Who Do I Think I Am, Exactly?

During a conversation about Julia Child, my proclaimed that it's no tragedy that she never had children. Otherwise, she couldn't have become Julia Child, Amercian queen of gourmet cooking. Although I think she should have gotten to have kids if she wanted them, I kinda see his point. She might've had her hands full and not been so possessed to be succeed as a chef. Don't ask me why, but this conversation inspired me to make the greatest holiday dessert ever: Bûche de Noël, or the Yule Log, as it is commonly known. I've seen it lovingly prepared by Jacques Pépin, elongated to ridiculous proportions at Disneyland on a Guy Fieri Christmas special, and mass-produced on Unwrapped. It seems like a smallish cake for all the steps involved in its preparation. But I'm well-versed in all the building blocks. Well, all except for one.

You start with a chocolate creme-filled jelly roll, and frost that sucker. Easy enough. Jacques dotted his lovely chocolate-encrusted Bûche with mushroom meringues (this is really the only way meringues should be made) and white chocolate leaves and branches. So much fun stuff. I wanted to make this confectionary ode to nature it from the ground up, so to speak. The only problem was the sheet cake. I'd never made one, and even Jacques got his from the bakery rather than bothering himself to make it. I trotted down to the House of Fine Chocolates, sure they would be able to hook me up. Although they make sheet cakes all day long, unfortunately, they don't sell 'em. The gal at H of FC told me to just bake a box cake in a sheet pan. Now, the chef at Disneyland said the recipe uses one part cornstarch, one part flour to ensure a springy texture, so a box recipe couldn't possibly work. I tried in vain to contact the Dominick's bakery department, but couldn't find a number. How hard could it be to make a sheet cake? I found a recipe online.

I went home and followed the recipe to a T. It smelled delicious. I never considered the fact that there were no eggs included in the list of ingredients. After a few minutes of baking, the wonderful smell turned to a smoky smell. I opened the oven, and my sheet cake was bubbling over, spilling out into the hot oven, looking like a huge toasted marshmallow. I covered my hands in towels and gingerly extracted the molten mess from the rack. After it cooled, I sang a little hymn, and dumped it all in the garbage. It was time to consult The Joy of Cooking. After much page-flipping, I found a simple recipe for sheet cake. The mixture seemed hardly enough to cover the bottom of the pan, but miraculously, it bubbled and grew like a science experiment. It came out perfect. I started the meringues, which commandeered the oven for two hours, forcing me to steam our fish dinner on the stovetop (which ended up tasting awesome). I found another recipe in the cookbook for Chocolate Crème Patissière (basically pudding, but from scratch), and let everything cool overnight.

I melted chocolate for the meringues the next morning. What I didn't use, I spread out on a sheet of wax paper. I melted and added a handful of butterscotch morsels to add some color, et voilà, tree bark! I melted and burned half of the white chocolate. Starting over, I had no more green food coloring, just what was left over after scraping the bowl. I melted the rest with more caution, and created light green leaves and twigs on another sheet of wax paper. The holly berries were stolen from Marky's bag of dark chocolate M&Ms.

I'm going to be completely honest, after my epic cake fail, successfully filling and rolling the cake, creating all the decorations and bark, I'd been working for 2 days. I was mentally drained. The frosting came from a can, okay? Don't judge me. I stuck the bark to the frosting, and stuck the goodies to the bark with melted chocolate.

Now, let's not pretend you're actually going to attempt to make this thing. Just have me over to your house for your next holiday gathering, and I'll make it for you. If you try to outdo my craftiness, I might get my feelings hurt. That's why I'm sparing you from reading every recipe involved. I will, however, give you a tip that you can use for frosting any cake. You know the pesky frosting around the edge of the cake that you can never perfectly wipe off the plate? Well, rather than lining your plate with a big square of wax paper and plopping the cake atop, cut four strips of wax paper, and place them under the north/east/south/west areas, masking off the plate. When you're done frosting, you can just pull them out carefully. No messy frosting.

The cake was truly delicious and a rewarding endeavor. Would I have felt so accomplished if I'd gotten the sheet cake premade? Probably not. I'm no Julia Child, but sometimes it's important not to get what you wished for.

Lost and Found

Transplantation from Southwest desert to Midwest tundra requires a wardrobe overhaul. Pros include scarves (previously colorful yet unnecessary accessories), down coats (great at camouflaging post-Thanksgiving blubber), umbrellas (the true window into a city girl's soul) and gloves (the variety is simply staggering). Cons include lost scarves (it was in my coat sleeve when I got to the bar), lost coats (did I hang it up where I was trying on leather jackets in that cozy department store?), lost umbrellas (I lent it to that agent, and they lent it to someone else) and lost gloves (airport, snowdrift, restaurant, sidewalk, etc).

Dealing with the loss of a cold weather wardrobe essential is frustrating. Usually they cost a pretty penny. Even worse, you probably spent a long time looking for the right fit/color/style. Of all the aforementioned items, I definitely feel the worst about losing a glove. Bargain hunter by birth, I never spend a ton on clothing. It's not the money, though. It's the fact that when I lose that one glove, I have a lonely, presently useless glove to remind me of my carelessness. And it's always the really great gloves I lose. I should be thankful, because I've had the same set of gloves since I took up residency in the Windy City. They are ugly, brown, cheap pleather gloves from Target. They literally stink. But for the life of me, they just won't get gone. So I continue to wear them. Sure, I've had other gloves. One a silky set of apple green leather, cashmere-lined beauties from Marshall Field's. Lost the right glove in the snow the second time I wore them. There was also the set of extreme cold weather gloves I wore a total of three times. After a mad dash to the closest restroom upon exiting the airport parking lot, I realized lefty was gone with the wind. Back to the stinky brown pleather.

A few weeks ago, I steeled myself to brave the cold on my bike. Freezing rain is a deterrent, for sure, but I'm taking on the cold air. Marky and I trekked to Dick's Sporting Goods to gear up with under armor. Gore-Tex shoes, facemask, and the perfect gloves. I try to avoid big name brands, but these black Nike ACG gloves were perfect, at the perfect price. Grip on the palm and fingers to shift gears. Washable, waterproof, slim-fitting, and not too long for my sausage fingers. Bring it on, winter!

