Sometimes you're flush and sometimes you're bust

I work in an office that is mostly women, so when I have to use the bathroom it is pretty likely that I won't be alone in there.    I may not like it, but I've long ago come to grips that privacy in the toilet isn't a thing to expect when I'm anywhere but at home . . . and often not there either between the cat knocking on the door to be let in or the hubby shouting out a comment on something that  couldn't possibly wait until I'm done.  But that's a whole other thing.


What I'm getting at is that some people have unusual bathroom habits.  One of THE most annoying I've already wrote a commentary on . . . and that is people who feel the need to chat on the phone while they're going potty.  I won't get into that again.

What I don't understand is the women who come into the bathroom who flush the toilet first thing . . . I'm talking as soon as they enter the stall.  You may argue that perhaps the last person to use the toilet failed to flush when they were done doing their duty (or doodie, as it were).  But I really don't think that's the case. I walk by those toilets on the way to my preferred stall . . . yeah, I have one and it's the one furthest from the door; it's as close to privacy as I can get . . . and I have never ever seen an unflushed toilet before.  I suppose I might pre-flush if there are skid marks in the bowl . . . 

Keep in mind that this happens in a well-maintained office building that they work in and where they use the facilities many times a day, where there is no reason to suppose things aren't working right.  So what I don't get is why are they flushing first?


I can't even say that they're doing it to mask the sound of their . . . uhm . . . bodily functions.  Because the flush happens before they do anything. Before the door is even latched.  Before they've even dropped their drawers to tinkle.   

I'm thinking that maybe . . . just maybe . . . they want really clean water in the case of back splash. I suppose it's possible that germs could splash up.  But I also don't see how that extra flush could disinfect the toilet.  Think about it . . . if the bowl already looks clean because the previous user flushed, and then you flush it again, how much cleaner is it really? 



Perhaps it goes back to some childhood thing . . . like when mommy would turn on the water in the bathroom to help you go.  It's a known fact that the sound of running water increases urgency in some people.


Meh . . . 


And don't get me started on the people who put toilet paper on the seat so they don't have to touch the seat but then they leave the toilet paper there . . . because apparently it's okay for you to touch their germ-infested toilet paper to remove it. 


That is all . . . moving on.  

Firewater Friday - Let's call a spade a spade

To call a spade a spade is a way to describe something as it really is.

These days it seems like everything and everybody is called a racist for any little old thing.   I guess it’s simply the way I think but it never occurred to me that this phrase . . . ‘call a spade a spade’ . . . would be considered racially derogatory.  And the fact is . . . it’s NOT.  Or, at least it wasn’t . . .

 

The expression is thousands of years old.  Back when spades were implements to dig the earth and not the symbol on a deck of cards or . . . whatever else.

The original saying derives from the ancient Greek idiom ‘ta syka syka, te:n

skaphe:n de skaphe:n onomasein’  which translates "to call a fig a fig, a trough a

trough".    

Far from being an ethic slur, its thought that this expression was initially a sexual reference . . . a fig and trough being symbolic for . . . well, I don’t think I need to paint you a picture.

Anyhoo . . .

Interestingly, sometime during the Renaissance, ‘trough’ got mistranslated as ‘spade’.    It’s not surprising, considering the ancient Greek for these words are fairly similar . . . skaphe = trough / skapheion = digging tool.

"Spade" in the sense of "negro" is not recorded until 1928 and comes from the color of the playing card symbol, via the phrase ‘black as the ace of spades’.

 

Frankly, I’m sick of tippy-toeing around and tired of political correctness. I think people are way too overly sensitive.  Buck up and get a stiff upper lip . . . every little ol’ thing is not an attack on some other thing.  It’s just not.  Sometimes a spade is just that . . . a spade.

That is all . . . moving on . . . 

Sweet Cream Soda


2 Shots Pinnacle Cake
2 Shots  Pinnacle Whipped
8 oz. Club Soda


Mix in a glass filled with ice and garnish with a cherry.

It's so hot in here I'm freezing to death.

