Newlywed Cooking mishap #57: The Monkey Bread Debacle

Since getting married, I have been trying my hand in the kitchen in attempts to improve my cooking/baking skills. Much to the continued amusement of SJY, I have been more like a worthless Paris Hilton in the kitchen than the Giada De Laurentiis vibe I was going for. First there were the chocolate chip cookies that I made with course sea salt because I didn't have any fine-grained cooking salt. I figured, salt is salt, right? Wrong. The salt didn't absorb evenly into the cookie dough, instead every 3 bites or so, unfortunate taste testers would suddenly get a burst of waaay-to-salty nastiness. They were so bad I actually threw out the entire batch...SJY tried to fight me on it, but I'm pretty sure he was just desperate for a cookie.
There were also the chewy oatmeal chocolate chip cookies that somehow came out as crispy as a triscuit, the banana bread that required an electric knife for slicing, the hockey puck yeast rolls...I mean, the list is endless, people. I've been insisting that I'm still getting used to a gas oven, but I think SJY is convinced there are bigger issues at hand.
Nonetheless, tonight was a mishap for the record books. I made yeast rolls for Easter lunch yesterday, and today decided to make monkey bread out of the leftover dough. I defrosted the extra dough all day, got a recipe off Cookinglight.com and anticipated the accolades I would receive for my award-deserving monkey bread. Keeping in mind all of the 'issues' I seem to be having in the kitchen (and the fact that I'd never actually made monkey bread before) I followed the recipe word for word.
The timer dinged, I pulled the soft, warm monkey bread out of the oven, and let SJY have the inaugural bite. I should have anticipated his immediate look of horror...

SJY: Ugh, this tastes like straight-up alcohol.
me: That's impossible--it's monkey bread! I told you this gas oven is unreliable!!
SJY: We could get full and drunk at the same time!
me: (sigh)

I took a bite and, sure enough, it tasted like I had just tossed back a shot of really nasty cough-syrup-flavored booze. I couldn't even hold back a grimace. I guess all the dough, sugar and yeast somehow combusted to make an alcoholic...umm...beverage?
In spite of another unsuccessful evening in the kitchen, I remain upbeat. I'm pretty sure I just created SJY's new favorite food: alcohol-infused-yeast-bread--his two favorite flavors melded into one. Although he currently won't go near the monkey bread, I'm sure that with a little tweaking, I could totally make it not taste like poison. I just need a little time...and an Easy-Bake oven.

Miss Dottie: after

So, it seems that the dog grooming industry has become one of the biggest rip-offs that I can currently think of (second only to the ridiculous amounts of money that I have to pay in order to park my car in the city of Seattle, but that's another story). The cheapest haircut SJY and I could find for Miss Dottie was $40! That's more than I currently pay for a haircut (that may be hard to believe...but I've got connections), so SJY and I decided to buy a dog grooming kit for $40 and we figured that we'd get approximately 230 haircuts for Miss Dottie for the price of one at Petsmart.
Unfortunately, we soon figured out why sometimes it's just better to pay someone to do something rather than to attempt to do it yourself. We did OK on her body and legs, but somehow left her with a huge mustache and a Brazilian. Poor thing. Less than 3 minutes after we finished the 'haircut' she let us know what she thought of our work by taking a big whizz on the living room carpet. We really couldn't blame her for that one.
We're still not convinced that a $40 haircut is the way to go. SJY is convinced that our dog grooming skills will only improve with time. However, I'm afraid that if we continue to traumatize her, we'll have to shell out the big bucks to the freakin' dog whisperer or something. We'll see.
For now, here's what Miss D looks like. I still think she looks cute. Kind of. But I love her, and love is blind. Thank God.