This morning, the sixth time wearing them, I, well, I, uh... Okay, I didn't just lose a glove. Even though the temperature was low, there was hardly any wind, and the sun was beating down. Halfway through my ride, against my better judgment, I neglected to snap my pockets shut when I removed the gloves and placed them there. My seat was giving me trouble, and I got off the bike at two different intersections to adjust it. I tried to clamp the seat down tighter than usual, and in my rush to take advantage of the green lights, I did a half-assed job. The clamp handle was sticking out, jabbing me in the right thigh every time I pedaled. I was distracted. They must have fallen during my readjustment tango.

It wasn't until my lunch hour that I realized the right glove was gone. Since I changed in the bathroom, dried my hair in the storage room, and applied makeup in the key department, I had quite a few steps to retrace. But it had been hours. I texted Marky, and his unfazed response was, "Oh bummer. That's my Breezy." I went downstairs to check with reception, and when I looked in the lunchroom with no luck, I decided it might be time to look online for a new pair. The only pairs I could find were girly pink and girly turquoise. I'm a badass biker. Pink clashes with camouflage. My pulse raced. I did another quick look around the office. Then decided to find that glove on the street. What's the worst that could happen? I could spend my whole lunch hour riding between work, home, and back.

I rolled up my jeans and grabbed SexyBike. Stairs. If I waited any longer, it would be too dark to see the glove. Broadway. Would I have to go all the way to Wilson, where I first took the gloves off? Halsted. I needed to be careful to keep one eye on the parked cars, and one eye on the opposite side of the road. Clark. People wouldn't just pick up an abandoned glove, would they? Melrose. There's the mini construction site I almost got sideswiped by a pedestrian. Roscoe. And there it was. Laying peacefully on the pavement. The embossed ACG insignia glimmering in the sun. Asking myself aloud, "Is that it?" I pulled over. My glove patiently waited for me all day. And I didn't even have to leave the neighborhood. Ah, Persistance.

Na na na na, hey hey hey...

Just yesterday I heard that Ken Ober passed away. I immediately texted my brother. He shared in my shock, and his memory of Ken is the same as mine. After school, before our parents came home to turn on the 24-hour news channel, we watched our version of the news: MTV. Chris was wrapping newspapers for his route, and I was puffy painting my canvas shoes/jean jacket. There were nonstop music videos all day, all night, but in 1987 MTV tried something new. An original game show called Remote Control. We wanted to be on that show. Either that or Double Dare. The quiz show was set in the basement of host Ken Ober, a pop culture know-it-all. Along with La-Z-Boy recliners, TV trays, a washer machine and a huge television set, we saw for the first time, Colin Quinn, Adam Sandler, Denis Leary, and Kari Wuhrer (if you didn't want to date her, you probably wanted to be her). My intense desire to be a contestant on Remote Control is probably the reason I have such a huge database of rock trivia stashed away in my cranium. I'm still gearing up for my turn in at naming the artist and song in the 9 screens in 30 seconds, or to Sing Along With Colin.

More than just a game, RC also had a ton of zany comedy bits, a keyboardist who musically accentuated every moment with his Casio, audience participation, and a snack break. Gosh, the 80's were just such a colorful, weird time. You might look at his high-waisted Z Cavaricci jeans and L.A. Gear tennies and think Ken Ober an 80's fashion plate. But he was just the everyman, spitting out lightning round questions, restraining Colin, and respectfully dismissing contestants who couldn't keep up.

I have two favorite memories of the show. Once, Ken asked the contestants to finish the line "Way-oh, way-oh, ay-oh, way-oh," à la Bangles singer Susannah Hoffs.

When a contestant answered in a beautiful singing voice, "Walk like an Egyptian," Ken paused, considered the response, and then didn't award her the points because she didn't blink and look around with googly eyes while singing.

My other favorite moment was when Ken broke up a rolling-on-the-ground fistfight between Colin and his little brother (Denis Leary) by saying, "Guys! Guys! Guys! Uh... I got a potato." It was funny then, but I didn't really understand how funny until I married an Irish guy.

Remote Control is certainly one of the reasons MTV started to suck so much in the 90's. But it was such a fun way to spend a half hour as a tween. It's hard to believe that was 22 years ago. I can't say I really kept up on Ken Ober's projects after Remote Control, but he was definitely too young to die. I feel more than a little sad and nostalgic for the hours I spent watching him on MTV.

557 Channels And Nothin' On

We used to have cable. There were 3-4 roommates at the time, and we split the bill. We had a ton of channels and each paid about $10 monthly. When I moved to Chicago, I had a TV, but didn't want to commit to cable, so I got a great antenna and a DVD player. Although I was tragically out of touch with The Sopranos and Six Feet Under, I caught up on some great movies. I forced myself to walk to the movie store (this was before Netflix, obviously), and sometimes Marky and I would get on our cell phones and watch the same movie simultaneously. If Scrubs' reception was bad on a rainy night, it wasn't meant to be. I found something better to do than watch TV. For a person who is this out-of-love with the idea of TV, I suppose I have a very romantic view of the boob tube.

Yes, I believe too many people are too addicted to their shows, and that might make my next statement seem hypocritical. Network television is a right. Even snowy, blurry, network television devoid of vertical hold. True, I get to enjoy the special channels on the treadmill at the gym, but that's only a few hours a week. When we recently made the switch to digital, thankfully Marky and I had the right kind of set. Sadly, what used to be a fuzzy image is now crystal clear about half the time, complete darkness the other. Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I know this "upgrade" is the cable companies slowly making TV-viewing impossible without paying the piper.

Today I read an article about NBC being bought by Comcast. Between gaps of black silence, I heard fragments of this story the other night on Conan O'Brien, my favorite host on my favorite network. Surely NBC won't immediately disappear into Cableland. But the insidious crossover is imminent. When I think of the free shows that made a huge impact on my childhood (The Cosby Show, Saturday Night Live, Family Ties), I have to put myself in my parents' and grandparents' shoes. They remember radio shows and first television sets. And that's really where NBC started. Like them, I have no choice except to let broadcasting evolve to meet the needs of its staff and audiences. However, this might just push me further to the left as far as being that audience. Perhaps I will finally have an answer to the oft-queried: "Gosh Bree, where do you find the time to do that?"