It seems I spend every minute lately either breaking out into a sweat so profuse that it proceeds to drip off of my face and head or I'm looking for a sweater because my teeth are chattering with cold.  Either way, I can't get the lid off of the advil bottle and I forget the difference between oregano and rosemary which made for some weird spaghetti sauce the other night.

This stinks, Pookie! 

I had no idea that I was going to completely break down at 45.  Really.  I thought old age started at....erm...idk....70's or 80's depending.  I thought the gray hair, the wrinkles, the expanding waist line was just surface stuff to complain about, not an actual signal that your body was breaking down. 

I thought I would adopt a child at 45 but since I can't stay awake past 8:30 pm I'm really re-thinking that idea. I thought I would have fabulous mid-life romances.  I didn't realize that I would have to choose between Advil and wine for fear of liver failure.  I never imagined that my giant feet would hurt so much that high heels would be relegated to the back of my closet except for the occasional hug.  (Yes, I hug my shoes.  So?) 

Dudes....I'm full of life except that I can't seem to enjoy it much due to the chronic pain and exhaustion.  Which is why I bought lotto tickets for the 500 million dollar jackpot tomorrow. 

Imagine the tales I could tell you armed with the proper pain killers and a private jet.  

Goodnight, my lambs.  

Your ever lovin', 

Miss Pierce

New Brew Thursday - Doubleheader . . . BBC Russian Imperial Stout and Browar Amber Grand Imperial Stout

It’s clear that I’m a beer lover, but I have to say stouts and porters are not my favorite style of beer . . . but I can surely appreciate them for their richness and complexities and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed one or the other on occasion.

The big question is what's the difference between a stout and a porter?  This can be debated until the sun goes down and the keg is drained of its heavenly, intoxicating nectar. 

There are many styles of beers but there are no hard-and-fast rules for what passes for particular variety.  The truth is that there really is no meaningful difference between a stout and a porter . . . although, arguably, a stout was at one time considered a strong . . . stouter. . .  version of porter.  Today?  Different brewers have different interpretations.  And, if you ask me, it’s those interpretations that make beer so friggin’ awesome!

And now . . . onto the beer.  St. Patrick's Day was approaching as I was making my selections and what's St. Patty's Day without a good hardy beer?  

In the cooler I spied Berkshire Brewing Company Russian Imperial Stout.  Stamped on the label?  Local!  That sealed the deal.  I'm a huge fan of local beers and micro-breweries.  

Berkshire Brewing Company is a young-ish company, formed in 1992 by two friends with a love for beer who wanted to produce a finely crafted ale.  The brewery is located in an old cigar factory in Deerfield, Massachusetts.  20 years later their nine year-round flavors and seven seasonal ales and lagers are distributed in five states and they continue to grow.

BBC Russian Imperial Stout pours a velvety black and forms a creamy head that dissolves into a lovely lingering lace on the glass.  It smells of chocolate and coffee with the flavors of each to back up the aroma.  This imperial stout is full flavored and complex.  The high alcohol content . . . 8.5% alcohol by volume . . . warms you like a fine brandy.  This is an excellent sipping beer, to be savored and enjoyed after a good meal.  Dessert in a glass!  Cheers!

