And the winner is . . . .

Happy Saturday, internet people!

First, I must apologize. I told you I'd announce the winner of the birthday give-away yesterday but I was otherwise occupied. You see, we've reached a milestone in our family and I've been dealing with it this week. You want to hear about the milestone? You ready? Here goes -

All three of my kids can actually make it to the bathroom before they throw up. This is huge! Just think - no more cleaning couches and carpet or running out of sheets in the middle of the night! Although they aren't so lucky at school. The gym floor suffered when Katie got sick during PE. My poor baby.

I think I'll keep our Wet/Dry Vac just in case . . .

So, I'm taking a break from disinfecting my house and thought I better get on with the awards ceremony. I used a super-cool-tech-geek way of picking the winner. You're going to be so impressed.

First I got some scratch paper. I use my kids school work for scratch paper. Is it bad that I don't keep every one of the 175,346 pieces of paper my kids bring home? Is it disrespectful that I cut it up into scratch paper? And just to clarify, I'm not going to stop doing it, I just wondered if it was wrong.

Moving on.

This is my able assistant. She didn't have time for hair and makeup before the ceremony.

I wrote all the names on the back of the paper. My mom gave me a late entry so her name isn't on there but, hey Mom? You were still in the running, it just doesn't show it here. I promise you had a chance.

My able assistant cut the names into strips,

Then she carefully folded the strips in half -

. . . and stirred them up in our super-cool-tech-geek random number generator.

"Hi, my name is Katie. I have extensive experience with awards ceremonies. I am completely trustworthy."

"Seriously. My trustworthiness is known throughout the land. Would I lie to you?"

"I'll even close my eyes while I pick the winner."

I know, the suspense is killing me too! Who will it be?

Congratulations, Lynn! You're the winner of the first-ever Karenpie give-away! And even though I just won something on your blog, I swear it wasn't fixed. My able assistant is above reproach.

Thanks so much for playing along, guys! I loved, loved, LOVED reading your recipes. I'm going to be making some pumpkin bread and bread sticks and chocolate cake and . . . . you catch my drift.

And that's all the important news from Karenpie's House of Hurl.

Celebrating with a Giveaway!

You know what today is? Here's a clue . . .

It's Karenpie's first birthday! OK, that was more than a clue. I just couldn't hold back.

Exactly a year ago today I started this crazy blog thingie. And my family remembers each and every time they didn't have clean underwear because I was spending too much time on the computer.

So the big dilemma I'm facing today is . . . . do I make myself a cake? I'm really torn. But I like cake. Especially Costco cake. Especially the chocolate with chocolate filling and cream cheese frosting Costco cake. Oh baby.

Should I go to Costco and order one that says, "Happy Birthday Karenpie" on it? Of course, it would feed 40 people and there are only 5 of us but we're celebrating here! If I were really motivated I'd make one myself. I've been known to make some fun cakes in my time . . .

Daniel had Thomas the Tank Engine for his 3rd birthday,

Matthew had John Deere on his 4th and I have to confess, my mother-in-law did the heavy lifting on that one. She made the tractor and I made the trailer.

Katie had the cutest bear I've ever seen. That cake was a 3D, fuzzy chocolate cake and was so much fun to make!

We've had at least two Lego cakes,

And a normal, layer cake thrown in there too.

Daniel likes cookie cakes . . .

. . . . and sometimes root beer floats. I let the kids pick whatever they want for their birthday "cake". But the hands-down favorite has got to be ---

Pumpkin pie. I've lost count of the number of birthday pumpkin pies I've made and I think I just made a decision.

Karenpie will celebrate her birthday with pumpkin pie. The kids will be thrilled. Now on to presents.

Who likes presents? Me! Me! ME! Only today, in honor of Karenpie's first birthday, one of you will get the present!

I've been racking my brain, trying to come up with a fun give-away for you guys. Should it be a laptop? How about an iPhone? Maybe a Wii. Because I'm all about spoiling the people who take their time to come visit me. Nah - you guys probably already have those plus I don't have Pioneer Woman's resources (she said, regretfully).