An Open-Faced Love Letter to a Deli

What would you do for a living if money were no object? If you say, "Sit on my ass all day," you're disqualified. I posed this question to my coworkers a few weeks ago, and got Lifeguard, Camp Counselor, Professional TV Watcher (that's dangerously close to the aforementioned ass-sitting, but hey, he's my boss, we'll let it slide), and video store manager. What about you? After spending half my lunch hour waiting on a simple "Cuban" from the corner store, it hit me. I would work at a deli. Not some New Yorkian, line-out-the-door thing. And I wouldn't be the owner. I'd just make the sandwiches. The more basic, the better. I had a gastronomic flashback today while enjoying a Turkey Rae from Potbelly's. The thought of this recipe of turkey and swiss topped with coleslaw wouldn't have appealed to me in high school. Nor would it have done anything for me in early college, before dating Marky, the Evel Knievel of sandwich eating. No, until I worked for DG's Telshor Deli in Las Cruces, New Mexico during my last couple years of university study, I was strictly a ham and swiss with lettuce kind of gal.

My friend David worked at DG's, and he got me the coveted interview. Everyone wanted to work there in college, because the hours were easy, the owners were super cool, and you got all the free food you could stomach. DG's was also situated next door to the popular liquor store, and these two establishments were connected by a common refrigerator. Of course, a chain link fence separated our respective areas, but the theories of how to covertly lasso a couple beers kept the brain young.

There was a chart of 31 classic sandwiches. I used to have the numbers memorized, but I only remember the standout recipes now. The most popular were the #17: Turkey and Avocado, #21: Turkey, Bacon, and Avocado, and #9: Ham and Swiss. There were also a handful of specialty sandwiches that had no number, like the GCC: Grilled Chicken and Cheddar (served on sourdough with bacon and red chile honey mustard), GSH: Grilled Smoked Ham (also on sourdough with grilled onions, green chile, and swiss), The Pizza Philly (cheesesteak plus cured meats and spaghetti sauce) was beyond my dietary comprehension, but truly an engineering feat. I dropped one on the ground once, and almost cried. There was a host of beefy, meatbally, sausagey, and equally heart-clogging vegetarian choices. In the kitchen, I learned basic recipes for potato salad, coleslaw (perfect in its simplicity: Just cabbage with a dressing of mayo, vinegar, and sugar), chicken salad, and the best way to slice cheesecake (with dental floss). I got to use an industrial meat slicer, learned to clean a grill with lemon juice and a grill stone, and perfected the art of flipping 8 slices of bacon in one swoop. There was a list for everything--the chores, the sandwiches, the meats and cheeses. An outsider might see this as a dirty job, but it truly appealed to my anal retentive side. No one could screw this job up. Everything made sense. I suppose that in the height of college brain drain, it was nice to spend a few hours in a place where you didn't have to make any decisions. It wasn't like working at Target. We were human beings preparing food that made people happy.

After just a couple weeks of chowing down on the #9, a sandwich of which I thought I could never tire, I simply had to branch out, trying everything except the avocado items. I still have a tough time ordering a restaurant meal that includes avocado. Not because I hate avocado, but because my love runs so deep for this green treat. Avocado often loses all its dignity, once pummeled into a spread with mayo, then abandoned in an iced tub for hours. Poor avocados. On the contrary, my love for restaurant pickles grew immensely, especially after the birth of my secret menu item, the DG's Pick-Up. The Pick-Up was a pickle spear, rolled up in ham then swiss, and was named by my Bible-thumpin', Sweet-And-Lowdown-lovin', Baby-Got-Back-recitin' coworker, Robert.

I was so good at this job. I could make a sandwich so fast it would make Jimmy John freak. And I loved a challenge. Philly steak, cheese, meatballs, sauce, veggies? Jumbo size? Lemme at that grill. I could make two pounds of greasy meat look as gorgeous the Mona Lisa in Albertson's French Loaf. And if you liked it bland, fine. Turkey on white with no condiments? I wasn't there to judge. Did send your eight-year-old kid in with cash in hand twice a week to get your chicken salad with an x-rated amount of mayo? I was there. One of the saddest days in DG's was when our boss decided to give us cutting boards. He was unhappy with the slicemarks that had appeared over the years on his formica counters. The problem was, when he added the cutting boards, we no longer had reference marks for mini, regular, large, etc. It slowed production significantly, and covered up the proud wrinkles in the face of the veteran deli.

My last day at the deli, I worked as hard as if it was my first. I mopped, scrubbed that grill until it shined, I made my fair share of subs, and I... I... Okay, I pocketed a pair of tongs. I loved those tongs, and I needed a memento of my favorite job. When I walk into a deli, I want to jump back into the kitchen and help. When people ask me what I would do for a living if money were no object, this is my answer.

Bling Bling... Hello?

Yes, this is my craft. Yes, I've kept it a bit of a secret. No, I'm not worried about losing potential customers. I'm about to reveal the secret of the bling phone.

Here are the stats. It costs about 40 bucks. It lasts about 2 years. It takes 2 hours per side, with 24 hours of drying time between sides. You can consult this website to figure out how many rhinestones you need. I order them from Papi on eBay. Hotfix rhinestones have a little glue on the back for use with an iron. The hotfix iron is not really useful for bedazzling your phone. I was very dissatisfied with the results, and found it to be a waste of money. The real reason you're using hotfix rhinestones is because they are glass, which is less expensive than crystal, and more durable than plastic. You need a rhinestone tool to lift and affix the rhinestones. If you're doing more than one color of rhinestone, get some sort of dish that has sections so that you can easily discern and separate. Turn on the radio and get ready to bedazzle.

Find a comfy place to sit with lots of light. Pour out your rhinestones in a dish. Pour a tablespoon of Gem-Tac into a dish and use the toothpick to spread a little around your phone. I like to start on the edges--it makes the finished product look more perfect. Just spread a little glue, maybe a 1/4 inch square. Take the rhinestone tool and form the beeswax tip into a point. Pick up a rhinestone from the pretty side, and place the flat side down into the glue. If the tool holds onto the rhinestone, just use a toothpick to loosen it onto the surface of the phone. You'll see it takes a very gentle touch. There should be a little glue beading up around the edges of the rhinestone, but not gloppy. It will take practice to get it right. If you don't get at least a little glue around the edges, the rhinestone will pop off easily. Don't worry, it dries very clear, and the overall effect is super shiny. When you have filled your glue puddle with rhinestones, spread a little more glue and repeat.

During the blinging process, your dish of glue might get tacky and thick. Pour a fresh batch out and enjoy. Be careful not to cover holes in your phone, and be cautious of moving parts and buttons. You don't want your rhinestones to get dinged too much. Let one side dry for an entire 24 hours before attempting to finish the second side.

