Strawberry Buttercream

As I stood at my kitchen island last night, furiously whirring mixer in one hand and a cloud of powdered sugar in my face, I was transported to a moment nearly two years ago. Imagine a younger and starry eyed Laura, mere hours from her wedding, standing at a counter, hand mixer whirring in one hand, gagging on a cloud of powdered sugar. She watches as the bowl of pink goop refuses to be anything close to the wedding cupcake frosting of her dreams. With a scant two hours until her wedding rehearsal the pink begins to look redder and redder until our blushing bride throws down the mixer, picks up her car keys, drives to the store and buys 8 cans of spray frosting.

I've survived two years of wedded bliss to Mr. Onion, but I still can't make this recipe anything but horrible! The first batch I frosted looked like this:

I won't tell you what this looks like to me. 

The very sight of the strawberry liquid separated from the cream and the looked like some kind of crystalized, curdle. Not pretty, but not terrible tasting although the consistency was all wrong and the flavor was too sugary and not enough strawberryness.  In my head the perfect strawberry frosting is fresh and light and just the slightest bit sweet. 

So I tried adding more powdered sugar, thinking if nothing else it would help with some of the unfortunate texture and consistency issues. This is what I got:

Better, but not by much. This frosting was still too soft (even after a night in the fridge) and too sugary for my taste. Seriously, my tongue hurts today from all the sugar. 

So what did I do with them? Fed them to other people's children of course! You know what? The kids raved about them. They moaned, they licked the sloppy pinkness from arms and fingers, they made me promise not to change a thing (I crossed my fingers). I'm glad they enjoyed them and that they carried their sugar fueled little selves to someone else's home tonight. 

The recipe I followed is from myrecipes.com

Ingredients

• 1 cup butter, softened 
• 2 (16-ounce) packages powdered sugar, sifted
• 1 cup finely chopped fresh strawberries 
• Preparation
• Beat butter at medium speed with an electric mixer 20 seconds or until fluffy. Add powdered sugar and chopped strawberries, beating at low speed until creamy. (Add more sugar if frosting is too thin, or add strawberries if too thick.)

Welcome to My Garden

This is my second year of gardening. Before last summer I had only green things I had ever grown were at the back of my refridgerator. Some wild piece of inspiration last spring caused me to start herbs from seed. There were some successes and some utter failures. Among the successes were the basil and mint. Among the failures; chives, camomile, and lemon balm. Then over the winter this happened to my poor lavender and rosemary plants!

Wintering them in the basement was a bad idea. 

So, I'll have to start from scratch there. Also this year I am trying a few veggies. My husband does a pretty extensive garden down at the farm so my foray is really limited to things I have a special interest in; hot peppers and tomatoes for salsa, cukes for pickles. We had such a mild winter here in Maine that I started some of my seeds a few weeks ago, and they are already for fiber pots.

I'm determined not to kill these chives!!

The faster germinating seeds I am just getting started. Things like lettuce and cucumbers I will hopefully be able to sow directly outside. My next project is going to be constructing some raised beds. Up until now I've been a strictly container gardener, but we have the space so its time to put on my big girl gloves and put some plants in the ground. I'll keep you updated on how that works out. L

Stupid Tuesday

Stupid is a term that is overused practically to the point of cliche. Its technical definition, according to dictionary.com, is: lacking ordinary quickness and keenness of mind; dull. We use it to categorize all manner of the unpleasant and undesirable; animal, vegetable and mineral. It is a term I generally try to avoid, preferring to do as I urge my students, "find another word!" The plain truth is however that yesterday I, a woman of ordinarily above average intelligence,  was stupid. Dim. "Dull".  Allow me to illustrate.

Stupid Tuesday
Scene I Act I- classroom, teachers talk while their charges work

Melanie: My friend said not to put any birdseed out. Have you seen any bears around your house?

Laura: No. I don't think there have been any, although the kayaks have been really bad this year.

Melanie: Kayaks???

Laura: No, I don't mean Kayaks.... crap what are they called.... oh! Coyotes!
End Scene

Scene II Act I - post office
Laura goes to a post office box and produces a key. She opens the box and extracts a huge pile of mail. She sorts through it and discovers a package key. Laura is excited. She loves packages.

Laura: YAY! A package!
She goes to the package box whose number matches the key, number 66. She places the key in the slot and turns it this way and that.

Laura: Come on! You stupid thing, OPEN!!
She kicks the bank of metal lockers and goes to the service window.

Post Woman Beth: Can I help you?

Laura: Yeah, I got this package key, but I can't seem to get the box to open.

