, make no mistake.
I did enjoy the barnyard smell of hay and earth that Dale brought into the building, especially compared to dirty, stanky dogs. She also appeared a lot calmer and quieter than many of the canine guests who seem to think manic barking is a great form of entertainment.
The unusual kenneling situation brought out the worst of puns in people. Actual overheard conversation: "Someone's here to see ewe." "What a baaaad joke." Maybe it was just the oddity of having an outdoor animal inside, but Dale brought out a lot of silliness in my coworkers. And all she had to do was stand there.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
High Altitude Pie Troubles
I woke up on Thanksgiving morning, not to cook the turkey or make the stuffing--because I had decided to forgo those troublesome dishes--but to make the pies. Pie, to me, is the root of Thanksgiving tradition, after the actual gratitude. Keep your yams, cram your cranberries, stuff your stuffing, but don't forget the pie.
So, Thursday morning, I carefully crafted flaky pie crust from my grandmother's recipe. I made a delectable, professional-looking chocolate tart. I whisked together the ingredients for a delicious pecan pie, my only official Thanksgiving dessert. Why eat a boring pumpkin pie, when you can have corn syrup, nuts and butter? Cooked fruit is generally squashy and nasty, anyway, so cherry, apple and blueberry pies are right out. I mean, I'd eat an apple struedel if it came with a free trip to Central Europe, but otherwise give me something with either chocolate or nuts. Or both.
Anyway, the pie looked great and went into the oven for its hour of blissful baking. I set about making some salad for the feast and some homemade bread, which turned out fantastically. I had done research about baking at 7200 feet, and learned that most breads and baked goods came out dry at this elevation. I had easily mastered the technique of adding more moisture to my culinary delights, and my scones have never been better.
This pecan pie was a different kettle of fish. Well, for starters, there was no fish in it, although that was probably a good thing. But, not a half an hour into the baking, I started to smell something burning. Now, as a moderately successful baker, I know that one can't constantly open the oven door to peek at one's masterpiece because that can affect the stable oven temperature and cause poor results. So, I had let the pie bake unchaperoned, which turned out to be a huge mistake. By the time I investigated the cause of the smokey smell, my pie hadst runneth over. At 350 degrees (Fahrenheit, obviously) and 7200 feet (not metres), my pecan pie had boiled.
All I could do was exclaim loudly as Karo syrup turned my oven into a burnt candy factory. The pie had turned inside out, and smoke billowed into the kitchen. I had to open the window even though it was only about 10 degrees (Fahrenheit, again) outside.
I turned the oven off and did the only thing I could think of: I called my parents. My dad answered, and when I told him I had a pie emergency, he immediately put my mom on the phone. Unfortunately, my mom's boundless wisdom in kitchen matters stopped short at about 680 feet. Her advice included cleaning the oven as soon as possible and trying to salvage the pecans, which are quite expensive.
My main man and I tackled the quickly hardening corn syrup. He scraped layer after layer off of the bottom of the oven, while I tried to then remove the pie innards from our spoon and spatula scraping tools. That burnt candy was extremely hard and very sharp. It had become especially congealed on one plastic spatula, and as I tried to pry it off, it ripped a large gash in my thumb. This was no paper cut; a portion of skin was missing entirely, and it bled for over ten minutes. It still hurts now when I flex my poor little thumb. High altitude candy can be dangerous.
Once the bulk of the unexpected spillage had been removed (no animals were harmed in this disaster, except for me and my thumb), I returned the pie to the oven at a lower temperature. Although more of a pecan crumble by the time it was served, it was still quite tasty and acceptable to my guests. They weren't just being nice, either, because both pies were completely devoured during our two days' celebration, along with our main course of bangers and mash. With a few turkey cutlets on the side.
So, Thursday morning, I carefully crafted flaky pie crust from my grandmother's recipe. I made a delectable, professional-looking chocolate tart. I whisked together the ingredients for a delicious pecan pie, my only official Thanksgiving dessert. Why eat a boring pumpkin pie, when you can have corn syrup, nuts and butter? Cooked fruit is generally squashy and nasty, anyway, so cherry, apple and blueberry pies are right out. I mean, I'd eat an apple struedel if it came with a free trip to Central Europe, but otherwise give me something with either chocolate or nuts. Or both.
Anyway, the pie looked great and went into the oven for its hour of blissful baking. I set about making some salad for the feast and some homemade bread, which turned out fantastically. I had done research about baking at 7200 feet, and learned that most breads and baked goods came out dry at this elevation. I had easily mastered the technique of adding more moisture to my culinary delights, and my scones have never been better.
This pecan pie was a different kettle of fish. Well, for starters, there was no fish in it, although that was probably a good thing. But, not a half an hour into the baking, I started to smell something burning. Now, as a moderately successful baker, I know that one can't constantly open the oven door to peek at one's masterpiece because that can affect the stable oven temperature and cause poor results. So, I had let the pie bake unchaperoned, which turned out to be a huge mistake. By the time I investigated the cause of the smokey smell, my pie hadst runneth over. At 350 degrees (Fahrenheit, obviously) and 7200 feet (not metres), my pecan pie had boiled.