Check out Berkshire Brewing Company's website and visit them on Facebook

~~~~

The porter I selected was not so local.  It haled all the way from Poland.  I chose Browar Amber's Grand Imperial Porter based on the label alone . . . classy, elegant.  And the name . . . it was so high falutin' . . . GRAND Imperial . . . it demanded to be consumed.  So, consume it I did!

The Browar Amber is a small brewery that was established in 1994.  It primarily distributes its beer regionally and has only recently started exporting to the United States and Canada. 

The Grand Imperial Porter is a good beer but not quite what I expected.  To the best of my knowledge, I've never had a Polish beer and certainly never a Polish dark beer. It is a Baltic style of porter which is black like an English stout but lighter in flavor; more like a strong, dark lager. 

I would classify the Grand Imperial Porter as a dessert beer.    It is strong and sweet . . . very much a sipping beer.  It pours dark as night.  A huge head is formed when it it is poured that dissolves into a light froth that clings to the side of the glass. It has a clearly defined dark chocolate flavor with only a hint of coffee.   I liked this porter but it was definitely not grand.  8.0% alcohol by volume.

Check out  Browar Amber's website and visit them on Facebook

Is that Ninja wearing a sundress?

If you've ever asked yourself, or anyone else that question, then we must have met.  Today I wore an almost frilly sundress-y frock in shades of red, pink, white, yellow....something subdued.  I added a demure leather belt that is approximately six inches in width and topped the whole thing off with a lovely pair of burgundy flats, hot pink cardigan and yellow purse.  I was wearing this quiet and simple work appropriate ensemble when, loaded with an armful of begonias as a gift, I burst into the quiet office of a co-worker to cheer up her morning.

Except, it wasn't her office.

Erm.  I think I'm on the wrong floor.....

There is an admin launching herself across the room in my direction like an angry tank.  There is a meeting going on in here...with a bunch of dudes I've never seen....I don't think they like begonias....

Friends, I don't tend to blend into anything when I am chock full of enthusiasm but when my generous size 20 frame is swathed in layers of red and hot-pink with chunky leather accessories...I am REALLY hard to sneak out of an office unnoticed.

Afterwards, from the relative safety of the ladies room, I laughed until I wheezed.  Once I had re-assembled my chronic ruffles and my crazy hair, I realized something quite profound.

I really am perfect.

All it takes is a pinch

I think chewing tobacco is probably one of the most disgusting habits . . . like . . . EVER!  This spitting is the nastiest, ickiest, uckiness!  To be frank . . . it's gross.


When I was a teenager growing up in the sticks of Pennsylvania most of the boys I went school with preferred dipping over smoking.  Don't get me wrong, I think smoking cigarettes is pretty yucky, too . . . but the snuff thing . . . ew.  



Snuff is  "pinched" out of the can and placed between the lip and the gum and is normally kept there somewhere between 10 to 30 minutes. The draw is that nicotine is absorbed through the lining of the mouth causing mellow yet energetic high.  The drawback is that it causes an excess production of saliva . . . 

which mean spitting.  Spitting nasty brown liquid.  The boys would walk around with their empty soda bottles spitting into it almost constantly.  Quite disgusting.  






What's worse, for the user at least, is the high risk with use for mouth cancer.  I had friends . . . at 15 and 16 . . . who had obviously diseased mouths as a result of the dip.  I'll spare you the gory details but if you really must know you can check it out for yourself here.


And, as a teenage girl, I wouldn't ever date a boy who dipped.  Imagine kissing that mouth?  No thanks!

On a side but related note, my neighbor up the road had a thing for Red Man chewing tobacco.  I used to play with his son and the evidence was in little landmines all over the yard.    Unlike dipping tobacco, it is not ground up.  It's shredded tobacco and must be chewed with the teeth to release flavor and nicotine.  The unwanted juices . . . er . . . ugh . . . spit, must be spat.   Once the tobacco is chewed up the chewer is left with a masticated wad of tobaccy . . . 

The whole thing is just . . . ew!


That is all . . . moving on . . . 

Homestyle Beef Enchiladas

1 Lb. Lean Ground Beef

½ Cup Chopped Onion

2 Cloves Garlic, Crushed

½ Tsp Salt

¼ Tsp Pepper

2 10 Oz Cans Enchilada Sauce *

8 Small Corn Tortillas (6-7 Inches Diameter)

¾ Cup Shredded Monterey Jack Or Cheddar Cheese

1 Tbsp Chopped Fresh Cilantro

Sour Cream (Optional)