Introducing Miss Dottie

For my wedding present, SJY got me the best present in the entire world (note to self: remember to order SJY's wedding present). Anyway, Her name is Miss Dottie and she's the cutest puppy I've ever seen in my life! I realize everyone says that about their dogs, but I don't think anyone who looks at her picture could argue with that statement.
She was with the breeder in North Carolina until about a month ago, when we got her. She's a Yorkie-poo, so not only is she really smart, she is hypo-allergenic- which is a total bonus because dog hair all over everything makes me crazy. We got her when she was four months old, so we had to finish potty training her...which was a bit tricky since we live in an apartment in downtown Seattle and the only patch of grass in a four block radius is next door at the Shell station. Dottie has completely owned that patch of grass.
So, here's a picture of the lovely Miss Dottie so you all can drool and be jealous. It's bound to happen.

green thumb

I grew a plant. seriously. While this may not be a big deal in most people's lives, I have not been able to grow anything remotely aesthetically pleasing since the mullet I sported in the 2nd grade. Ask any of my former roommates, and they'll tell you that I often buy little potted flowers with the best of intentions...and shortly after, death ensues. without fail. At first I under-watered the flowers and dried 'em all out. Then, in attempts to keep my flowers adequately watered, I ended up over-watering them and killing them that way. I assumed the more water the better...but flowers don't really work that way. I guess it's only humans that need 8 cups/day. oops...
Anyway, around Christmas time I was feelin' the botanical urge yet again, and decided to give my black thumb another chance. I bought an all-inclusive, fool-proof, bulb plant. The package came with a bulb, rocks, and a clear pot. All I had to do was put the bulb in the pot, cover it up with rocks, add water, and wait for a miracle. And ladies and gentlemen, a miracle is what I got.
So, In honor of my green thumb, I'm posting a picture of the flower/success story. In all honestly, I have no idea what the flower is called, I'm just happy it's not dead. That's a start.

wedding slide show

So, our photographer is still working on editing our wedding pictures, but he did put together a short slide show of some of the pictures. You can view the slide show at www.kevinmilz.com/kouns Enjoy!

My heart will go on

So, this past week marked the ending of an era, and I feel foolish that I let it slip by without proper acknowledgment. But better late than never. After 5 long years, Celine Dion took her bows in Las Vegas as her show A New Day ended its run at The Colosseum at Caesar's Palace.
Now some may find this incredibly odd (with the exception of my friend, Julia), but I have a surprising appreciation for Celine Dion. Yes, she's got some quirk in her, she's married to a geriatric, and has absolutely no idea how to dress herself properly for the red carpet, but the woman's got pipes. There's just no arguing that.
Anyway, somewhere along the line I promised myself that I'd make it to Vegas to see her show, but apparently I lost track of time, so I never made it. However, rumor has it that she's coming to Seattle next year, and I can guarantee that I'm taking myself (and dragging SJY) down to the Key Arena so I can weep in person as she sings It's All Comin' Back to me Now at the top of her lungs (and you KNOW she will).
So, peace out, Celine. See ya next year.

Crumbs

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers by Emily Dickinson.

I've read through this poem quite a bit lately. I agree with Dickinson that hope is penetrating and insistent; we feel its presence even when we cannot find words to express it. Yet I find that I struggle with the last two lines of the poem. Dickinson seems to imply that hope simply "is" without asking anything of or from us in return. I disagree. Vehemently. I think that hope asks much of us. In fact, maintaining a posture of anticipation, of longing, of the not-yet often requires all that I am.

One of our administrators uses honey bees to illustrate this notion. I'll attempt to paraphrase- While the majority of the honey bees in a hive are maintaining the food supply or are droning about, roughly 5-10% of the honey bees are scout bees that forge ahead to explore new food sources and potential hive locations. When the food supply runs low or another queen takes over, the bees have a greater chance at survival because these scouts have already laid plans to relocate. The entire future of the hive depends on their dedication. However, the job of a scout bee is very dangerous as they are exposed to the elements of nature; many die as they search. Scout bees live in a way that continually hopes for something different and new. While their labor allows the hive to survive and bear fruit, the work of these brave bees is dangerous and asks much of them.

All that to say, I think hope asks more of us than we like to think. It's not merely a tune we hear in the background of our lives. It is, rather, the thing deep down inside all of us that begs us to live in the midst of longing, anticipation, and desire for something new. While hope is the thing that sustains life, it requires that we not only give crumbs, but that we give of ourselves. And that is asking a lot.