I tried adding oil to the water when I made hard-boiled eggs (for egg salad) this past weekend, and it worked like a charm. And look – I put up a step-by-step guide to egg salad! Not that you really need it, but it amused me to do it, so there you go.
Another recipe added – Jean’s Black Beans and Rice, sent to me by local reader Jean (thus the name. I named it myself. I know, I’m so creative!). We tried it last week and it was REALLY good. Like Fred says, you can’t have a recipe that includes black beans, sour cream, and cheese, and have it be BAD. Two thumbs up – it’s an instant favorite!
Every day, at what seems like some random point during the day, Fred’s computer dings and bellows “VIRUS DATABASE HAS BEEN UPDATED!” at me, and it always scares the shit out of me.
Sometimes it’s in the morning, sometimes the afternoon, I don’t know why it’s so completely random but I AM DEALING WITH PREMENSTRUAL RAGE RIGHT NOW SO IT BETTER KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF.
Did I mention I’m premenstrual? I see that I did. I am annoyed and prickly and my eye is goopy and areas of me are sore and tender, so I’m going to offer to you a picture essay and a paragraph about the foster babies, and calling it a day. And tomorrow will probably be an entry filled with pictures of sight around Crooked Acres so CONSIDER YOURSELVES WARNED.
Let Me Out? No, Wait. Let Me In. IN, I MEANT.
Starring Miss Momma, aka Maxi.
(Special appearance by Newtles.)
“I…. would like out, please.”
“I think I want in.”
“Newtles can sleep his life away. I’ve got places to go, rodents to kill. Out, please.”
“Um, hi. If it wouldn’t be too much TROUBLE…?”
“I know you have SUCH A BUSY LIFE but I’ve been sitting here for a really long time. You want to move it?!”
“I am but a poor sad kitty who wants nothing but to come inside. Please? Oh, please? LET ME IN, WOMAN.”
::seething::
::sigh::
“I don’t think she’s going to let us out, Momma. She said ‘YOU GODDAMN CATS ALL YOU EVER WANT IS TO BE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR FROM WHERE YOU ARE YOU’RE DRIVING ME CRAZY!’ and now she’s in the bathroom. I think she has a book in there.”
“Hush up, sonny.”
“If SHE can figure out how to open that door, surely I can, too. It can’t be that complicated. I just need some opposable thumbs…”
The kittens, oh lord. I don’t know how on earth I am resisting picking them up and squeezing them to death, but so far they are completely alive. I walk into the room, I sit on the floor, and one by one they (and by “they” I mean Delmar, Lem and Marion. Claudette still doesn’t want much to do with me.) approach me, they purr loudly, they sit against me, and sometimes if I’m not quick enough with the petting, they meow sadly up at me. And for at least ten minutes, I pet. And I pet. And I pet. And I rub bellies. And I kiss fuzzy little heads. Eventually their love banks are topped up, and they move away from me to play with toys or each other, or just roll around in the sun.
But they always come back for love.
These kittens = exactly what a cranky woman needs.
More pictures over at Love & Hisses.
Anita, your wish is my command:
Happiest! Cat! Ever!
Previously
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: This is the month that makes the hell of summer in Alabama more than worth it.
2004: I need to win the lottery so I can hire someone to come to my house every day and style my hair while I read.
2003: Which is when Stanley thought “Hey! I shouldn’t just skulk back! I should run and leap! Into the air! Like a big mexican jumping Stanley-bean!”
2002: As if he was going to say to himself “By god, she’s RIGHT! I do not, in fact, reside here. What on earth was I thinking?” and run off.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.
1999: “Well, she took that well,” I commented.