How Funky is Your Chicken?

When my dad plays golf, he tees off a minimum of three times and proceeds to play each ball for the duration of the hole. Although he may play four balls, he only records the best score for each hole. Not cheating, but not quite how the official rules go.

I insist on being ‘banker’ every time I play Monopoly. This allows me to withdraw greater amounts of money than permitted; a loan if you will. Since I’m banker, nobody knows about my zero interest loans that I accidentally forget to pay back. Not cheating, but not quite how the official rules go. Oh shoot, okay, it is cheating.

For summer project #5, I had to incorporate a bit of my dad’s golfing ‘technique’ and a dose of my Monopoly con-artistry. You see, it was required for this particular dinner to be impressive after all the boasting of I’ve done of myself. “Move over Paula Dean”, “Martha Who?”, and “Heir of THE Suzie Homemaker” are only of the few non-truths I’ve labeled myself. With such big talk, I knew I had to concoct a breath taking meal; One that was disaster-proof.

“I found this great recipe I’m going to try, I sure hope it turns out okay,” was the preface for Mexican chicken casserole. I didn’t include that my mother taught me how to cook this delicious entrée when I was old enough to turn on the oven. It’s one of those recipes that I’ve cooked so many times that I no longer need the recipe to follow. I knew if I confessed this truth though, then there would be greater expectations. I didn’t cheat, I just didn’t exactly follow the official ‘summer projects’ rules.

In less than 24 hours, then entire dish had been consumed. I had (for the 692nd time) poured my cooking expertise into a simply irresistible casserole. Cha-ching!

Disclaimer: I picked every single shred of poultry out of my serving. Long live the chickens.

I Love Your Sushi Roll, Hotter Than Wasabi

The way I see it, a person who has enrolled in medical school is not yet qualified to perform the daunting task of a brain operation nor to practice God’s most precious gift of cosmetic surgery. Instead, you want a tenured surgeon who has studied the brain to its very core and is completely competent in repairing whatever may be broken between the ears. Come to think of it, I’d like to send a few half wits to a brain surgeon. People including, but not limited to Mac Brown (a brain surgeon fresh out of med school and suffering from turrets will be perfect for ole Mac), Barrack Obama (preferably a republican surgeon from Texas or the deep south), and the idiots in charge of the college football conference shake up (I’ll enroll in med school and take care of these morons myself). For those seeking not repair, but enhancement, you want a doctor whose work is eye catching. My Uncle Bret can probably help you pick out a great pair as he is a gentleman’s lounge connoisseur. I’ve always thought plastic surgeons have a teensy bit of perversion running through their veins. I suppose that’s necessary. After all, you want a doctor who knows what he’s working with. Prior to them attending med school, I feel certain they were all fraternity boys. Not just any frat either. I’m referring to the ones with stripper poles in the common area and who are considered ‘regulars’ at Sugars on Campus Corner. In college, these men were repulsive to me. Now, I realize they were only becoming acquainted with the cosmetic surgery industry.

I need to cast myself in the realm of those who intend to pursue a medical doctorate, but haven’t yet completed the courses to attain the credentials. Don’t get excited Mom, I’m not going to med school. I can’t even balance my checkbook, much less calculate the length of incision for open hurt surgery. I do retain to the write to practice open heart surgery on a certain someone from my past, with a butter knife. Instead, what I am referring to is my venture to join the Suzie Homemaking club. People spend years baking, cooking, and serving before they arrive at this ultimate destination. Me, oh my, I’ve not even begun the initiation process. Patience, you see, is not my virtue though. That’s why I jumped straight into the ‘triple bypass surgery’ of cooking; SUSHI.

I travelled from Edgewood to Fort Worth (my favorite city in Texas) to purchase ingredients that they don’t teach us to spell here in east, TX. Nori (more commonly known as sea weed), sushi rice, sushi vinegar, and other Asian inspired delicacies were there waiting when I arrived to Central Market (Suzie Homemaking freaking Heaving).