Preheat oven to 350 F. In a large non-stick skillet, brown ground beef, onion and garlic over medium heat 8-10 minutes or until beef is no longer pink. Pour off grease.

Season with salt and pepper to taste. Stir in ½ cup enchilada sauce from one can. Set aside remaining sauce from that can.

Pour the second can of enchilada sauce into a shallow dish. Dip tortillas, one at a time, into sauce to coat both sides. Spoon beef mixture evenly down the center of each tortilla and roll up. Place beef enchiladas seam-side down in a 13x9-inch baking dish.

Cover dish and bake in oven for 15 minutes.

Uncover enchiladas. Spoon reserved enchilada sauce over beef enchiladas. Sprinkle with the cheese. Continue baking uncovered for 10 minutes or until cheese is melted. Sprinkle liberally with cilantro. Serve with sour cream (optional).

The importance of (not) being earnest.

Remember when you were a child and a big part of the training program installed by your parents included a whole lot of "telling the truth"?  Then later you discovered almost simultaneously that your parents wanted to know your truth for pretty much the same reasons they wanted you to look both ways before crossing the street.  They wanted to keep you safe.  They wanted to know all about you so they could protect you and then (possibly) later, try to micro-manage you into the kind of happy, high-functioning person that they either were or were not.  This understanding about TRUTH and your parents dawns on you about the same time you realize that other people in your life outside of your family want the truth, too.  They want to keep themselves safe. They wanted to know all about you so they could protect you or (possibly) later, try to strategically manipulate you into the kind of happy, idiot that might help them gain some prize, usually social or economic or both.


Over the years your relationship with "THE TRUTH" becomes exceedingly complex which is ironic because dogma tells us that the truth is simple.


It's not.


Not only that, people want to know the EXACT truth about what they care about, as it relates to you but no more than that, please.  Be responsible, be like-able, be trustworthy, transparent, honest but be savvy about it.  Be guarded and for chris sakes, the truth is, be in control. Of yourself.  Of your environment.  Your past. Your future.  Your figure. Control those feelings and don't show them on your sleeve.  Learn to filter yourself.  Know your audience.  Learn to toughen up.

Have a sense of humor, though.  Everything is going to be okay.  God never gives you more than you can handle.  The truth is, if you dress up and walk with confidence, most people won't know that you have a raging migraine, that your marriage is falling apart, that you have a nervous tic when you pass up a sale on plus sized accessories.

Honestly.  The truth is, you need to fully fund your 401k and you really shouldn't smoke.

You know it doesn't matter...all this TRUTH clamoring for your attention and that's before you turn on the radio or the news, before you think about things like THE MEANING OF LIFE and is there a God.  Is there?  The truth is, I don't know and beyond having something akin to a strong feeling of conviction....no one else does either.


Conviction.  Feelings of conviction help us navigate the complicated SIMPLE truths we all work so hard to face, to hide, to find, to forgive, to move past, to overcome, to be grateful for.  Yes, once that complexity is directed it begins to gather force, like flood water moving down through canon walls.

It's such a rush of relief to KNOW at last, that you are right about something.  Really, really right.  It's shocking to understand HOW anyone could be so stupid....so cruel....so misguided to fail to see things the way you do.

Don't be evil.

Of course not!  The truth is, I wouldn't harm a fly...unless the fly had it coming and then I'd really just bruise it.  For it's own good.  Mentally.  I don't judge or gossip, well...not unless I have good reason to.  Trust me, there are just people I don't like.  Plus, why would anyone act like that?  Obviously, he/she knows that if you act like that, you are going to get some shit.  That's life.  Those are the hard facts.  It's not my fault that he/she is a loser.


You know what?  It's not your fault.  Or mine.  That hasn't stopped me from being a royal bitch sometimes and I know I'll do it again.  That's the truth.  The WORST part of it is when I act so badly, fully thinking I am IN THE RIGHT only to realize (typically years later) that I was a raving bitch to behave in that manner.

I think about it a lot, not being evil and I ask myself, "Self, does a person KNOW when they are being evil? How does one monitor such things?  I can't wear a diaper like Gandi and meditate!  First of all, my undergarments need SUPPORT. Second of all, I'm way to mean. So, what do I do? How will I know?"