Then - lightbulb moment! I should give something I love to use - especially in the kitchen. I've used this item a couple of times in my lame attempts to food blog (here and here) and I know you'll love it too.

The Mix 'n Chop from Pampered Chef.

Who wants one? Karenpie will send one to one lucky person who leaves a comment in the comment section of this post. Just answer this question -

"What's your favorite thing to make in the kitchen?"

It can be baked, roasted, broiled or sauteed. It can be sweet or savory. It can be dinner or dessert. I want to know what your go-to dish is when you're in a hurry or going to a pot-luck or you want to impress company. I'd especially like to know if your kids eat it. And, if you REALLY want to get on my good side, you might leave the recipe too. Just sayin'.

Don't forget to leave your email address so I can contact you.

On Friday I'll use a super-techy-cool way of randomizing the comments and picking the winner. That means one of my kids will draw the name out of a hat.

Good luck! If you think of me, bring cake.

Random thoughts from a Saturday night.

Last Saturday we celebrated St. Patty's Day with some authentic Irish food accompanied by an authentic Irish person. Here are my random thoughts on the celebration.

Patti is our authentic Irish person and she's in the spirit of things. Patti, I think Kramer's embarrassed. He isn't looking at you and he's trying to get away. I know. I was there.

Glenn was in the spirit of things too. But we didn't try to get away from him. No. Oh no, no, no. We were having too much fun!

We laughed and ate Irish stew with Guinness. We laughed some more and ate homemade Irish brown bread (is that right, Patti?) with salmon and a horseradish spread. Try to picture it in your minds because I forgot my camera. Fortunately Patti had one but we didn't take any pictures until this was on board . . .

Irish whiskey. A buffet of Irish whiskey including 3 types of Jameson. We incorporated a whiskey tasting into the party. Patti taught us the Irish equivalent of "cheers" - slainte. Pronounced slawn-cha. Unless you're me. Then you say coleslaw. Please don't ask me why. I have no excuse.

Steve advised adding a few drops of water to the whisky to make it smoother. That helped because - cough cough hack cough hack hack wiping tears from eyes cough hack - whiskey is a little strong. That being said, it was fun to have little tastes of all of them, side by side, to figure out the subtle differences.

When we did the tasting, we started at the bottom of the price range and moved up. Here is my expert opinion on the results:

The three with which we started - Tullamore Dew, Bushmills and the small bottle of Jameson - were almost identical. The Tullamore Dew was slightly sweeter and the Jameson was a bit harsh. I liked the TD the best of the three.

The next two tastings were the Jameson 12-year reserve then the gold reserve. I preferred the most expensive, the gold reserve, because it was so smooth. I didn't need to add water to it at all. Everyone else liked the 12-year reserve, the one in the middle of the price range. It had more character and depth but just wasn't as easy to get down as the gold.

And that's my story and I'm stickin' to it. Now that I'm an expert and all.

Dawn was along for the ride but she much prefers cosmos, I think. Or white wine.

My sweetie was OK with it all, mostly because K-State won.

OH YEAH, BABY! SWEET SIXTEEN! WOO HOO!

I guess I was OK with it too.

Then Patti made us Irish coffees and we were even more OK. I'm sure Glenn was entertaining us with something here. We're always entertained by Glenn.

And this is what Baileys Chocolate Mousse looks like when you're finished and trying to decide if it would be tacky to lick the bowl. I'm fairly certain this is an accurate view of my focusing capabilities after two glasses of wine, 5 small tastes of whisky, a couple fingers of the gold reserve and an Irish coffee.

And that's the story of our Saturday night. Too much fun, you say?

Nah.

Now come back tomorrow because it's somebody's birthday. Oh yes. And she's one year old!

Get ready to PAR - TAY!

Fat Friday: Baileys Chocolate Mousse

OK, I know it's way past St. Patty's Day but I've never claimed to be a timely person.