I knew it was going to be a feat. I was already prepared for lost time, wasted money, and huge mess when this disaster was finished. Dark forces were prevalent on this oh, so important day in my summer journey. It became evident that the world was working against me when I had the idea to cook the sushi for someone else. Now, not only would my domesticity take a severe blow, but I would have an audience for my misery.

I decided I should attend culinary school before I began the project. By culinary school, I’m referring to You Tube. I learned that the rice was key. I was prepared to count every grain of salt to ensure ultimate success in making sushi rice. I didn’t have to though. After more than one hour, my sushi rice was prepared in sheer perfection. My fairy godmother must have been sitting on my shoulder. I know something magical must have taken place, similar to the children’s movie Ratatouille, because I’m no fool. I know my limitations, and I know I’m incapable of concocting such perfect sushi rice. Nonetheless, I’m also a little bit shady, and I had decided, without second thought, that I would take full credit.

The rest was easy like Sunday morning. I can scorch a bowl of oatmeal, but I can roll some killer sushi. Kudos to me. Summer project #4, I rocked it and my domestic value is sky rocketing.

Lesson Learned: Workout double to avoid getting a sushi roll, trust me that it is NOT hot… especially not hotter than wasabi.

It Doesn't Matter If You're Black or White

I know that I’m not supposed to hate, however, I feel such strong disgust toward some things that I have to at least classify the attitude as hate.

1.) Texas Longhorns
2.) Chipped nail polish
3.) Anyone married to my Dad

Allow me to explain.

As a devoted fan and alumna of the University of Oklahoma, I utterly despise longhorns, two-fingered Texans, and that gaudy color of orange that UT fans wear. I expected, and my friends prayed, that my obsession for Oklahoma and consequential hatred towards TU would simmer down after graduation. To no one’s surprise, it’s done the exact opposite and instead developed ten-fold. I’ve even black listed my dear friend Greg Johnson for pursuing his MBA at that wretched institution down south.

I don’t have to explain that chipped nail polish is ugly and tacky. I understand that it’s inevitable sometimes, so wear close-toed shoes. For this, I allow a one day grace period for repair.

It all started with a pair of yellow socks. As an 8-year-old, I liked to think that I ran the show of my parents. They had divorced only two years prior, but I was determined that they truly loved each other and I had a master plan for making them realize that they belonged together forever. Everything was going according to plan until SHE showed up. It was a Sunday morning, like any other. Anna got Landon and I ready for the day. Immediately after Sunday school, I walked into the sanctuary with the sub-conscious intention of walking to Anna’s normal seat to sit by her. After all, I did this every Sunday. Then I turned the corner…

There she was. Her perfectly styled blonde hair, her impeccable figure, and smiling without a care in the world. WHY WAS THIS WOMAN SITTING NEXT TO MY DAD? I walked right by her and didn’t say a word. I couldn’t let this stupid woman come in and ruin my plan of getting my parents back together. She was a home wrecker and she didn’t fit into my plan. After church, she even had the audacity to join our family in the parsonage for lunch. Who cares that she rode there with my Dad! She could walk herself home in those entirely too cute shoes for all I cared. “Do you kids want to go to the zoo?” she asked. Landon, of course, was in love with her so he almost performed a back flip with excitement. Not me, I couldn’t let her know that the zoo was my favorite place to go. “My dad must have told her. She must have him brain washed to tell her everything he knows,” I thought to myself.

At this time in my life, I had three concerns in life; making sure I had straights A’s, swimming, and playing in the dirt. As long as my clothes were deemed cute by me, I didn’t care if the pieces matched. After all, Anna always told me that I made the outfit, the outfit didn’t make me. This particular day, I sported mustard yellow socks; you know, the kind you pull up as high as they’ll go and then fold them over. The woman who everyone seemed to love offered, “I have some extra socks here if you’d like to wear them.” I couldn’t figure out WHY she asked me that. Did she have a problem with my favorite yellow socks? I had just began laughing on the inside because I knew Anna would reprimand such rudeness from this stranger, instead she spoke for me, “Oh, that would be great! She would love to wear your socks!” I will not type the thoughts than raced through my mind at this time.