When it's ready for the outside world, you might want to invest in a fabric cell phone holder so that it doesn't get bumped in your bag/purse/backpack. Also, keep all your supplies handy in case you need to do some repairs. It happens.

Now, get ready for people to talk to you every day about your phone! I'm totally serious. You should let them touch it, and then give them my number if they want it done!

Call Me. This Week, Anyway.

When I was a little tyke, I remember spending a lot of time at the car dealership. My dad had what many would consider an addiction to cars. He didn't have a lot of cars at once, he would simply trade each vehicle in after a short year or two. It seemed like we were always at the car dealer, and it was the most boring experience of a young girl's life. If only I'd known how to knit back then. Anyhoo, on one car-trading-in occasion, the dealer asked my dad a trivia question. Which three-letter word contained no vowels? The letter "y" didn't count as a consonant, and it was a word in English. Dad had a week to figure it out, and the guy would give him $100 if he got it right. My boredom was gone. My brain was buzzing the rest of the day. What was that word? Would dad have to read the entire dictionary to get the answer? I don't want to date myself too much, but we were literally decades from internet trivia assistance. How was he going to find that answer?!

Who would spend an entire week on trivia these days? Who would spend more than a few seconds? It's no longer a matter of who is clever and witty. It's now about who can get Wikipedia or IMDB to load faster. Daily trivia challenges are officially losing their fun factor. I'm certainly guilty of the Google quick fix. Fewer and further between exist the late night calls from friends and family, desperate for my specific music knowledge. I love helping someone win a bet over which rock star wore what outfit in which video!

But not this week.

Starting yesterday, I've decided that for one entire week, I won't Google the answer to my trivia challenges. I will look for it in tangible literature or phone a friend. So get ready for the call. I need all of your brains. I'm challenging you to do the same. In turn, I'll be your pop music lifeline. If you hum a bar, or describe a lyric, I can tell you which Men At Work song you're thinking of. So call me!

Farewell, Johnny Castle (For Those in the Know)

When I was in elementary school, I hear about the "25'ers Club." The nightly news reported on a group of women who had gone to see this movie, Dirty Dancing, 25 or more times in the theater. These women were squandering their money on movie tickets when they could easily wait for it to come out on video. And what a stupid name for a movie!

And then I saw it on HBO.

The sight of Johnny Castle in the employees hangout, his unbuttoned tuxedo shirt and tight black pants got my attention. When he motioned our girl next door to join him on the dance floor, I was hypnotized. When he taught this bumbling watermelon girl the most basic of Dirty Dance moves (you know the pelvic thrust I'm talking about, ladies), it pretty much sent me right into puberty.

The first 10 times I watched that movie, I didn't even know what "knocked up" meant. I thought Jimmy beat the crap out of Penny. I mean, she looked like she'd been beaten when Johnny lifted her up off the floor of Kellerman's kitchen. This movie taught me about virginity, adultery, abortion, lust, the American caste system, and the fact that if you are special enough, you don't have to be super hot to have a super hot guy fall in love with you. It's got to be one of my top three sexiest movies, and there's not even any nudity!

It's incredibly cheesy to the outsider. I'm not here to convert anyone. But there was never a more dashing Patrick Swayze role. Ghost was a pretty good movie. Red Dawn? He's a badass. But I know I belong to a generation of girls who grew up hoping they could have a Mickey and Sylvia moment with a boy from summer camp. We all want a chance to try the lift. We wanted a man who would put his job and reputation on the line to stand up for our honor. This is a sad day for girls who love Johnny Castle. So keep the jokes mum while we mourn the loss of our dream guy.

Not a Matter of "If" But "When"

Much like motorcycle riding, using a mandolin produce slicer is just an accident waiting to happen. I'll spare you the photos of the actual injury. Because, well, there are no photos. I think it's more horrifying to explain the laceration in gory wordage. No, I wouldn't want you to do that to me, so I'll just gloss over the gross stuff, and focus on the funny moments from today.

All I was trying to do was cook bacon, section my grapefruit, cut four days worth of celery and carrot sticks, make 4 salads for my future lunches. Simultaneously. My new mandolin makes it so easy to cut my cukes, I just didn't know how far down it had gotten before the tip of my right thumb became part of the slicing fest. Yes, it came with a plastic guard. No, I wasn't using it. And neither would you. The cucumber was about a foot long when I started. I was hypnotized by the perfect green medallions floating effortlessly into each Tupperware. How could I have known I was down to a quarter inch when magic was happening in my kitchen?! As my dad pointed out later, it takes either a dummy or a kitchen musician to cut oneself with the mandolin. I, the latter, was obviously sucked int0 the beautiful rhythm of sliceyness.

Once I realized the not-so-minor nature of the cut, I walked briskly into the bedroom, told Marky, "I cut my thumb and I think it's bad and I don't think I can look at it," and he jumped out of bed. For a minute or two, we passed from delusion (all it needed was a bandaid), to delusion (maybe we can superglue it), to delusion (I can drive myself to the ER, where they'll just put superglue on it, and it will be a cinch to pull out my insurance card using only my index and forefinger), to the final realization that I was debilitated and Marky had to cancel his client to drive me to the damn ER.

Saturday morning, it turns out, is the perfect time for an emergency in Chicago. Nary a soul was in the ER, and I got right into triage. The first nurse simply dipped my finger in a mild cleanser. When I told the doctor I was the victim of my own recklessness with a mandolin, she raised her eyebrows and practically yelled, "I will always use a guard with a mandolin because of all of the crazy injuries I've seen in the ER from them!" My fault. I admit.

The nurse that gave me a tetanus shot asked what happened. Figuring he'd give me the same spiel, I just said, "Mandolin."

"Really!" He answered, stepping back.

"Oh, is that a sarcastic 'really'? Have you seen a bunch of people like me?"

"I have never seen a mandolin injury!" Fascinated, he pantomimed holding a ukelele and continued, "Now (looking at his hands), were you strumming, or picking when it happened?"

Laughing at this ridiculous idea, I explained to him that there is another type of mandolin, but lacerating one's thumb during a Medieval madrigal would have been far more interesting way to spend a Saturday morning.