We're going to Patti and Steve's for a St. Patrick's day party tomorrow night and it's going to be a fun time - us, our hosts and the Bonners. Patti is Irish and is going to treat us to Irish Stew with Stout, an assortment of Irish breads and . . . an Irish whiskey tasting.

I believe we'll have the opportunity to make some extremely bad choices.

I offered to bring a dessert but couldn't find anything when I Googled "Irish dessert". Then I had a brilliant idea.

Last Christmas I made Pioneer Woman's Delicious Chocolate Pie. It's very chocolaty and very rich and I thought the silky, smooth texture was identical to chocolate mousse. So, I made it again for Six Chicks but didn't put it in a pie shell. Instead I put it in pretty glasses and garnished it with a strawberry. It was a hit! Remembering that, I thought, "Hey, if I put Baileys in it, maybe that would qualify as an Irish dessert."

I made it today with the Baileys and - Oh. My. Word. It's awesome. I'm a genius. And I'm going to share it with you. Before I give you the recipe, though, you need to know it has raw eggs in it. I don't particularly care about that but some people might have a problem. Consider yourself warned. I predict that after you eat it, you won't care about raw eggs either.

Here's what you need -

1 stick butter, softened

2/3 c. sugar

2 squares unsweetened chocolate, melted in the microwave and cooled

1/2 t. vanilla

2 eggs

3-4 T. Baileys Irish Cream

You'll also need a mixer.

NOTE: This is half of PW's original pie recipe. If you want to make a pie, you'll need to double everything.

Cream the butter and sugar together for several minutes. It should be fluffy and very light in color.

At this point I will impart many years of baking wisdom to you.

Whenever your recipe calls for "creaming butter and sugar together" it doesn't mean to briefly mix it up. It usually takes several minutes to get the job done. You're trying, as thoroughly as possible, to incorporate the sugar into the fat (butter, lard, shortening, margarine). This creates miniscule air pockets which create the tenderness or "crumb" for baked products. Since this pie isn't baked, the "crumb" isn't important. However, creaming also incorporates air, which is important for fluffiness in this recipe.

Man, I sound SMART. I'm going to show off as much as I can now.

Drizzle your cooled, melted chocolate into the creamed mixture. It can be slightly warm but not hot - you don't want the creamed butter to melt.

Add the vanilla and Baileys. I used 5 T. Baileys and it was too much. It overpowered the chocolate. Next time, and believe me, there WILL be a next time, I'll probably add 3 T Baileys and do a taste test.

While we're on the subject of Baileys, can you see the possibilities here? You could put any liqueur in this pie - Kahlua, Amaretto, Chambord (a raspberry liqueur) or my personal favorite, Frangelico.

Mmmmmm.

Mix it up thoroughly.

It will look like this. Can you see how grainy it is?

Next you're going to add the eggs and this is where it gets interesting. You're going to add one egg at a time and beat the mixture for 5 minutes after each egg. You'll also need to change your mixer attachment and use the whisk for this part.

So, add an egg and whisk for 5 minutes. I used speed 6 on my KitchenAid.

Here's what it looks like after one egg.

Here's what it looks like after 2 eggs. It's absolutely creamy and silky smooth. No graininess whatsoever.

Because it's so rich, I divided it into small portions. These are 2 oz. ramekins and I filled 12. Honestly, I probably could have filled 14 if I'd kept them level and quit trying to go all Dairy Queen on them like the one up there on the right. Plus I had to do some taste tests. Like, 17.

I have no self control.

I hope you like this! Let me know if you use another interesting liqueur in the recipe. I'm willing to be your taster if that happens. Really. I'll make the sacrifice.

(Click here for printable!)

Me and the Chickens

Since we're all friends here, I thought I'd share a secret wish with y'all . . .

I want a barnyard.

I know, I know - it would be impossible here in the middle of suburbia, but still.

I consider myself a country girl because I grew up in the country. We didn't farm or raise livestock but our home was outside city limits, in the country. The only farmlike thing about our place was the big garden my mom put in every year. That and the wheat fields surrounding us.

