Best Day Ever

1. The democratic process actually worked

2. A dear friend finally returned from Crazyland

3. We have officially diverted from the course

4. I saw a little dog wearing little shoes. Ain't that somethin'?

Roll Out

Have you ever tried to make rolls? Like, other than the kind that comes in a cardboard tube? I mean, I thought popping the tube was hard, but that was until I tried making them from scratch. See, it turns out that making rolls isn't just like making teeny bread loaves. It involves extra stretching, steaming and, you guessed it, rolling. In my case, it also involves shattering glass.

As I mentioned yesterday, instead of going home this Thanksgiving, my boyfriend and I are putting together a little urbanite meal. I've never really been a great cook, and I'm definitely not one of those people who can just whip up a savory meal out of whatever's left in the fridge, because what's usually left in my fridge is mustard and expired yogurt. What I am really good at is following rules, so I figured I would be perfectly suited for baking. I bought a some flour, yeast, and Nick Malgieri's book, How to Bake, and a couple of rustic loaves later I was feeling pretty confident. Buy rolls for Thanksgiving? Not necessary.

In keeping with my Virgo tendencies, I decided to execute a few practice runs for the big day. According to the recipe, before baking the risen rolls, you're supposed to heat up a pan in the oven and pour in a cup of water to create steam -- I guess this is to make sure the rolls don't have any gunk in their pores. I set my pan on the lowest rack, closed the door, and returned to my recipe book study the remaining steps. A few minutes later I returned to the oven with a cup of water, and per Malgieri's directions, turned my face away as I began to pour. In the next instant there was an enormous crash, and as the cloud of steam cleared I saw my lasagna pan shattered into hundreds of red-hot shards. Riiiight. That whole hot glass/cold water/shattering thing.

My next batch turned out markedly better, if only because they were hot shard-free. The only problem was, had I thrown one at a window, I could have recreated the shattering effect once again. But at least the pieces wouldn't be so hot this time.

Go Team

This year, for the first time in my entire life, I will not be going home for Thanksgiving. As a teenager I always fantasized that one day I would move to the Big City and have a little urban Thanksgiving with all of my hip friends, and it would be like, well, Friends. My parents took it quite well, but they were nonetheless thrilled when I announced that I would visit for a weekend a bit earlier in the fall.

My visit also happened to coincide with one of Michigan State University's home games, so that Saturday morning my father and I bundled up in green caps and ponchos and headed to the stadium. Now, I haven't been to a college football game in over five years, and for someone who spent her formative years in a Big Ten town, then attended another Big Ten University, that's a lifetime. As soon as I heard the band, it all came rushing back: tailgating, the little roly-poly male cheerleader who could never quite time his backflips right, the time the marching band played "My Heart Will Go On" while marching in the shape of a ship and the flute section *broke off and sank*-- there is no better Saturday than that.

I once tried to relate the thrill to my boyfriend, but he claims that he will forever associate football with getting his ass kicked in elementary school. Apparently he never smuggled a screwdriver into the stadium--what a lousy sport.

Note to Self:

If one day you wake up to find that you have become a 29-year-old man with nerdy taste in clothes who wishes to get dates with nubile college girls, never, ever, allow yourself to be seen printing out profiles from Nerve.com at NYU's computer lab.

PS to self: Definitely DO NOT make notes on said printed-out proviles and file them away in a special folder. College girls can see you doing that, too.

Chow Down

My parents had the good fortune of retiring at the relatively young age of 55, so every now and then I'll ask them what they're doing with all this time on their hands. Today I received an email from my mom with the subject line: "Jean and Sharon Meet Cat Chow." I wasn't really sure what to make of that -- I didn't think Mom ran with any drag queens.

It turns out that Cat Chow is a woman who makes clothes and such out of non-traditional materials, like a dress made entirely out of one long zipper, and she's coming to my hometown to teach a workshop to craft-inclined but slightly counter-culture Midwestern ladies. Flash forward to Christmas, when I am presented with a poncho made out of piston rings.

The moral of the story: retirement is awesome. Don't let them fool you.

Open Letter to Coke Zero

Dear Coke Zero,

Hey, missed you at Dizzy Izzy’s bagels today—I was kinda hoping you would be there. I mean, me and the turkey on pumpernickel hung out for a while, but it just wasn’t the same. Don’t get me wrong, the sandwich was great, but it’s nothing compared to how I feel about you.

Listen, I know I probably take you for granted sometimes, but…aw hell, what am I trying to say?

I love you.

Yours,
Kat

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