All I could do was exclaim loudly as Karo syrup turned my oven into a burnt candy factory. The pie had turned inside out, and smoke billowed into the kitchen. I had to open the window even though it was only about 10 degrees (Fahrenheit, again) outside.
I turned the oven off and did the only thing I could think of: I called my parents. My dad answered, and when I told him I had a pie emergency, he immediately put my mom on the phone. Unfortunately, my mom's boundless wisdom in kitchen matters stopped short at about 680 feet. Her advice included cleaning the oven as soon as possible and trying to salvage the pecans, which are quite expensive.
My main man and I tackled the quickly hardening corn syrup. He scraped layer after layer off of the bottom of the oven, while I tried to then remove the pie innards from our spoon and spatula scraping tools. That burnt candy was extremely hard and very sharp. It had become especially congealed on one plastic spatula, and as I tried to pry it off, it ripped a large gash in my thumb. This was no paper cut; a portion of skin was missing entirely, and it bled for over ten minutes. It still hurts now when I flex my poor little thumb. High altitude candy can be dangerous.
Once the bulk of the unexpected spillage had been removed (no animals were harmed in this disaster, except for me and my thumb), I returned the pie to the oven at a lower temperature. Although more of a pecan crumble by the time it was served, it was still quite tasty and acceptable to my guests. They weren't just being nice, either, because both pies were completely devoured during our two days' celebration, along with our main course of bangers and mash. With a few turkey cutlets on the side.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Fizzy Problems
1. I'm not British. Oh how lovely to have a proper English accent or a charming Scottish brogue and a sharp, dry wit! I'd get to call people bloody gits and watch brand new episodes of "Doctor Who" and live to a soundtrack of Franz Ferdinand, the Fratellis and the Arctic Monkeys and other cool bands that I've never even heard of because I'm on this side of the Pond. I'd walk on the moors and then have a spot of tea and be inspired by great authors and maybe haunt an old castle by a loch. But I can't do that as an American. I'd just be a poser.
2. I'm a poser. I enjoy using foreign slang. I have an alter ego who gives cheerful customer service and answers the phone. I sometimes wear a University of Oregon hat, as if I ever went there.
3. I don't know any goats. What life is complete without a goat friend?
4. I haven't had my distemperament shot. This should probably be major problem #1, since it would explain why I'm such a grumpy git. This vaccine--in dogs, at least, according to a slightly ignorant customer at work--dramatically changes one's temperament. It's what creates loyal dogs from crazy puppies, or what turns sweet young dogs into vicious beasts. I guess this explains why vaccination protocols can be such a contentious subject.
5. I haven't had my distemper shot, either. Maybe I've already caught the virus. I might be the first human case on record. I feel a little funny.
6. I can only grow cacti and now one of them has gnats.
7. I'm completely mental and should be banjaxed.
2. I'm a poser. I enjoy using foreign slang. I have an alter ego who gives cheerful customer service and answers the phone. I sometimes wear a University of Oregon hat, as if I ever went there.
3. I don't know any goats. What life is complete without a goat friend?
4. I haven't had my distemperament shot. This should probably be major problem #1, since it would explain why I'm such a grumpy git. This vaccine--in dogs, at least, according to a slightly ignorant customer at work--dramatically changes one's temperament. It's what creates loyal dogs from crazy puppies, or what turns sweet young dogs into vicious beasts. I guess this explains why vaccination protocols can be such a contentious subject.
5. I haven't had my distemper shot, either. Maybe I've already caught the virus. I might be the first human case on record. I feel a little funny.
6. I can only grow cacti and now one of them has gnats.
7. I'm completely mental and should be banjaxed.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Furry Notions
Sometimes I think I would prefer having fur rather than this silly skin. Although I like wrapping up in fuzzy, comfy clothes, I hate the process of changing. Maybe that's one reason why I hate shopping: changing rooms. I just really dislike pulling garments on and off. I also dislike the nasty carpets in most changing rooms that make me feel like I will pick up diseases and fungi if I'm not wearing socks. I would much rather have a nice furry coat that would keep me warm at all times and not have to be removed.
There's another problem, I guess. I have an affliction I like to refer to as TATs. Temperature Adjustment Troubles. When I get cold, I have trouble warming up. When I get hot, it feels like I will never cool off. I constantly add and remove layers in order to achieve some average temperature that never arises. If I drink a hot cup of tea, I have to throw my sweatshirt out the window. If I eat some ice cream, I have to add two pairs of socks for every scoop. I'm tired of clothes.
If I only had a furry outer layer, I could be the next Bigfoot. I could live out in the woods and scare people for fun. The biggest problem with that scenario (besides the lack of a naturally growing fur coat) is that my feet are decidedly average in size. They can hardly be described as big by any stretch of the imagination, and if I had to put on prosthetics in order to leave the big, scary prints, that would defeat the point of not having to change clothes.