If we wanted groceries we had to go to town. "Going in town" was a habitual part of our lexicon back then -

"I'm going in town for groceries" or "Are we going to town today?"

Of course, town was only 4 miles away. We were definitely not the Ingalls family, living in isolation on the Kansas prairie.

Back then, when I was in junior high, all I cared about was having horses. I was in 4-H and most of my 4-H friends had horses. Oh how I loved them! I would do anything to be around horses! I was certain, once we moved to the country, it would only be a matter of time before I got a horse. My parents seriously considered it until a kid in my 4-H club was kicked in the head by his horse. He was badly injured and although he ended up making a full recovery, it scared my folks into dumping the idea. Would you believe I didn't know that until a couple of years ago? I never knew how close I came to being a horse owner.

I don't want a horse anymore, but for the last couple of years I've been yearning for a barnyard. Specifically, chickens and a dairy cow because I'd love to have my own fresh eggs and milk. I don't know anything about cows - I'd have to learn how to milk and take care of one - but I have some experience with chickens. Let me tell you a little story.

Now pay attention. These details may seem trivial but it'll all make sense in a couple of minutes. Or hours. I'm feeling chatty today.

Even though it feels like we're in the middle of suburbia, our houses are outside city limits and we can have farm animals. Our neighbors, the Harmons, have some acreage with a large barn on their property and they raise chickens, ducks and geese. There's a barnyard with a chain link fence around it to keep the ducks and geese contained. Within the barnyard is a smaller pen for the chickens.

Inside the barn, the Harmons converted milking stalls into chicken coops. Each one has a place for the chickens to nest and lay eggs. There's also a window in each coop. The windows are kept open and the chickens can go in and out. When they're outside, in the smaller pen, it's completely enclosed with - ready for it? - chicken wire. Even the roof. The Harmons have lost several birds to predators and this enclosed pen protects them. The ducks and geese are in a separate part of the barn with a small door leading out to the barnyard.

A couple of years ago the Harmons went on vacation and asked if our boys could take care of the birds while they were gone. It was an easy job. In the morning, before school, the boys would walk over and open the door for the ducks and geese. The birds would wander around the barnyard, pooping and eating slugs all day. At night, when they needed to be put back in the barn, the geese and ducks would be huddled by their door, ready to go inside. The boys didn't have to do anything with the chickens except pick up the occasional egg. The chickens used their windows to get in and out of the barn on their own . . . until the temperature dropped.

It started getting really cold and I made the fateful decision to close the windows one night. I figured we'd just open them again in the morning to let the chickens out.

The next morning we woke up a bit late and were rushing to get ready for school. It was 7:15 am and I sent the boys over to let the birds out, thinking they'd have plenty of time to do that, get back home, eat breakfast and get dressed before we had to leave for school at 8 am.

Then it was 7:35 and the boys weren't back from the barn. We were already cutting it close and I was concerned about getting to school on time. I got in the car and drove over. On the way there I saw Daniel coming down the street but no Matthew. I pulled up and he got in the car, telling me, "Matthew needs you", which worried me. What was going on? I sped over there, parked and saw my poor boy - absolutely at his wits end and all because of the chickens.

He had gone inside the stalls to open the windows for them - leaving the doors open. They had escaped into the barn and then into the open yard. All 30-40 chickens were squawking and running around and Matthew was running after them, trying to herd them back into the barn.

As you well know, chicken herding - a time-honored Olympic sport - is extremely difficult if not impossible. You should always leave that for the experts.

Matthew was so mad and frustrated he was crying. When he saw me he yelled at the top of his lungs, "I HATE CHICKENS!" He had been chasing chickens the whole time they were there and he was at the end of his rope.

I quickly got out of the car and started helping. Did I mention I was still in my pajamas and slippers? Oh yes, and it was raining. And we had to leave for school in 25 minutes and they still hadn't eaten breakfast or put on their uniforms. So I did the only logical, rational thing I could do - I cussed.

