Loudshoes Bakery

I found myself with a free afternoon and a clear conscience, so I baked today.
Thing 2 was ecstatic that her all-time favorite treat would be on the menu for after-school snack today (and probably dinner, truth be known.) Oatmeal cookies are her vice of choice, and she prefers home-made, bless her.
Part of the reason I know she likes home-made cookies is that she has inherited her mother's hatred of raisins, and loathes their presence in any baked good, especially oatmeal cookies. Some people, who shall remain nameless, but to whom I am married, actually think that oatmeal cookies might, perhaps, be improved by the addition of raisins. But he would be wrong, they would not; they would be ruined by the repulsive little morsels, and I'm sorry I didn't know his take on the subject before I agreed to marry him. (And do NOT get me started on raisins in butter tarts. Or rice pudding.)
I ended up eating around a dozen of the cookies myself, and now my pancreas is seriously pissed with me, and the carbohydrate overload is making me feel like I have a neurological disorder.
Thing 1 likes oatmeal cookies in a general sort of way, but has no real affinity for them, so for her I made a chocolate cream pie. I've made them from scratch, and I've made them from a package, and honestly, I can't tell the difference. Certainly she can't what with the fist-sized whallop of whipped cream on top.
The Mister's favorite baked thing is apple pie, which I think is the most boring dessert ever. Apple pie is what I make when there's nothing else in the house to make. His mother makes a very nice apple pie, which is his favorite, and I'm very happy to let her do it. I can make pastry and such, but since I'm not crazy about pie, the payoff simply isn't there for me.
Baking is a bit of a treat for me, not only does the house smell very nice and there's something good to eat at the end of it, but I rather like the process itself; the creaming and the mixing and the kneading is all very therapeutic. I hope my pancreas will forgive me.

My Messy House

Cleaning the house rates right up there with attending funerals or getting my teeth cleaned, in my books: unpleasant but necessary. It has to be done; I know it has to be done, but that does not mean I have to like it.
I'm not a fanatic about cleaning the house, far from it; I've no doubt that my ever-descending standards would make plenty of people blanche in horror. (And I don't see any of them on the doorstep willing to help, either.) But I do insist on a thin veneer of respectibility that at least gives the illusion that we do not inhabit a toxic-waste dump.
This is somewhat difficult to maintain, given that I live with three of the most determined pack-rats God ever created. That, coupled with the fact that NONE of them have ever put away an item in their entire lives means that I am fighting a not just uphill battle, but a completely vertical one.
Thing 1, who is 13, inhabits a room which appears to have been the scene of an enraged cattle drive. I wouldn't care so much except for the fact that she cannot find anything at all, and the ensuing panic every morning when she cannot locate her backpack/homework/cat is wearing a little thin. I am working on her to realize that the floor is not a storage area.
Thing 2 just seems to need about 75% more space than anyone else. Her belongings are flung far and wide throughout the house, and cannot possibly be stored in her room because it's already full. She has approximately 114 pairs of shoes, and feels no need whatsoever to keep their mates anywhere near each other. Therefore, it is entirely possible to come across any one of the 228 shoes at anytime, anywhere. If a white, patent leather sandal in the bathroom basin is what you need, then I know just the house for you.
The Mister comes by his pack-rat tendencies honestly, because both of his parents are very, very good at it themselves. (Mind you, it's all extremely tidy and neat, and you couldn't fault my mother-in-law's housekeeping even after a concerted effort. She knows exactly where everything is, and if you are ever looking for 12 matching pewter beer steins or 8 clock-radios with the little flipping numbers, she can tell you precisely where to find them: "just look in the top right of the spare basement bedroom closet and they'll be behind all the ball-washers and coffee-makers.") It is a very good thing that he is good and kind and wonderful, because otherwise his tendency to keep every single piece of paper he's ever touched would make me want to strangle him in his sleep.
I'll admit that I'm no angel in this regard myself; I've had to curb my own hoarding instincts myself, but curb them I have. I've realized that you cannot use anything that you don't know you possess, and my life is infinitely easier when I'm not wading through detritus.
A messy house is visual noise to me, and it makes serious inroads on my sanity when the place is a tip. Occasionally, I have to clean it to maintain my equilibrium, and I generally work myself up into a murderous rage when I do it. (I count it as a cardio workout, since I get my heart rate up so high.) Luckily, no one is ever around when I do it, and I've generally calmed down by the time anyone comes home. They are just advised to never, ever look in the garbage bags after I've cleaned. No good will come of that.