The irrigation process should really be called the "irritating process." That's when I finally gave them my man card and asked for the lidocaine shots. Living through the pain of the shot immediately afforded me a fresh new card. What a gruesome experience. I'm not one of those people who hate needles in general. I do however hate large, slow moving, audible needles that shoot out burning substances repeatedly. Soon I was numb, and the doc came back to stitch me up. The lidocaine helped, but I could still feel a little pain when she sewed the flap back on. But I look at it the same way I look at a tattoo. It's a memory, and the pain is part of that memory. I will remember it when I think of carelessly slicing a cuke.

My thumb got a little hat that looks like something out of an L.L. Bean catalog. You know, the snow hat with the little braids coming down from the ear area? I could knit circles (literally) around that sterile white gauze. Imagine a variegated green thumb cozy! If only I had the dexterity to knit, I'd be on it in a heartbeat. Obviously I'm not the first to do this, and I won't be the last. My dad also suggested I market them to the OXO company as a companion piece to the mandolin. I mean, it's gonna happen. You might as well do it in style.

The Bree/Brie Project

After watching Julie & Julia on Friday, I couldn't possibly bring Fritos and onion dip to the party we were invited to on Saturday.

I went to Harvest Time for my usual produce, and there they were. Purple figs in season and on sale! I'm not much of a fig person, but I do have this baked cheese stuffed fig recipe in my pocket. It's ridiculously easy and always a hit at get-togethers. So I bought the figs. We went to Whole Foods to get some cheese, and there I found green figs. We consulted the cheese guy (who whistles beautiful harmonies to the hard rock radio station blaring in the back of the cheese dept), and he immediately suggested brie. Well of course that would work. Brie goes with everything. Last time I made this recipe, I stuck to only very mild white cheeses, and was thrilled when he suggested a stinky blue cheese, and strong smoked gouda. He then admitted that he'd never eaten a baked fig with cheese. I promised to bring him the leftovers. Empty promises. I knew there'd be no leftovers.

You really don't need a lot of cheese to do this. We bought way too much, but can you ever have too much cheese in the house? Side note: Marky and I have cut out dairy (except for the occasional creamer in the coffee) for over a month. The cheese in the fridge is calling to me. All you have to do is spray a cookie sheet with oil, cut each fig in half, scoop the guts out with a melon baller, and place a chunk of cheese in there. Only scoop out a small section. If you go crazy scooping, your fig will disintegrate in the oven, and you want some of that purple color to frame the cheesy goodness. Also, just like filling muffin cups, use a little less than you think you need. These figs can turn into a real mess if you have cheese bubbling over the sides. Aw heck, if you want a crapload of gouda, go for it.

When every fig is filled, place the cookie sheet into a hot broiler, and keep an eye on it. I didn't let this batch get terribly brown. I just warmed them until the cheese melted. If you have a not-so-trustworthy broiler like mine, you could take it a step further and brown the tops with a créme brulée torch.

Try this with your fave cheese. We've also used goat cheese, mozarella, and cheddar. It's a lovely seasonal treat, and a crowd-pleaser.

How I Learned to Love The Draft

And to think, I almost didn't ride my bike today!

I caught up to it just past Wrigleyville (after scaring the pedestrians--they deserve it for walking backwards, drunk, into oncoming traffic), near Irving Park. There in front of me was a braid. From beneath a blue Specialized helmet cascaded a thick rope of light brown with generous streaks of silver. At the bottom of this 18 inch monster were gentle curls, as if the woman attached still felt the need to express some femininity. I'm not saying the woman in front of me was rough or manly, she just exuded woman power. Her age, I would guess, was 50. 55? No makeup. Simple pink t-shirt and khaki shorts, sturdy legs, and rippling triceps. They rippled. That's usually a word reserved for bulky trainers, or Olympic swimmers--physiques which she didn't possess, but I can't think of any other way to describe it.

We were still at this stop light at Irving, and after all of 15 seconds, she had already become my hero. I decided I needed a name for her. Jane Goodall. No, that's already taken. How about Dian Fossey? Dian went ahead on the green, and I stayed behind her. I learned from Wii Sports Resort that you can reserve power by "drafting," or riding right behind someone. That's probably a more useful device when traveling 40 mph, but I liked riding behind Ms. Fossey. At the Wilson light, I really wanted to tell her that she was a great alpha bitch, but I thought she might get offended. I mean, what if she was a granolian nun? Do those exist?

We passed Carol's Pub, approaching a difficult intersection. I have a tough time here, because there's a park to the west, traffic coming at you in four directions, wily children, and distracted parents parallel parking quickly because they're late for the game. This is an intersection where pushy bikers make careful bikers look bad. Many a cyclist flies through without hesitation. A mother with a stroller walks west as myself and Dian slowly creep north. The mother slows her pace, protecting her cub. What would Dian do? I'll tell you. She came to a complete stop and gave that mommy the go ahead. At this point, I decided Dian was a childless hippie woman who dedicated her life to helping orphans learn about nature. She didn't care about the new liquor and candy tax hike because all she eats is twigs and berries. While we waited for the stroller, I examined Dian's legs, free of spider veins and cellulite.

We rode on, passed young bikers, male bikers, road bikes, we were unstoppable. I knew this trip would be over soon. The urge to tell her she was a badass was overwhelming, but I couldn't express myself perfectly without the aid of my pottymouth. Would she be the type of woman who has a great recipe for oatmeal cookies? Or does she know how to change the oil in a 65 Mustang? Maybe she watches French documentaries. Oh, the fun times we could have together! But at the intersection of Clark and Ashland, near Gethsemane nursery, I almost lost her. For some reason, I let myself get hung up behind a very noisy Harley Davidson at a red light. Not Dian. She curled right around that large hairy man, and took advantage of the unspoken bike rules of the road, carefully advancing through that pesky red.

The stale green at Clark and Ridge was in my sights. I would have a chance to express my gratitude and admiration for Dian's braid, and legs, and ability to accelerate through a yellow light. This was it. A full, rush hour red light complete with green left arrows, and I said... I said nothing. There was room for both of us in the turn lane. I could have easily sidled up to her and at least said, "Nice pace." No, I chickened out. I was on the fence a little about going straight to the gym from work, but Dian pushed me in the right direction when I saw her bolt northward. My jaunt was done, her journey had probably only begun.

Go alpha bitch badass, go.

Stop Thief! Or, Just Go For It. Whatever.

Salads.  I've been really good about them.  I've also been trying to avoid buying lunch during work, because it's a real drain on the wallet.  So I schlep a piece of fruit and Tupperware of salad in my backpack, haul ass to work on my bike, and rush to get it in the fridge before it all wilts.  I keep a bottle of dressing in the work fridge all the time, and enjoy it when lunch time comes.  

