This weekend was pretty low key. Esteban worked most of the day on Saturday, and I did very little. Actually, I think I sat around reading magazines with a heating pad on my knee, drinking juice to ward off the impending bout of bronchitis that is lurking just out of the reach of my deepest inhalation. Later, Esteban came home and I made Ikea Swedish Meatballs and boiled red potatoes and homemade yeast bun thingies, which were very tasty indeed. The Ikea meatballs squicked me out a little bit, but Esteban found them quite delicious. He also tried his new rice cooker for the first time, because he likes to eat Swedish Meatballs with rice. He asked if I thought four cups would be enough, which I thought would be fine for the two of us, except that he meant four cups of uncooked rice. Thus, we now have a glut of cooked rice that is currently fused into a very formidable bowl-shaped rock.
We could not decide what we wanted to do for the evening, vacillating on going to see Hell Boy or Kill Bill 2 or just sit around and canoodle (my word, not his). Out of apathy, we ended up sitting there watching a Pie Cook Off competition and getting emotionally vested in the fact that we did not want Phyllis from Oklahoma to win, simply because she said untoward things about Marlis, also from Oklahoma. And then we got to have utter chagrin over the interview from several large women with large hair from Wisconsin who also had very strong opinions on pie making. Most of these women learned the careful art of pie making from their grandmothers or treasured great aunts, but I was struck by the fact that six women won first place in the dozen odd pie categories. Obviously, our wealth of excellent amateur pie makers has already begun to dwindle. Or perhaps there is so very little pride in piemanship left to compel people to travel to Celebration, Florida and get down and dirty with the dutch apples of the nation.
I wonder what will happen in the next several years, when there are fewer and fewer pie women out there. I love me some good pie, but honestly, there is really NOTHING like a good homemade pie. I’ve thought about making a road trip back to Osseo for the simple pleasure that is another slice of Norske Nook pie. A good crust is very zen. I think you can only produce a delicate flaky tasty crust if you are without a sin in your heart. Obviously, I wouldn’t have a clue. No one has ever taught me how to make a piecrust. My mother-in-law makes a very good one and when I ask her how to do it, she just laughs and says there’s nothing to it. I need to remind her that I’m serious’ she needs to show me how or write down the recipe or something. Although, honestly, I think I’m more afraid of the process than anything. Armed with a good recipe and a rolling pin, I could probably cobble through a few until I figured out the trick. But pie’ man, there is nothing like good pie.
After watching tourists shovel free pie samples into their mouths, Esteban said ‘So, do you want to go to the next Pie Bake Off?’
‘Hell yeah,’ I said, staring at a lascivious banana cream.
‘Ok, take this in the spirit in which it is intended’ as two fat people, how exactly do you tell people ‘Yup, going to the pie cook off’?’
‘With pride and head held high, my love. You can live your life with shame or you can have pie. There is no in-between.’
‘Great. Thank you Pie Yoda. See, I’d hate to walk into the hotel and have some little snot behind the desk look at me and say ‘Oh’ here for the PIE CONTEST are we?&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-
‘You have to have a plan. You just cock an eyebrow and say ‘Yes, if by ‘pie’ you mean hair pie!’ and then rhythmically rock your pelvis going ‘Oh! Oh!’ and slapping an imaginary ass in front of you.’
‘You’re not like other wives, you know.’
‘I should hope not.’
As it turned out Phyllis won at least one of the pie categories, but much to our delight, Marlis took several first place ribbons. I hope it shut that damn Phyllis right up. Nothing like hubris to give pie a bad aftertaste.
Later, we watched and booed Bobby Flay in the most rigged Iron Chef ever. We don’t like Bobby Flay. We hope that he might accidentally stab himself one day.
I should probably be embarrassed that I just recounted fat people spending their Saturday evening getting emotionally wrapped up in Food Network. Except that I’m not.
Catching up on some issues that were mentioned in this space or on the notify list (I’m too clueless to sort out which):
*I didn’t get Dave Matthews tickets. In a bit of complete and utter stupidity, I was on the website and also on the phone at the same moment. On the website, I secured two lovely seats in the 26th row, but I decided to wait and see if I could get better ones on the phone before I hit ‘Buy’ on the site. You can already tell by the impending music of doom in the background that our feckless heroine accidentally found that the allotted two minutes had passed before she hit ‘Buy’ and the tickets were lost. Bird in the hand, people. That is all.
*I finally hooked up with my stylist Stacy after her broken foot incident. My initial suspicions about the butchering of my hair were confirmed. There were complete uneven weird layers and just general badness happening on my head. At one point, she held up a section of hair that went from two inches long to five inches and announced that there was a hole in the back of my head, which is a rather disturbing bit of stylist jargon. She has cleaned up the carnage as best she can, but my hair is now several inches shorter and the Growing Out project is now being investigated by a Senate subcomittee. Also, my bangs are now channeling Betty Page. I haven’t yet decided how I feel about this.
*My thumb still hurts. I know! It’s unreal! I almost cannot function without it. You would not BELIEVE how much I do with my left thumb. Everything from squeezing the toothpaste to putting the dishes away. Try to pull up your pants without your left thumb, once, just you try it. Damned near impossible, that’s what. I still don’t know what I did to it, but apparently it was very efficient.
*Two Saturdays ago, I broke my Target Streak. Shamefully, I have found myself wandering around Target for the previous nine consecutive Saturdays. I find that very sad and also telling. Telling what, that is for others to say. I was somewhat proud over the fact that I had gotten the Target off my back, however, this last weekend, I ended up perusing the aisles for a Kill Bill DVD (the notify list knows the scoop), so even though technically I wasn’t there on Saturday, I still feel very ashamed.
*The Demeter purchase that I made online during their big fabulous 10% off sale? Never arrived. Finally, seven weeks after I ordered it, they finally refunded my money. Bastards. I shall never stray from Sephora again.
*I started physical therapy on my knee last week. Which sucked. I’ve been limping all weekend and after the various tests and stretching, now something doesn’t feel right. And I get to go again tomorrow. I can hardly contain the excitement. Or the whining, apparently.
*I have received a few No Thank Yous from my last wave of short story submissions, including one weird one from Rosebud that seems to have some kind of insulting commentary, which has been hastily scribbled out with a very thick blue marker. I can only imagine that it doesn’t apply to me because it specifically mentions the story (I sent three) was too long (all three were under 3000 words, one under 1000) and mentioning that if a story is so long that it should at least get better if they are going to justify publishing such a long story instead of two smaller ones. So, because it’s crossed out and not really applicable, is he talking about me? Or did he cross it out because it was kind of harshly worded and he worried that I would dissolve in a peal of tears? And how professional is a big thick blue marker? Couldn’t he have just printed out another letter? What? Okay? (I now feel that every communication from a literary authority figure should end with the question ‘okay?’ because it still makes me laugh.)
*I have now heard from all of the graduate programs. One of them would like me to attend their school. While the news that I do not, in fact, suck is very swell and quite uplifting to my redheaded step-esteem, I have not yet decided what to do about this. But I will let you know when I do. Okay?