Japanese Game Shows

God, I just love Japanese game shows.
They certainly have a very different mindset when it comes to testing contestants' prowess. None of this namby-pamby "question and answer" stuff for these guys, no sirrree. The Japanese contestant has to be way more physical and way more willing to be humiliated.
Also, the producers have tons more imagination than here in the west....just try and find this sort of thing on "Family Feud". (The penchent for costumes intrigues me.) If anyone can explain the reason why they have to jump into an inflatable swimming pool full of baby powder, I'd love to know.)
This one, in particular, is wonderful. What I wouldn't give to be in on those production meetings! (If only I had learned Japanese.)
How these people lost the War, I'll never know.

The Great Fruit Fly War of '07

I'm not sure where fruit flies come from, but I'm pretty sure I know where most of them end up: in my kitchen. I can go days, nay, weeks without spotting one of the little bastards, and then someone leaves out one dodgy apple and they descend in clouds within minutes. Do they spontaneously generate out of the air, or are they just lurking in the cupboards ready to descend at the first whiff of rotting fruit?

And at the moment, we have an infestation of biblical proportions. After days of battling my way through the thunderheads of fruit-flies to get to the sink, I decided to take a decidedly non-Zen approach to the problem and eradicate them. The internet is a wealth of information when it comes to obliterating just about anything. Judging by the number of sites which come up when one Googles "fruit fly infestation", I'm not the only one bend on a pitiless offensive to annihilate the tiny, little terrorists.

I quickly found out how to make a fruit-fly trap, which involved nothing more than a mason jar, a rubber band and some Saran wrap. I put an abused raspberry at the bottom of the jar, covered it with the wrap and secured it with a rubber band. After a couple of pokes through the wrap with a bamboo skewer and , voila, my evil plan was underway. And it worked! Those little suckers jumped right in! (Cue accompanying maniacal laughter: "HA-ha-ha-haaaa!")

After a couple of days, I cleaned out the jar (because fruit flies + disintegrated raspberry + larva = ewwww.) and started all over again. But I still had way too many fruit flies for my liking. Annihilation was not complete.

So, remembering that "time flies like an arrow, but fruit flies like a banana", I gave that a shot. Man, they couldn't wait to dive into that trap; that banana chunk was like fruit-fly crack! Within a couple of hours there were line-ups to get in there. I couldn't believe it. Here is a picture of the fruit fly trap, complete with disgusting banana and mob of fruit flies. I'll warn you, it isn't pretty.

The trap seems to be working, but I am a mite concerned that fruit flies from other houses have heard about the amazing buffet at Chez Loudshoes and are coming from all over just to get a shot at it. As many flies as are in the trap, there seems to be just as many in the kitchen, still. But the trapping of a kajillion fruit flies is abundantly satisfying, and although I am a wee bit distrurbed at how much I am enjoying it, I'll take any kind of satisfaction wherever I can find it.

Al Dente

We are generally a fairly healthy bunch around here; the Mister has had a few bouts with kidney stones, and the kids hardly even had any ear infections when they were little. Knock wood, I've had no ongoing problems, and I certainly hope that continues. But the whole premise goes out the window when it comes to our teeth, which apparently are made out of eggshells and Plaster of Paris. Himself and I, in particular, have the most delicate, fragile teeth imaginable. They are the dental equivalent of the Italian Parliament: despite the most careful of measures and heroic interventions, they fall apart at the slightest provocation.

Both girls have has some orthodontic intervention in recent years, and it seems to have gone well. At least, they don't look like little Austin Powers clones. They've each had one cavity, both in baby teeth, and I'm an absolute Nazi about brushing and flossing to avoid any more. Perhaps if I had looked after my own teeth a bit better then, I wouldn't be having so much trouble now.