Lately, though, my dressing has been dwindling.  It seems I'd get a few good squirts from a large bottle, and then poof!  It's gone.  For this reason, I quit buying nice dressing, and just going for the plain Jane Italian stuff.  Still, it moved like hotcakes.  Who was doing this?  I moved the dressing to a different shelf, and the entire bottle disappeared.  I needed a cheap, creative solution that didn't involve labeling, spitting, or a rent-a-cop.   I assessed my newest bottle of Italian dressing and decided to use that which was most obnoxious about modern groceries.  

The safety seal.  

That previously aggravating little blister of shrinkwrap/rubber/PVC, whatever it is, would be my rent-a-cop.  "But Crafty, how can you enjoy your Italian dressing if you leave the safety seal intact?"  I'll tell you.  I'll cut through that first blue seal on the cap, unscrew it, open the safety seal about halfway, and pour some out.  Then (learned this on MacGruber), I'll replace the seal, and screw the cap back on.  The first person who pops the top on the cap won't be able to get any dressing out, because the safety seal will prevent it!  Ha HA!  Surely after squeezing, struggling, and eventually failing, the perp will move on to an easier mark.  

A couple of days went by, and my plan was working beautifully.  I got to enjoy my dressing for more than a week, and I was feeling confident that my bottle would survive until I used the last serving.  Then the perp revealed him/herself.  I won't name names.  We'll call him/her "Blank."

  

While I sat on the couch knitting through my lunch hour, Blank walked in with a salad.  I was really only watching with my peripheral vision until the shaking started.  Shaking, lunging, struggling.  Then muttering.  "What the?  What is wrong with this thing," Blank murmured.  Blank then tried to unscrew the cap, but it was too tight.  Perps like Blank typically have no upper body strength, due to their lack of morals.  Rather than intervene, I watched in horror.   

"Give it up, Blankie.  Move on to another bottle," I thought.  As if there were no witnesses, Blank raised the knife and stabbed.  

"Urgh!" The dressing seemed to sigh.  Blank stabbed again, mercilessly.  "You win," my poor defenseless bottle whimpered.  Blank threw the weapon in the sink and squeezed the exhausted Italian dressing on his/her salad, which was probably stolen, too.  

There is no stopping lunch time larcenists.  It takes something stronger than a plastic seal to curb that behavior. It takes a defensive move like purchasing 175 1-ounce portion cups with lids.  I fill those babies up with delicious expensive dressing at home, and pop one in my daily salad.  No mess, no theft.  When a coworker recently complained to me that someone ate his chicken salad sandwich right out of the fridge, I asked him if he'd written his name on it, or had a special lunch bag to deter such offenses.  His answers were all no.  When I offered to knit him a sandwich cozy, he laughed it off as ridiculous.  

Amateur.  

For The Love of Concerts

It was tough, but I pulled the memories of 50 concerts I've seen. I guess I don't go to enough concerts, because I had to dig pretty deep to get this list together. Lists tend to bore me a little unless there is a nugget of information included. I will list 50 concerts and a fact about each. And I tried my best to list the order in which I saw them.

1. Ronnie Milsap - I was about four. Mom says I fell asleep and Ronnie Milsap kissed me on the forehead at the end of the concert.

2. Cyndi Lauper - Saw her once when I was 8, once when I was 28, and once again at 31.

3. Huey Lewis - 5th grade. I screamed so loud, the guy next to us plugged his ear.

4. Faith No More - 9th grade, Mike Patton suggested the audience "Jerk. Off. To. The beat," and my stepfather was horrified.

5. Robert Plant - Same concert as above. I had absolutely no appreciation for the rock royalty I was witnessing.

6. Nelson - Had tickets, but the show got cancelled. I was so ready for this concert, I feel like I saw it.

7. Deep Blue Something - College. I had a broken foot, and wanted so badly to go see them sing "Breakfast at Tiffany's." I started to limp out after that song, as did several other audience members. DBS turned the lights on and reprimanded the exiters, calling us Hootie and the Blowfish fans.

8. Robert Earl Keen - Age 19, at a 21 and up concert in a small bar in Santa Fe. Stepdad had to sign a waiver, but ordered me a rum and coke when we got to the table.

9. Eagles - Again, had tickets, but concert was cancelled. When the Eagles rescheduled months later, I listened to the show on the grassy field outside the NMSU football field.

10. Ian Moore - Opening act for the following two. They were out of tune, but I still love them.

11. Bryan Adams - Honestly, one of the tightest bands I've ever seen. Surprisingly, when Bryan sang, "Got my first real six string---------" very few people in the audience could finish the line for him.

12. Rolling Stones - And finally, the headliner. This was the VooDoo Lounge tour, and it was great, but I was really unfamiliar with their music before this.

13. Harry Connick, Jr. - Harry invited a male audience member to dance on the stage with him. The crowd went crazy, and Harry decided to let about 20 other people up there, too.

14. The Monkees - Mom took me to see them in Las Vegas, where I got an autographed novelette signed by Micky, Davy, and Peter. Then I saw them again in Las Cruces, when they performed for the Miss Teen USA Pageant.

15. Brian Setzer at Conan O'Brien taping - In line for Conan in 1996, we overheard that there was a former member of "Cats" on the list. When we sat down to watch, much to my surprise, I saw an obscenely plaid jacket backstage. I knew at that moment, we had heard the tail end of a rumor gone wrong.

16. Davy Jones/Bobby Sherman - Diablo stadium. I touched Davy's hand.

17. Fleetwood Mac - 1997, Houston, with my brother. Chris scored the tickets secondhand by telling a guy that his little sister played "Landslide."

18. Willie Nelson - Sandia Casino with Mom. He played EVERYTHING with no stops in between. His little sister banged away on the piano, and her long tresses obscured her face thoroughly.

19. Liquid Cheese - Great local ska band in Las Cruces. You cannot help but dance the whole night.

20. Arrogant Sons of Bitches - I think these guys opened for Liquid Cheese at El Patio? They were fun, and played a Radiohead cover that was totally rad.

21. Ten Tenors - no, not three, TEN! - Donnie, Megan and I (and possibly a few others I can't remember) went to see this Australian group in El Paso. They went from Puccini to the BeeGees seamlessly.