Then I calmed down and started giving orders.

"Boys, get in a line and start walking slowly behind the chickens. They'll move away from us into the barn and it'll be fine." I figured once in the barn, they'd find their way back to their stalls and we could close the big barn door and leave. But those chickens were all over the place, hiding behind hedges and trees, running around like - well, like chickens with their heads cut off. Stupid, tiny-brained chickens. Ducks were quacking and geese were honking and I was getting frustrated. It was cold and raining, I was stepping in goose poo in my slippers and the clock in my head was going tick-tock, tick-tock.

Finally, we managed to get all the birds in a group and very slowly started working them toward the barn door. Success! We were actually herding the chickens! I stopped cussing and started planning a breakfast the kids could eat in the back seat of the car on the way to school.

We were really close to the barn door, the chickens were cooperating and out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. I turned just in time to see a cat. The neighbor's cat had come over to visit and when it saw the chickens in the yard - all hell broke loose. That cat started chasing the chickens and they scattered, squawking and running, while we watched our patient, hard work go down the drain.

All the birds were going nuts. There was a deafening racket of honking, quacking and squawking while the cat chased anything with feathers. We had to leave for school in 15 minutes, I was soaked from the rain and had goose poop all over my feet.

And I lost it.

I waited until the cat got close to me, grabbed him by the tail and started swinging him. He was screeching and yowling and turning himself inside out trying to get away. Then I launched him. He sailed about thirty yards into some trees. I'm pretty sure the word "mother" came out of my mouth at some point during the ordeal.

I was still fuming but decided on another approach to get the chickens safely into their pen. We opened the outside door to the pens, threw in a bunch of scratch and they ran in. It took about 45 seconds. Then we drove home, where I immediately threw my goose-poo-caked slippers in the trash, threw my kids in the car and went to school. They ate waffles in the back seat on the way.

And I still want chickens.

The End.

Ouch

Yesterday the 4th-graders had a fun event at school. A K-9 officer and his dog visited and taught us about their work. We started with a short lecture followed by a question and answer period. After that it was show time. The officer and his dog, Akbar, showed us how they take down the bad guys.

However, they needed someone - someone - to be the bad guy. You already know who volunteered, don't you?

I had to suit up in protective gear. This "bite suit" weighed around 40 pounds.

Does it make my hiney look big? More on that particular part of my anatomy later.

Fighter's stance, elbow up, other arm will be behind my back shortly. The officer had a pretty tight grip on the leash but Akbar was perfectly still . . . and drooling. Big, long strings of doggy drool pouring out of his mouth.

I said, "Um, is he hungry? Because that doesn't bode well for me, bite suit or not."

I kept my hands well inside of the sleeves to, you know, avoid a trip to the ER for stitches. The dog weighed 90 pounds and he was pulling on me ferociously. That, combined with the extra 40 in the suit made it hard to stay on my feet.

Then the officer asked if I was up for something even more fun - something called the "Butt Bite". Let's see, 45 4th-graders watching someone's mom get bitten in the hiney by a dog. Could there be anything funnier? How could I say no to the hilarity? My only concern was - what if the dog couldn't find my tiny, petite butt?

It's a problem with which I've struggled many a time.

Unfortunately, Akbar did find my butt. For real. That bite suit needs some serious padding adjustment in the rear. It's nothing serious - no punctures - but he managed to pinch my skin pretty hard in a few places and I was bleeding. I've been whining. That and putting ice on my behind.

I can honestly say that icing my butt ranks about a 9 on my "holy-crap-that-sucks-o-meter".

Despite my butt casualty, it was fun and interesting to watch Akbar and his handler work. They do an extraordinary job in dangerous conditions. We're fortunate they're on our side because let me tell you - being on the wrong side of the law can come back to bite you in the butt.

HA-HA-HA! I crack myself up. Get it? Crack? Let the butt jokes commence.

Can someone get me some ice?

Oh, the humiliation . . .