I found out today that, despite spending $1300.00 (root canal and crown) on one tooth in the past year, it will have to come out anyway. What kind of cosmic joke is that? And I have to get a bridge put in. So, not only are my teeth falling out of my head, I get to have a false tooth too? A denture? When did I get to be 75 years old? I mean, I knew I was getting long in the tooth (hee!), but come on. This is just more than my dignity will bear; I thought I might have a few years between getting bifocals and getting false teeth. I'll be buying Depends and eating dinner at 4 in the afternoon soon. I'll call everyone "dear" and wear elastic waisted pants. I'll start carrying my purse in the crook of my elbow and totter. I'll get a hearing aid and turn it off when people bore me. (Actually, that last one seems like the only up-side in all of this.)

Did I mention we have no dental insurance? (One of the many hazards of owning your own business. Also, there's one more place where the supply of toilet paper is your responsibility, and when the alarm goes off at 3 a.m, they call you. ) The dentist, bless his magnanimous heart, has offered to put the money already spent on the tooth towards the new procedure, which I think is awfully nice of him.
The last time I had a tooth out it was a wisdom tooth, and as I recall, it was kind of painful. (Sort of like 'Britney Spears is a bit unstable'.) But then, childbirth is kind of painful, and I got over that. Sort of.

I suppose my dental woes are really small potatoes in the grand scheme of things. I mean, ask any hockey player; losing a tooth isn't a big deal. But it's my tooth, so it's a big deal to me. I suppose it still beats a kidney stone.

It's October, Damn It.

What a difference 48 hours makes....it was 30°C here on Monday, and 12°C today. For those of you who do not speak metric, that "majorly hot" to "holy shit, it's cold" in no time flat.

So, when I was at work today, gazing out the window at life's rich pagent, I noticed that lots and lots of people did not get the memo that it is now autumn and not summer anymore. We saw a couple of people wearing capri pants paired with fur-trimmed parkas. And a number of flip-flop/wooly scarf combos. And all sorts of young women wearing short skirts, bare legs and the hood of their sweatshirt pulled up snugly around their heads. ("Muslim or just cold?" I wondered.) I understand that everyone's thermostat is set differently, but how is it okay to wear boots with shorts? If it's hot enough to wear one, then it's too hot for the other, in my books. (Which brings me to this: if anyone can explain the appeal of a sleeveless turtleneck sweater, I'd love to hear it. And I don't mean the thin kind you're supposed to wear under a jacket, I mean the bulky kind that makes your breasts look water balloons and your head like a bowling ball. For example:)

Completely off topic, but there was also one sartorially challenged young man that kept the Tattooed One and I amused for about 10 whole minutes. He was wearing a pair of pants that were so big and fashionally baggy that he had trouble keeping them up, and his locomotion was seriously compromised.. The waistband of the jeans was about 4 inches above his knees, and the crotch was hovering just above his ankles. He was also was hampered by the fact that he was eating his lunch while trying to walk down the street, and man, his hands were full. I've heard of somebody being unable to walk and chew gum at the same time, but this was just ridiculous. He had to stop every couple of steps and hitch up the pants. Lucky for us, and everyone, that his t-shirt was equally long and baggy, or we'd have been able to see plenty we didn't want to.

The weather does present a conundrum this time of year; I barely know what to put on myself in the mornings. But I'm pretty sure the answer is not "one season on the top, different season on the bottom". So, if tomorrow you are tempted to pair a bikini top with leather boots, resist. You will thank me when you walk past the shop and you notice two women NOT laughing at you.

My Kind of Sport

As possibly the least competitive person alive, I have a lot of trouble drumming up any sort of interest in watching sports. People throw balls, people catch balls, it will all happen again next weekend; what's the point? (I do rather like going to baseball games, though, because they tend to be outside, in nice weather and the available food ROCKS.)
But I think I have found a sport that has caught my fancy, only as a spectator, though, there's no WAY you'd find me participating. Gloucestershire Cheese Rolling is a wonderful event, whereby someone throws a 7-pound cheese down a very steep hill and then crazy people run after it. It is brilliant. Click on the link to get a smidgeon of this year's event, held last May. I like the fact that you can pause the video in almost any place and it is hilarious.

What's not to love about an event for which CNN noted:"Some 4,000 spectators turned out to watch, but they didn't escape the mayhem, either. One man who tried to dodge a bouncing cheese lost his balance and tumbled 100 feet down the hillside. He was being hospitalized with a head injury." (My italics.) Just imagine: A spectator had to be hospitalized for a head injury!

I would love to go and see it myself, despite the fact that I bet the food is awful and I might get a head injury. This? this is a sport I can totally get behind.