22. Bob Schneider - Ashlee forced me to go see this guy at Schuba's. I wasn't interested. Until the moment he stepped onstage. Possibly the quickest I've ever fallen in love with a performer. Ask Ashlee to do her impression of me dancing, looking over my shoulder, and smiling at her the first time I saw Bob. Subsequently saw him at Martyr's, Double Door, and the Metro.

23. Jason Mraz - In 2003, Donnie called to tell me Jason Mraz would be performing near him in Cleveland. I happened to have a couple days off. I jumped in the car and drove alone from Chicago. Jason was magical, although his audience, I could have lived without.

24. Raul Midon - One of Jason Mraz's openers. Blind R&B guitarist/singer. We waited outside the concert to meet Jason, and after about 20 minutes, here walks Raul with his assistant. He had mentioned that he was from New Mexico during the concert, and we shared our New Mexicanness with him. He stood and sweetly talked to us for a long time. Jason never came out, but we didn't care.

25. Ben Lehl Band - Hot Cakes. That's all I have to say.

26. Lyle Lovett and his Large Band - 2004, Marky came to visit me in Chicago. Jonathan, Ashlee, Marky, and I sat in the grass at Ravinia for Lyle. I got my first chigger.

27. The Roots - Rieckelman and I drove 1 1/2 hours in the torrential rain to Milwaukee to see Summerfest. We stood on the bleachers, and the rain was so bad it was like taking a shower. That's probably why the guy next to me got completely naked.

28. JC Chasez - 2004, Isaac came to visit Chicago, and we saw JC at the House of Blues. JC, screwed up the words to "Dear Goodbye," blaming it on his mom's presence in the audience. It was adorable.

29. Maroon 5 - Adam Levine traded places with the drummer, and they performed "Highway to Hell."

30. John Mayer - Headliner for Maroon 5. Stage lighting so beautiful, I wanted to cry. Chum Chums smuggled a cigarette into the Pan Am and shared it with me.

31. Gogol Bordello - Bar none, the worst show I've ever been to. Don't lay a trip on me. It SUCKED. We walked out after one song.

32. Robert Bradley's Blackwater Surprise - Robert Bradley is a dirty old man. First show I ever saw at the Double Door.

33. Joseph Arthur - Got to the concert VERY late--only heard the last song. Second show I saw at the Double Door.

34. Persistance - 2005, Andy's Jazz Club. Before I joined the band.

35. Etta James - Ravinia. She doesn't have the chops she used to, but it was great to hear her live.

36. Tom Jones - When Tom Jones walked out on the stage after Etta, the place got a little hotter. He was solid as a rock.

37. Linda Eder - Did you know that people walk up and put quarters on the stage throughout her show?

38. Bernadette Peters - Bernie's husband died just days before this show. I don't know how she got through "Being Alive" without collapsing.

39. Everyday People - A friend at work turned Kelly and me on to this Austin band. "I'm a regular nine to fiver, a coffee and cream survivor." That's us!

40. Rodriguez - Sheppy and I saw this show on October 28th, 2006 at the Sav-Mor Lounge. They played the entire Thriller album.

41. The Swell Season - This was the first time I had fun after Marky got sick. I felt simultaneously guilty and exhilarated. It was like going to church. I lost my nerve when Glen Hansard asked the audience if someone would be willing to come on stage to help him sing the song from "Once." I'll never forgive myself for passing up that oportunity. Glen is far and away the most gracious performer I've ever witnessed. He said "Thank you," probably 43 times.

42. Jamburglars - Chum Chums and I saw the tail end of Danny and Scott's band at El Patio after seeing "Enron: The Musical" at NMSU.

43. Mike Doughty - 2007, Marky and I sat in the upper level of the Vic and enjoyed being adults. "Fort Hood" is really great live.

44. Tegan and Sara - Their music has never made much of an impression on me, but their banter is hilarious. One of them admitted she had diarrhea for an entire year.

45. B-52's - A main attraction at the True Colors tour. They did all the favorites, and Kate sounds and looks great.

46. Bumpus - Matt suggested I see this band for the backup singers. I told Kelly, and she jumped at the opportunity. We saw them at Martyr's, and I can't wait to see them again. I talked to one of the backup singers after the show, and got completely starstruck. Kelly had to talk for me.

47. Tina Turner - FINALLY, MY IDOL!!! United Center, October 2008. I bought tickets for me and mom as a surprise. Chris and Monica got tickets for me as a surprise. Oops! We all went together and successfully scalped one of the extra two tix. Tina was outstanding. I cried through the first four songs, and was thankful no one saw.

48. Liza Minnelli - I finally saw Liza at the Venue in Horseshoe Casino in Hammond, Indiana. She is masterful at phrasing. And she sat on a stool for most of the performance, wearing a headband.

49.Elton John - My first time at Wrigley Field. Won the tickets at a karaoke contest (I was the only contestant, so I never actually had to sing anything). His sunglasses were very demure, with a simple rhinestoned "EJ" on each lens.

50.Billy Joel - Same concert as above. I fell in love with "Zanzibar" this night. Billy swatted at flies all night like a lunatic. He was one of the most engaging performers I've seen. He let his roadie sing "Highway to Hell." Deja vu.

The Blessing of I Forgot

First, thank you, Amanda for providing the title of today's blog.  

Marky and I had a salmon dinner, a glass of wine, we're playing Wii Sports Resort, and are singing songs about Cameltoe Rock and Wedgie Island.  We're debating whether to bike, play tennis, or drive out to hike Starved Rock tomorrow.  We're normal people.  Better than normal.  Today is Tammy Faye's second birthday, and it's a total non-issue.  Yes, there are 12 prescription bottles on the coffee table, but we've both gotten used to it.  Yes it's a financial drag, and yes, tomorrow is another day.  But we're here today, and it's a beautiful thing.  

There have been a couple of signs.  I've been looking for them a little, but one should.  We looked for a symbolic bottle of wine tonight at Dommie's.  Marky found something that said "Anniversary" on the label.  Good enough.  As we put it in the basket, I noticed it was a 2007 wine.  That's Tammy's year!  Even better.  This afternoon, as I walked past an ultra-colorful/non-denominational/humorous church on Broadway, the marquis read, "I always say shopping is cheaper than a psychiatrist," Tammy Faye Bakker.  Just a little nod from the namesake.  

Really, that's it.  We both sat down to dinner, and had to stop to remind ourselves of the importance of today.  Honestly, I forgot about Tammy Faye's big day until late this afternoon.  It's a weird anniversary to celebrate, the life of a kidney.  But we have a lot to be thankful for, and fortunately, the time to do it.  