I love my car. I love that it can get me places quickly. I love that it can haul lots of kids and groceries.

That's it.

I don't think about what the car looks like. I don't notice if it's dirty or dinged. Heck, if it had dents in it (which it doesn't) I doubt if that would bother me. I hardly think about my car at all. As long as it works, it's good. Get me from point A to point B and life is great but if something goes wrong, I'm paralyzed.

Last week I had a flat tire. I was dressed up, as in makeup, jewelry and nice clothes - and it wasn't even Sunday! - and I was on my way to Bible study. I didn't know until I arrived that my tire was almost totally flat. I hadn't driven on the rim but it was very, very close.

Since I was doing a cooking demo at the Bible study, I had a car full of groceries and everything I needed to feed close to 20 people. I needed to get in the house and start cooking and I did NOT have time for a flat tire. Thank God for AAA. I called them and this is how they answer the phone;

"Hello, this is Triple A Roadside Assistance. Are you in a safe place?"

Isn't that great? Their first question was "are you safe". Kudos to AAA for knowing what's important.

After I told them that I was, indeed, safe and merely needed help with a flat tire, it took very little time to work out the details of someone coming to help me. I hung up the phone and started cooking, giving no further thought to my flat tire. Soon, a very nice guy came, fixed my flat and left. Easy peasy. If we didn't have AAA, I would have called Duane to come help me. If he couldn't help, I would have sold the car. Or abandoned it. Or given it away.

I don't do car problems. I drive it, put gas in it and wash it once a year - before Portland to Coast. Oh yeah, and I go somewhere to have the oil changed when the light comes on. Aside from that, Duane does all the cleaning and detailing and whatever. I just drive it.

Car stuff completely intimidates me. Car terminology is even worse. You want to see my eyes glaze over? Just say the word carburetor or engine block or radiator. Immediate coma, man. Nothing makes me feel more inadequate than car problems. I hate it when the service engine light comes on and I know the car needs to be evaluated. I hate it when I'm in the little waiting room at the oil change place, reading a magazine from 1995, the aroma of burnt coffee in the air and the service guy comes in to show me the air filter. Like I know - or even care - what an air filter is and what it should look like. I'd like to be able to look at it and say, "Dude. Are you kidding me? I changed that air filter myself last week and it's fine. DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT RIPPING ME OFF." Because I'm pretty sure when I walk into those places I have "Please Rip Me Off" tattooed on my forehead.

I have no confidence because the TWO times I felt confident about car stuff, I got burned. It scarred me for life, man. I'll never recover from it. It's taken years of therapy for me to even talk about it out loud. Oh, the humiliation. So, sit back and relax, preferably with an adult beverage in your hand.

Scenario #1

When I graduated from college, my folks gave me a car for a graduation present. Sweet, huh? (My folks have always been and still are so generous!) After I brought the car home, my dad gave me some things that I kept in a box in my trunk. Let's see, there were jumper cables and a chamois and an old red rag, suitable for wiping off the oil dipstick. My dad showed me how you pull out the dipstick, wipe it off then dunk it in again and look to see how far up the stick the oil line came. There was a handy gauge for this right on the dipstick, in case you were a complete moron like me and didn't know when a low level was too low. I checked my oil over and over until I was confident in my ability to pull out a dipstick and wipe it off with a rag.

Several months after I got the car, I traveled to the big city - about 3 hours away - for a friend's wedding. Late that night, after the wedding, I was getting ready to drive home. My friend's parents voiced their concern about the lateness of the hour and my safety. They thought I should spend the night in their home and drive the next morning and I wasn't having any of it. I remember saying something like,

"I'll be fine. This is a new car and I won't have any problems. Seriously - you think I can't handle something? I know stuff - I can even check my oil. You want to see me check my oil? I'm going to show you I can check my oil."

Picture me - young, cocky, smiling indulgently at the old people who have NO IDEA how self-sufficient I am. Their son, my friend's older and definitely hot brother was also there and I was ready to very confidently show all of them how cool I was, checking my oil.