Post Woman Beth: Ok, let me try.
Post Woman Beth comes out from behind the counter, takes the key and inserts it in the lock Laura indicates. Post Woman Beth turns the key. It doesn't budge. She's a strong redhead so she turns harder. Nothing.

Post Woman Beth: Hmmm, let me get my key.
Post Woman Beth gets the master key and inserts it in the second slot above where the key to 66 hangs. She turns each key and nothing happens. She tries once, twice...

Laura: (helpfully) Maybe its broken.

Post Woman Beth: Maybe. I guess I'll have to leave a note for the Post Master. Can you come back for it tomorrow?

Laura: Yeah, sure.
End Scene- Where's the stupid you ask? Just wait.

Scene II Act II- Post Office the next day
Laura enters the Post Office, produces a key and goes to her mailbox. She pulls out a package key and a note from Post Woman Beth. The note reads:
Laura,
The locksmith figured out the problem. This is the key to locker 99.
Have a nice day,
Post Woman Beth
End Play

There isn't really much more to say on the subject, except that I hope you all get a chuckle at my expense- L

“Enthusiasm is excitement with inspiration, motivation, and a pinch of creativity.”- Bo Bennett

I don't know who Mr. Bennett is or what he did, but I do know that wiser words never were uttered. There was a period in my life where things lost their luster. It was a dark time. Don't get me wrong. I grew a lot in those dark months; much like a winter apple tree. But, now it's spring and I am blooming with all the juice and vibrancy gurgling through my veins. These past sallow months have taught me to savor life. They have taught me to embrace myself and my creativity. Its too easy to fight oneself, to forget what it feels like to be enthusiastic about something (EVERYTHING!), and to love every minute of chaos and whimsy. I guess that's a really la la way of explaining what I'm trying to do here so for you minimalists I'll summarize below:

These are the ramblings of one enthusiastic, creative, crazy woman. The faint of spirit need not read on.

Thumbalina Explains It All

Some days as an educator I feel like Thumbalina standing in front of a room full of unruly monkeys. I jump up an d down screaming, "LISTEN TO ME!" Most days I speak and the hordes hear, usually they even listen, but its the end of the year. I'm sick of them, they're sick of me. To all those freaks out there who think school should go year round I say this, "Heck NO!"

gradgiates

Watching a parade of maroon and white march haltingly I felt a sudden well of tears. Tears not of sadness, but tears of pride and those of gratefulness. I am so damn proud of all they've done to get here and so damn grateful that I got to help them accomplish this. That I was there, I was part of it all.  

A dame that knows the ropes isn't likely to get tied up. -Mae West

Even before I got Benny I was pleading the case with Mr. Onion for a second kitten. Once we had Benny and it was confirmed that he was a deamon fucker, hell cat I redoubled my efforts. I consulted the vet who confirmed that a second kitten would perhaps help to calm Benny down, or at least give him someone who could fight back with more than a squirt gun. I presented articles from cat fancy and the like, to no avail.   

Months passed and Benny grew, and grew and I resigned myself to having a fussy little fucker of a cat. Then one day Mr. Onion came home and mentioned oh so casually that there was a cat at the critter barn who needed a home. He said that she was a young female, about Benny's age (8 months) who was found abandoned in a trailer  with her litter of kittens. Since she had been taken in she had fostered an additional litter that someone had tried to drown in the river, and had managed to tame a feral kitten she was given to foster. I peppered him with questions: what was she like? Was she feline lukemia tested? what color was she? Mr. Onion in his infuriating way had no information, and seemed to think I was mad for suggesting we act on this information.  

Lucky for me I immediately knew his game. Expressing a desire to save a cat and offer it a home would put some serious strikes on the man card. By casually mentioning it to me he knew that I would attack like a Doberman on the mailman and relentlessly badger him until he agreed that I could get the cat. Then it would be my cat, my idea, my responsibility, and he and his man card would still be clear of any litter box obligations. Thus, began operation kitty kitty.  I meowed under my breath when he walked by and suggested it was his conscience. Cat toys on his pillow and ventriloquist pleas from Benny for a sister. Finally, it was my appeal to his cheaper nature that won him over ("She can be one of my christmas presents"). 

Saturday morning arrived and Mr. Onion appeared with a giant spaceship of a pet carrier, a tiny, modge-podge, speckled kitty blinking inside. I presented the crate to Benny and let him sniff and inspect. After several hiss free minutes I opened the door and Minnie Mae West sashayed forth. She sniffed Benny in the face and dismissed him instead surveying her dominion. Benny followed her, trying for all he was worth to get a sniff of her behind. In minutes Mae had made Benny her bitch and he hasn't been the same since. Like Romeo and his Juliet, Baby and Johnny, Buttercup and Westley, there is Benny and Mae.