Recital Announcement 1999?

This is a story about Bree Del Campo and her tale of Cecilia Bartoli, the beautiful, talented mezzo soprano. Bree was talking to a group of nice, but impatient senior citizens after a recital of folk and old pop favorites. Relating to them that her second favorite day of the year, after her birthday, is the day before Valentine's, February 13th, she went on with some of her best stories until the hour of 7:00PM, which is near the retirement village's bedtime. Her last story, she though, would thrill the group because it was the wild but true anecdote of Shanelle Jernigan playing piano for Cecilia, or Chi Chi, as friends call her. The crowd began to get restless as Bree told that last tale, Of course, Kerry Alt, packed the guitar and amplifiers away as Bree finished the hilarious story. The final act to get to the village was the unlucky soloist John Pleasant with his clarinet, who realized too late that the once benevolent retirement village had now tuned bitterly sleepy.

From the look of the dissatisfied elderly patrons, she could tell she should go back to her old art studio and paint some pictures because she could not possibly make a halfway decent living out of telling Chi Chi stories. Later that evening, the university college professor Christine Sanders told her in a phone conversation that it would be a good idea, so she stayed home and forgot about telling stories, and stuck to her music and art.

After the frightfully icy reception from the senior citizens, Bree was quite delighted and relieved that she decided to follow her instinct as far as art was concerned. She learned not to tell even a hilarious yarn in the most acoustically inept room in Las Cruces without an amp and a decent microphone. Bree has finally regained her dignity and paints with a wide variety of green in her room.

What a Tool!

A friend gave me two pounds of fresh cherries.  They are sweet and beautiful, and I wanted to give them a proper burial in my tummy.  So here are the two recipes in which they had a starring role, and the third recipe is what you should drink while baking:

Cherry Almond Focaccia (Tyler Florence's original version here)

Ingredients:

• 
  
  
  
  • 2 teaspoons rapid-rising dry yeast
  • 1 cup warm water
  • 2 tablespoons sugar
  • 3 1/2 to 4 cups flour
  • 1 tablespoon coarse salt
  • 1/4 cup olive oil
  • Fine ground almonds for dusting
  
  

  Toppings:
  • 1 cup fresh cherries, pitted 
  • 1/4 cup sliced almonds
  • 1/4 cup coarse sugar
  
  

  Directions
  You really don't know the beauty of a cherry pitter until you are staring at two pounds of cherries, thinking about how this tedious paring knife task could ruin a perfect summer day.  Mine was $9.99 from OXO.  It's a fun tool to have in your arsenal, and it works on those pesky Kalamata olives, too.  Follow the directions on the label, and beware stray pits.  
  Proof the yeast by combining it with the warm water and sugar. Stir gently to dissolve. Let stand 3 minutes until foam appears. Slowly add half of the flour to the bowl. Mix with a fork.  Dissolve salt in 2 tablespoons of water and add it to the mixture. Pour in 1/4 cup olive oil.  Add half of the remaining flour until you have a nice doughy texture. Mix with your hands until the dough is smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes, adding a little more flour as necessary.
  Turn the dough out onto a work surface and fold over itself a few times. Form the dough into a round and place in an oiled bowl, turn to coat the entire ball with oil so it doesn't form a skin. Cover with plastic wrap or damp towel and let rise over a gas pilot light on the stovetop or other warm place until doubled in size, about 45 minutes.
  Coat a sheet pan with a little olive oil and almond dust. Once the dough is doubled and domed, turn it out onto the counter. Roll and stretch the dough out to an oblong shape about 1/2-inch thick. Lay the flattened dough on the pan and cover with plastic wrap. Let rest for 15 minutes.
  Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Uncover the dough and dimple with your fingertips. Brush the surface with more olive oil and then add cherries, almonds, and sugar. Bake on the bottom rack for 15 to 20 minutes.
  Cherry Almond Ice Cream  
  
  Ingredients:
  • 
    
    • 2 cups half and half
    • 1 cup whole milk
    • 3/4 cup sugar
    • 1 Tablespoon vanilla extract
    • 1/4 cup fine ground almonds
    • 1 1/2 cups fresh cherries, pitted and chilled
    • Slivered almonds for garnish
    Directions
    It's best to use very cold ingredients.  An ice cream maker is fun to use on a hot day, but can be very disappointing if your ice cream never tightens up.  Also, feel free to substitute heavy cream for the half and half if you prefer a creamier texture. By that same token, you can use skim milk and sugar subsititute for a light ice milk dessert.  Yum.  
    In a large mixing bowl, whisk together half and half, milk, sugar, fine ground almonds, and vanilla extract until sugar is dissolved.  Add mixture to the bowl of an ice cream machine and blend until frozen.  Add most of the cherries to the mixer, reserving a handful for a topping.  Blend until cherries are incorporated.  
    
    Pour ice cream into a 2 quart Tupperware.  Smooth the top, and dot the surface with cherries and almonds.  Place in the freezer for 2 hours, then enjoy!
    
    
    Four Plus One
       
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    Ingredients:
    • 3 cups lemon juice

    
    

    
    
  • 
    
    • 1 cup orange juice
    • 1 cup lime juice
    • 1 cup grapefruit juice
    • 4-5 sprigs of mint
    • 3 cups water
    • 3 cups sugar, plus a tablespoon for muddling
    • 750 ml citrus vodka
    
    

    
    
    Directions:
    You will need a LOT of citrus fruit to make this drink.  If you want to just add voddy to orange juice concentrate, be my guest, but trust me, your party guests will never forget this drink if you do it from scratch.  Also this is a chance to learn the beauty of simple syrup.  Make it ahead of time and chill it.  
    Simple syrup:  In a medium pot, add 3 cups sugar and water.  Boil until sugar dissolves, stirring occasionally, remove from heat and chill.  
    Pull the leaves off the mint stems, reserving a couple pretty leaves for garnish.  Place the mint and the remaining sugar in a cup or small bowl.  Commence muddling.  Use a proper wooden muddler, or the handle of a wooden spoon.  Dump green mixture into a metal strainer, hold over a large jug, and pour the simple syrup through.  Go slowly.  When you are done, press the last of the minty goodness through the strainer.  Discard green junk.
    Add citrus juice, vodka, and serve over crushed ice.  Try not to fall over.