I’ve forever referred to this tragic Sunday as “The Day of the Yellow Socks.” It’s comparable to Doom’s Day in my mind. From that day forward, you could write a book of all the mean things that I did to Christy. Many can be seen on the three installments of Home Alone.

Just like with the zoo, Christy tried to find things to make Landon and me happy. Every attempt was successful, but I will NEVER admit that to anyone. One attempt outshines all the others though. I knew it was going to be a party in my mouth before it even hit my tongue; OREO. ICE CREAM. PIE. It was perfect in every way. I wish I could say I demanded it every other weekend when we visited, but I didn’t have to; she already had it made. Dang right she did!

A few years later, I got what I wanted. My dad and that stupid woman divorced. Only the truth is, I no longer wanted it. You see, before Christy came along, we didn’t see my dad every other weekend. She made sure we did. Before Christy, my dad had to pull my hair in an atrocious pony tail. Christy is responsible for getting rid of my famous spiral perm, I’ll never live down that hair style. As far as having a mom and a dad who lived in the same house, Christy provided us with the only thing close to normalcy we would ever have. It was my fault, and I knew it. I’ve spent all the post-divorce years making sure to love and appreciate Christy, who we now call Lana, the way I should have when she took care of Landon, my dad, and me.

For summer project #3, I attempted Lana’s Oreo ice cream pie. To me, it just didn’t taste the same. My taste tester, however, devoured two very large slices and exclaimed, “it doesn’t get any better this!”

Lesson Learned: It doesn’t matter if you’re black or white, as long as you're 1.) a Texas Longhorn 2.) have chipped nail polish or 3.) marry my dad or even THINK about it… you’re on the list above.

Rotten Bananas

After reading books among the likes of You're So Money, watching television shows comparable to Oprah's recent Debt Diet, and listening to the saavy Dave Ramsey on the radio, I've learned that in order to save money and stay out of debt, I have to adhere to a budget. Additionally, after being a teacher for two years, I've learned that I have to have a very strict budget and pray that one check meets the next. A great place to start is to determine the difference between wants and needs. Allow me to share a small snippet of my hashing out of wants vs. needs.

Wants:
Food
Flower bed stuff
Clothes

Needs:
Pay bills in full and on time
Self maintenance (manicures, pedicures, hair appointments)
Shoes & handbags

Now, pardon me for bragging, but my grocery bill is $0. When I address my monthly budget, I always enter $0 for groceries. It's really a benefit to my weight loss to live on a single female, teacher's salary. My family is well aware of the importance, or lack thereof, that I place on food so it's not abnormal for Anna & Poppy to send me home with bags of food nor for my dad to show up to my door step with sacks of groceries.

After my daily skimming, or stalking, of Facebook statuses, I saw that my favorite (and only) roommate of all time posted "I love my bicycle." A sudden excitement fell over me as I remembered that I received a beach cruiser bicycle, very similar to the one seen on Something About Mary, a couple of Christmases back. Immediately I called my dad, "Daddy dearest, please bring my bike over!" I really would have picked it up myself, but I don't think a small, quaint town like Edgewood could understand a teacher, driving a Mercedes, with a floppy-eared doberman riding shotgun, and a beach cruiser bicycle tied to the top.

As soon as my dad pulled into my driveway, I was prepared with tennis shoes and a pony tail. I felt physical pain within me when I realized that both tires were flat. Immediately, I wanted to run as fast as I could... to the winery to pour out my broken spirits into an emptly glass of vino.

I had to wait though. I had to pull it together, if only for the duration of my father's visit. He handed me two bags of groceries and I mindlessly left them on the counter as I visited with him and we watched our dogs, Dixie and Boomer, chase each other across my backyard. The dogs hate each other. I like to call it playing, but its really a knock-down drag out between the two canines. It wasn't long before ole Dad beckoned Boomer and hit the road for his long journey back to his house, approximately . 459 miles.

I moped the distance from my driveway to my front door - back inside my home and began unpacking the sacks of food my dad delivered. The first sack was full of dog treats and toys for my dad's only grandchild, Dixie "The Rebel" Ishmael.... yes, she had her last name changed.

