I once said that I'd never post a recipe on this blog (with the clear exception of those intended for smart-assery). Not that posting recipes is a faux pas of any sort- a bad habit or a clear-cut example of my hard-learned domesticity.

It's just that my recipes never make a lick of sense straight out of the gate¹. You see, I have this really terrible anarchist streak² that rears its head at the oddest moments- like when I'm attempting to re-create Satan's tamales or some fabulous recipe that Rachel has posted³.

Inevitably, that [Chicken Casserole Supreme]⁴ turns into my [Super Chicken on a Stick]⁵. And even though my [Super Chicken on a Stick] is all that is fabulous and divine, (after all, one mustn't need be an actual genius to know everything, right?) it still isn't [Chicken Casserole Supreme].

And demmit to all hell, it never looks like the freaking picture. But to get to the point already:

This cheesecake has made a liar out of me.

A big fat liar.

A big fat liar with an orange stain on her shirt.

I vaguely recall something being said about food and drink and merriness. So smile, for Barbie's sake, thank God for your leftover Christmas pantry goods, overcome that silly fear of raw eggs, and get fat with me:

You'll need: 3 pkg cream cheese, bag of gingersnap cookies, 2 sticks REAL butter, 3 eggs, lots of sugar, some nuts of some sort, canned pumpkin, 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour, and some caramel syrup.

Finely crunch the cookies (you'll need about a cup and a half), throw them in a bowl with just enough melted butter to make them moist. Press the mixture into the bottom of a springform pan and bake them in the oven for about ten minutes or so to set.

Beat together (one ingredient at a time) softened cream cheese, 1/2 cup butter, granulated sugar at least a cup or so (TASTE UNTIL JUST RIGHT), 1 cup or so of canned pumpkin (TASTE UNTIL JUST RIGHT), flour, 1/2 cup or so of caramel syrup (TASTE UNTIL JUST RIGHT), and three eggs.

Pour mixture over crust, and place pan inside a roasting pan with a little water on the bottom. Bake at 325 for about an hour and twenty minutes.Let cool and then refrigerate overnight before serving.

Grab your nuts *snort* and cook them in a skillet on medium heat until warm, add a handful or two of sugar, stirring constantly until nuts are completely covered and sugar is melted. Spread them out on wax paper or sheet of foil to dry.

Now I'm not sure what this is supposed to look like exactly as my mom
called and left me the recipe on my voicemail… But I'll be damned if that doesn't look like a cheesecake.

I am awesome.

Footnotes: 1. Pun intended. Duh. 2. When I say "anarchist", I really mean docile housewife who enjoys blogging and posting various recipes online. When I say "I" "me" or "my", I am actually referring to "my friend". Under no circumstances, am I or this blog affiliated with anarchy. I swear it, Mr. Eavesdropping Government Official Man. 3. Or when I conspire to overthrow the reigning dick in office. 4. in order to protect the innocent, actual recipe names are withheld. 5. This work is a piece of fiction. All people, places, things, events described herein are works of the author's imagination. Any relation to actual  persons, places, things, or events  is purely coincidental.

Life must have rules.

As parents, we know this. Straightforward or found hidden within the depths of the Fruit Loops box, these rules are what keep us safe. What keep us sane. (And with three heathens running afoot, sanity is definitely among my top concerns here.) They are what shape our sophisticated little modern lives. They are the necessary evil- the hamartia in our hedonistic hero.

Yep.

Life must have rules.

These rules, they are our reminders of the lessons, both big and small, that we've already learned. They are the "been there done that and probably won't survive if I try it again" stories. They are the stuffs of fairy tales- of Pinocchios and Little Pigs. They are unique and personal and common and universal all at once.

Yep.

Life must have rules. Especially ones such as:

Never ever just tell your husband to pick you up some "pads". Always be specific. Always tell him the name brand, the color of the bag, the approximate location in the store, the average price, and perhaps even the way the bag will sound if dropped on the WalMart floor. Never ever just tell your husband to pick you up some "pads". Even if he's been picking you up pads for nigh on a decade now.

Else you may find yourself holding a bag of Poise Bladder Control Protection items  when you'd gladly give over your firstborn in exchange for a super-thin Always maxi-pad with wings.

You see, that, that, is a good rule.