They said, "Sure - go ahead and check your oil. It's a wise thing to do before a trip."

I went to the trunk of my car, rolling my eyes and smirking, thinking to myself, "They don't think I can do it. I'm so gonna come out smelling like a rose here!" I got out the old, red rag and opened my hood. I located the dipstick, wiped it off, reinserted it, then pulled it out and said,

"See? Whattaya think now?" I think the smirk was still on my face. Both the dad and the brother leaned over, glanced at the dipstick then looked at me and said,

"You just checked your transmission fluid."

Scenario #2

Fast forward a few years later. I'm living on my own in Arizona, working full time and taking care of all kinds of car responsibilities. I'm an old hand at getting my oil changed, putting gas in the car and checking the oil. However, I got hit with something new - the need for new tires.

One of my tires had a slow leak and I was constantly putting air in it. The hospital at which I worked was in the 'hood. There's no way I wanted to get a flat in that part of town, especially since I worked evenings and had to drive through there after midnight. Dad told me you don't buy tires one at a time. If you replace tires, you replace them in pairs. So, after procrastinating for several weeks, off I went to the local tire store.

It was a weekend and the place was crowded - full of men with their tire expertise and love of all things automobile. It was also crowded with tires - what a stink. All that new rubber on floor to ceiling racks. Yuck. Instant headache. I was totally dreading this thing. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to be spending my money and my day off at the mall not in a stupid tire store. So I waited in line, trying to be nonchalant like, "Hey, I'm a 24 year-old girl but I know from tires."

I told the guy at the counter I needed 2 new tires on the front of my car and could he please rotate the current front tires to the back? I was so proud of myself for forming those words in my brain and letting them come out of my mouth. I could tell he was impressed with my tire know-how. He asked what tires I wanted. I told him, the exact same kind that are on there. I want all 4 tires to match. He took a look and said no problem. They had them in stock, so I took a seat and waited for them to call me when they were done.

Oh goody. Now I was stuck in a waiting room. I remember it being very busy and I had to wait for a couple of hours for them to get to my car. I was the only female in there, trying to look like "Car and Driver" was a magazine I could really get into, breathing in rubber fumes and lamenting my lost day off. Finally they called my name. Yay! I was done! I sped to my car and wasted no time going home - I didn't even look at the new tires on the car before I left. I was OUTTA THERE.

When I got home, I thought, "Well, I should probably look at them to make sure they're OK, right?" Like I'd even know what that would be - tires not looking right. So, I got out and checked them and what do you know - they WEREN'T right - and I was furious. I sat in that uncomfortable, stinky store for hours, waiting for them to do their job, a job that had but ONE CRITERIA, to match the tires that were already on my car. And did they do it?

As I looked at those new, not-like-the-other-tires tires, my fury mounted. I mean if I, knowing nothing about tires, can tell the difference with just a glance, why couldn't they? I was going to have to go back to that stupid tire store and wait, AGAIN, for them to correct the situation.

I marched into my apartment and grabbed the phone. I was a customer, by gosh, and they had screwed me over. Never had I felt such self-righteous indignation. I was going to let them have it. Here's how the phone call went, to the best of my recollection:

"Hello, Big O Tires. How can I help you?"

"Yes, I left your store maybe 15 minutes ago, after purchasing two new tires. I waited in your store for close to TWO HOURS for this service. All I requested - ALL I REQUESTED - was that you put on two tires that matched my old tires. I just got home and THEY DON'T MATCH. My old tires were white walls - WHITE WALLS - but you put on blue walls. YOU PUT BLUE WALL TIRES ON MY CAR AND THEY DON'T MATCH."

There was a couple seconds of silence from the other end and the guy said, "Ma'am, the blueing is put on to protect the white walls from dirt during shipping. It'll wash off."

In a very small voice I said, "OK, thanks." Then I hung up fast.

Someday I'm going to read about myself in Reader's Digest. I'm a walking cartoon.

Fat Friday: Taco Bake

What are you eating for supper tonight?