Not that I mind being wrapped in cozy comfort. I love wearing soft, warm clothes that have plenty of room to move and pockets to put my cold hands in. Unfortunately, women's clothes generally provide little comfort and next to no pockets. Women are expected to dress for 'the occasion' which seems to mean wearing stupid shoes that are impossible to walk in and having nowhere to stash your wallet.
I like winter clothes more than summer clothes. I prefer soft sweaters and fuzzy fleeces to shorts and tank tops. Cold weather can be conquered with the addition of layers. Hot weather is impossible to beat. There is only so much that you can take off and still be considered decent. I mean, a bikini top is only appropriate in certain situations, unless you're Britney Spears.
I don't really know why I dislike changing clothes so much, but I do. Take my work for instance (please?). The large animal techs and doctors have to change into overalls when they go out to the barn. COMMUNAL overalls. Ick. I don't shop at thrift stores because I can't stand the thought of shared clothes cooties (and I don't have the patience to dig through bins). Anyway, they have to change off and on throughout the day, because they are expected to look nicer (wear khakis) when dealing with small animals. The dogs and cats don't seem to care, but presumably the clients do.
I would go mad(der than I already am) if I had to change so often. I hate even putting on jeans after taking a shower. I would wear pyjamas all day if they weren't ridiculously covered in sheep and penguins. Changing back and forth all day long would be a nightmare. Today I drew blood from a horse and wore my khaki scrub pants. Ha. I'm a rebel with the cause of LIMITED CLOTHING CHANGES.
The horse didn't mind that I didn't wear overalls. He didn't even try to kick me when I stuck a big needle in his neck.
Today I also pulled some porcupine quills out of a Malamute's snout. He had a lovely fur coat that looked cozy and warm. He didn't comment on my khakis, but he was pretty drugged up at the time.
There's another problem, I guess. I have an affliction I like to refer to as TATs. Temperature Adjustment Troubles. When I get cold, I have trouble warming up. When I get hot, it feels like I will never cool off. I constantly add and remove layers in order to achieve some average temperature that never arises. If I drink a hot cup of tea, I have to throw my sweatshirt out the window. If I eat some ice cream, I have to add two pairs of socks for every scoop. I'm tired of clothes.
If I only had a furry outer layer, I could be the next Bigfoot. I could live out in the woods and scare people for fun. The biggest problem with that scenario (besides the lack of a naturally growing fur coat) is that my feet are decidedly average in size. They can hardly be described as big by any stretch of the imagination, and if I had to put on prosthetics in order to leave the big, scary prints, that would defeat the point of not having to change clothes.
Not that I mind being wrapped in cozy comfort. I love wearing soft, warm clothes that have plenty of room to move and pockets to put my cold hands in. Unfortunately, women's clothes generally provide little comfort and next to no pockets. Women are expected to dress for 'the occasion' which seems to mean wearing stupid shoes that are impossible to walk in and having nowhere to stash your wallet.
I like winter clothes more than summer clothes. I prefer soft sweaters and fuzzy fleeces to shorts and tank tops. Cold weather can be conquered with the addition of layers. Hot weather is impossible to beat. There is only so much that you can take off and still be considered decent. I mean, a bikini top is only appropriate in certain situations, unless you're Britney Spears.
I don't really know why I dislike changing clothes so much, but I do. Take my work for instance (please?). The large animal techs and doctors have to change into overalls when they go out to the barn. COMMUNAL overalls. Ick. I don't shop at thrift stores because I can't stand the thought of shared clothes cooties (and I don't have the patience to dig through bins). Anyway, they have to change off and on throughout the day, because they are expected to look nicer (wear khakis) when dealing with small animals. The dogs and cats don't seem to care, but presumably the clients do.
I would go mad(der than I already am) if I had to change so often. I hate even putting on jeans after taking a shower. I would wear pyjamas all day if they weren't ridiculously covered in sheep and penguins. Changing back and forth all day long would be a nightmare. Today I drew blood from a horse and wore my khaki scrub pants. Ha. I'm a rebel with the cause of LIMITED CLOTHING CHANGES.
The horse didn't mind that I didn't wear overalls. He didn't even try to kick me when I stuck a big needle in his neck.
Today I also pulled some porcupine quills out of a Malamute's snout. He had a lovely fur coat that looked cozy and warm. He didn't comment on my khakis, but he was pretty drugged up at the time.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Nibbles Johnson Returns
The mushrooms in the forest are long gone, but I've still been given a chance to cry "Nibbles!" This little guy and his buddies were the highlight of my Halloween. Well, that and all the left-over peanut butter cups. I enjoyed watching the gradual destruction of all the neighborhood pumpkins, and I was greatly amused when they started sampling mine. Even better, they ate the whiskers off the cat-o-lantern first. It's like us eating the ears off a chocolate bunny.
Very few trick-or-treaters came to the house, even though it's in a nice little neighborhood. Perhaps the half eaten pumpkin was just too scary. That's okay, because I don't like answering the door anyway.
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