However, another equally good rule is:

Always remember to apologize sweetly to said husband after throwing rather large (yet soft) bag of Poise Bladder Control Protection Items at his head out of frustration… Especially if, three or four days later on New Year's  in the wee hours of the morning when there is frost on the ground and not a nearby pharmacy or grocer open; you, while cleaning up the results of The Baby's newly found love for candied yams,  suddenly find yourself without diapers. NOT A SINGLE SOLITARY DIAPER ANYWHERE. NOT IN THE CAR, NOT IN THE DIAPER BAG, NOT UNDER THE CUSHION OF THE COUCH…

And even better:

Be sure to pat yourself on the back- maybe even go so far as go out and buy yourself a little prize- for your amazing ability to think creatively in tough situations. Especially if, on New Year's  in the
wee hours of the morning when there is frost on the ground and not a
nearby pharmacy or grocer open; you, while cleaning up the results of
The Baby's newly found love for candied yams,  suddenly find yourself
without diapers. And you, the MacGyver in heels that you are, think to fasten a Poise Bladder Control Protection Item onto a pair of toddler underwear and manage to save the day (and the sheets).

Yep.

Life must have rules.

But I'm cool with that.

The Angel on Top of Our Tree

Mr. Snow (Our tree is silver and blue w/ snowmen & snowflakes)

Cupcake. Good.

Not Necessarily a Favorite Picture… but I made homemade bread pudding with a Creole Praline sauce that kicked ass, so, yeah, definitely a weekly winner.

Hope you all are having a beautiful Sunday!

 

I have come to the rather starling conclusion that my husband doesn't understand a word coming out of my mouth.

Okay…
That was a gross exaggeration. Let me try again:My husband doesn't understand a good 45% of the words coming out of my mouth.

Language
barrier, you ask?

Perhaps a little spousal miscommunication?

I wish.

And although I sometimes think that he was raised in a cave filled with
prehistoric, club-carrying, unwashed Neanderthals; it's not the
testosterone-influenced grunting causing the confusion either. (And, no
honey, I wasn't calling you an unwashed Neanderthal- just suggesting
that you sometimes behave as if you were influenced by a whole tribe of
them. You're actually very clean, smell nice, and don't even own a
club. See?)

So if the problem isn't language, husband ear, or a
caveman upbringing, what is it?

Sadly, it's me… and his obvious lack
of inclination to be like his dorky (yet hot) wife.

Come to find
out, I am one of those strange creatures known as a "quoter". Yep, I
have an odd habit of interjecting appropriately witty - albeit random-
quotes into conversations (and titles, and letters, and birthday cards,
and…). And while I often throw in a juicy tidbit inspired by Voltaire
or Shakespeare or Buddha or Lennon that makes me seem all that is
inspiring and profound *snicker*; my best material is born of such
classics as The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas or choice
lyrics from the songs of the uber-fabulous Cher… Which totally explains why I am always
the last one wearing clothes at the end of  those cutthroat rounds of drunken, naked Trivial Pursuit- The Pop Culture Edition.

Funny
thing is, until recently, I never fully realized just how many of my
"witty - albeit random- quotes" caused my husband to check off another
box on that "Is It Time to Have Her Committed" quiz that he found in a
back issue of Field & Stream.

What finally turned on that proverbial light bulb, you ask?

An impromptu screening of Dirty Dancing, of course.

And
now that he finally understands what "spaghetti arms" means, we're
going to work on defining the precise meaning of, "If you leave your
dirty clothes on my bedroom floor one more damn time, you'll be waking
up with old Luca in the morning."

*This entry was totally swiped from Ye Olde MySpace Blog for prosperity purposes. Hope you enjoyed it!

So, I've been doing the blogging thing for a while now… And the regularly blogging thing for what? Three

whole days? Well, you know what they say about that journey of a thousand miles, don't 'ya?

You really shouldn't make it in those obscenely expensive heels that you just had to have- no matter how cute they are.

Anyhow, in an effort to encourage that aforementioned "regular" blogging, I've found myself creating new accounts at various "niche" social networking sites that cater to bloggers such as MyBlogLog and the ultra-fun Mom Blog Network  (after all, I am a mom, and this is a blog). I even joined up over at Maya's Mom at the suggestion of my favorite Texas gal, Rachel, and her claim that there was a helpful group of Blogging Parents to be found amongst the ranks there. Unfortunately, said "helpful group" included not only some of my favorite bloggers but the infamous Stalker #3 (you know, the one with all that "moxie"), who managed to find me within FIVE minutes of my introduction post.

Gotta give it to her though, that woman knows her craft. Not nearly as fun as Stalker #1, of course, but loads more creative than #2.

The point is… Wait. What was my point? Oh yeah!

I may not be human.

Registering at all of the sites requires that you fill out one of those "Are You a Human? Type the letters in the box belows" boxes thoughtfully provided by CAPTCHA, and I fail on the first try EVERY time.  And usually on the second and third tries as well.

It's all rather depressing, really.

Have a Happy Monday,