In Kansas we call it supper. Not dinner - supper. Our meals were breakfast, lunch and supper. In my family, the only time we had dinner was on a holiday. We had dinner three times a year - Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter - and it was served around 2 pm. Plus, it was capitalized - Thanksgiving Dinner. Christmas Dinner. Easter Dinner. Just thought you should know that.

Duane would disagree. He grew up eating breakfast, dinner and supper. Except during harvest. Then, the meal they'd eat in the evening, in the fields, was called lunch.

Sheesh, even I'm confused now.

What were we talking about?

Oh yeah - tonight - the meal you eat around 6 pm - what are you eating? I'm here to point you to something that's yummy and colorful and guess what? My kids like it. Oh boy, what a concept. My children actually liking something I cook. Minor miracle, man.

Enough with the blathering. Let's make us some Taco Bake!

Start with 1 1/2 c. corn chips - I use Fritos. Put the Fritos in a gallon zip lock and, using a rolling pin, pound the crud out of them until they're crumbs. You need 1/2 c. of crumbs. Sorry, no picture. I think there's quite enough violence in the media as it is and I'm not going to contribute to it. You'll just have to picture the beating up of the Fritos in your head.

Plus I forgot to take a picture.

In the bowl of your food processor, put 1/2c. beat-up Fritos, 2c. flour, 1 pkg. yeast, 1T. sugar, 2t. minced onion and 3/4t. salt. Give it a few pulses to mix it up.

Mix 2/3c. very warm water and 2T. oil together. With the processor running, pour the water/oil in a steady stream into the dry ingredients.. Keep pulsing and mixing until the dough forms a ball and "cleans the side" of the bowl.

Take a whiff. It smell so good!

Put the dough in a deep, 9-inch cake pan that's been greased. You'll need something with deep sides. This particular pan is called a Flexipan. Specifically, it's a Large Round Mold from Demarle. Demarle is a French company that makes Silpat baking sheets and other silicone baking products. This company is the grandaddy of silicone bakeware and people, these products are great. They aren't cheap - I think this pan runs around $35 - but they're worth every penny. If you ever get a chance to go to a Demarle party DO IT. You won't be disappointed.

Back to the recipe.

Start patting the dough evenly over the bottom and up the sides of the pan.

Make the sides high - at least a couple of inches. This is a yeast dough and, while it doesn't raise a lot, it'll get puffy. You're going to fill this shell with taco meat and want to give the dough enough room to puff but to also hold the meat. Make sense?

Cover it with a towel and let it rise anywhere from 20 minutes to 3 hours.

Cook 1 pound of hamburger or ground turkey and 1 chopped onion. When the meat is fully cooked and the onion is soft, drain the fat and add taco seasoning. Here's my recipe for homemade taco seasoning:

2 t. dried onion

1 t. salt

1 t. chili powder

1/2 t. cornstarch

1/4 t. crushed red pepper

1/2 t. garlic powder

1/2 t. cumin

1/4 t. oregano

Mix those all together and add to the cooked meat along with 1/3c. water. Simmer 7-10 minutes. If you buy the premixed envelopes at the store, follow the directions on the package.

(Click here for taco seasoning printable)

See how the dough has puffed? This is after a couple of hours.

This is my dough with just a few crumbs of meat sticking to it. Because I poured the meat in and then realized I'd forgotten to add taco seasoning. I had to pour it back into my saucepan and cook it some more.

Dang it.

Put your cooked taco meat in the dough shell. Bake 25-30 minutes at 350 degrees. The crust should be a nice golden brown.

Cut it into wedges to serve. See how beautifully the wedges come out of this pan? Nothing - I'm telling you - NOTHING sticks to this pan.

Garnish with anything you'd put on tacos - salsa, sour cream, grated cheese, lettuce, jalapenos, guacamole, etc. Then:

1. Watch your family gobble it down.

2. Think about how much you love me for giving you this recipe.

3. Leave me a comment asking me to marry you.

(Click here for printable)