That's when it happened, my second inspiration of the summer. My dad tends to have that affect on people.There, in the bag, shining like the Holy Grail were two brown bananas. Not yet rotten, but there was no way in h*ll that any person in their right mind would consider them edible. I felt like I posessed the wisdom of the ages when the thought suddenly overcame me, "Wow! Those are perfect for banana bread!!!"

TIME OUT (in a Zack Morris voice)

Where did that thought come from? It was like Martha Stewart was fighting her way out of my domestically challenged body. I've never made banana bread. The thought hasn't ever even crossed my mind. I couldn't suppress the urge to join the ranks of Suzie Homemaker. I immediately darted to my computer and Googled "healthy recipes for banana nut bread." As you can imagine, the recipe called for more ingredients than I had in my house; wine, pickles, dried cranberries, more wine, Crystal Light, and popsicles. Going to the grocery store, was my only option. BUT WAIT, I can't go to the grocery store, it's not in my budget. Oh the pain that flooded my soul!

Then, like a ray of sunshine beaming through the clouds on a dark, dreary day, my dad texted me the following morning, "Patton, can you let Boomer in at lunch?" In my most depressed texting tone I could muster up, "sure." Then thoughts flooded my mind, "Wait a minute, his live-in girlfriend is a school teacher. I wonder why she can't let him in. Hmmm, she must be out of town." It was the perfect opportunity to 'shop' for ingredients for banana nut bread. I met Boomer in the driveway with an over-joyed expression. I was so excited about this mischief, that I even gave the sweet puppy extra treats, about a bag full.

Baking soda: check
Sugar: check
Salt: check
Walnuts: check
Egg whites: check
Loaf pans: check

It was banana nut bread making Heaven!!!

After gathering all the ingredients I needed (THANKS DADDY!), I headed home and immediately began my ultimate goal of the day.

I followed the recipe to a T. I've learned already that trying to 'spice up' a recipe ends up in epic failure.

Everything was going quite smoothly when I ran into the ingredient, '9 pureed bananas.' What the mess! Pureed? What is pureed? I was raised in Edgewood, Texas. We have bananas. Banana pudding. Rotten bananas. Banana Laffy Taffy. Banana Runts. Banana snow cones. But banana puree? Once again, the gods of cooking spoke to me. THE BLENDER!!! There is a handy, dandy button on my blender that reads puree. I peeled nine, almost-rotten bananas and pushed puree. I've never seen bananas in such a state of beauty.

One hour later, the scent of baked banana deliciousness overwhelmed my humble abode. Alas, summer project numero dos is complete and my journey to domestic goddess is underway.

"She's book smart, but not a lot of common sense..."

...and so the story goes.

In order to prevent myself from becoming completely useless this summer, I decided to create a 'Summer 2010' bucket list. One thing turned in to another and now not only do I have a list of projects that I want to accomplish, but a nice, little blog to record the adventure.

First in line: Snapping Green Beans.



The original goal here was to learn how to can green beans, but this was deemed too dangerous by Anna. All of you who know her will agree that she's boss and what she says goes. Instead, I settled for learning how to snap these delicious treats. I love vegetables so I'm a huge fan of the lush garden Anna and Poppy have raised this year. Growing behind their Canton home, you can find many of the vegetables that top my list, however, green beans have always maintained the number one spot on my list and in my mouth.

I felt quite accomplished the last week of school when my Summer Bucket List was addressed before summer had even arrived. I think Anna was more excited than I was about having someone else to snap the enormous amount of green beans she picks everyday. I showed up to her house for an after school snack and a visit, and instead arrived to a huge bucket of green beans awaiting my snapping skills. I'd like to tell you that Anna told me what to do and I followed her instructions exactly, but that would be too easy. I was too busy digging in and trying to figure it out that I wasn't listening... imagine that. She finally said, "now stop for a minute and listen." I'm quite certain her tone of voice indicated that she was about to slap my hand.

After mastering her technique, I snapped the entire bucket of green beans as I visited with Anna over coffee. When I finished, my hands looked like I had been working in a field for a week without washing my hands. Welcome to east Texas.

Summer project # 1: Check
(And I'm still going to check with my mom to see if she will teach me how to can them)