In recent days and weeks I have listened to a lot of words being bandied about and some down right mean ones.  I've been told not to be so sensitive and honestly, really?  I'm emotionally sensitive and emotionally tough, too.  The truth is, people say a whole lot of crap when they think they are.....right and that they are being honest.

Yeah, that's right.  Crap.  We all do it.  Own up to the fact that there are times you could do a better job as a person.  We all could.  In addition to Not Being Evil we could actually be:

More polite
Assume the best
Control our anger
Listen
Ask questions
Control our anger some more
Listen
Assume we are still making a lot of assumptions because well, that's what we do, and give the person the benefit of the doubt


Behave like the graceful hero or heroine you thought you would be when you grew up.  It's not an evil meter.  Or an Evil-O-Meter but I think it's something.

What we think, how we act, what we say....it's really the same going back to the dawn of man.  There will always be assholes walking the earth.  How do I know that?  Because it's US, you ass!  Wake up!  Good people do the worst things to each other.

Play nice-er.  Forgive more.  Save yourself.  I owe you that much, I do.  While you are saving you, don't pick on anyone else.

Everything is personal.  Politics are everywhere.  So is love.  There is NO place that is a good place to be a douchebag.  Not at work.  Not at a restaurant.  Not on the highway.  People make mistakes, people live small lives and people are doing their best.

So here I am, looking for an evil-o-meter and the only remedies I can clearly see so far, the only things that mitigate the hardest parts of being alive are love and beauty.

The truth is, we could be a little more transparent when it comes to love and beauty.  Truth be damned.  It's a moving target. Data is a moving target.

Don't be evil.  Maybe what we need to do is actively try to be something more than the worst thing there is.

The truth is, it's okay to love every single part of your life but we are so cruel to one another, we make it difficult to do.

Your ever lovin',

Miss Pierce

Kids will be kids

During a recent visit to New Hampshirewe were enjoying breakfast at one of our favorite eateries in North Conway. Peaches is a small restaurant with limited seating, so if people are there with a large party it’s very likely they will be split up into separate tables.  

Such was the case during this visit  . . . seated nearby was a family with six people at one table and three children at another.  The children . . . two little girls and a boy . . . were seated right next to our table.  The adults at the other table were eating their meals and involved in their conversation and not overly paying attention to the kids.  The kids were generally behaving themselves but were goofing around a little.  The girls had each taken a packet of sugar substitute and poured it into a pile next to their plates, where the grown ups wouldn’t see.  They were dipping their fingers in the sugar substitute and licking it off . . . why they weren’t snarfng real sugar, I have no idea.  They kept doing this . . . giggling quietly . . . pulling one over on the 
old folks.  It was kind of cute.

It was especially amusing to me because I remember doing the same thing when I was young and us kids were sequestered at a separate table while the grown up sat off on their own drinking their coffee and conversing about grown up things . . . except it wasn’t sugar packets and it wasn’t quite as innocuous. 

We used to practice our spoon bending prowess.  If we happened to break a spoon we’d have to dispose of the evidence . . . often by slipping the stem of the spoon into the ketchup bottle and the bowl end in the napkin dispenser.  Yeah were wire minor . . . very minor . . . magicians.  Troublesome punks is what we really were.

Sometimes we'd get to wait in the car.  We’d hang out goofing off, gossip and huff matchsticks.  That’s right . . . I said it . . . we inhaled white phosphorous from the igniting match.  Dude!  It was cool!  When the white phosphorus reaches your lungs it absorbs the moisture there and converts it into what looks like smoke when it is exhaled.  
Not exactly healthy for us . . . but totally awesome.  What can I say . . . it doesn’t take much to impress a bunch of 14 year olds.   


The funny thing is,  I don’t ever remember my mom commenting on the smell of burnt matches in the car . . . what’s up with that?

The moral . . . adults are clueless.    Oh wait!  I am one.  :P

44-Clove Garlic Soup With Parmesan Cheese

Sweet mother of the garlic gods this soup is fantasmically delicious!

26 Garlic Cloves (Unpeeled)

2 Tablespoons Olive Oil

2 Tablespoons (1/4 Stick) Butter

2 1/4 Cups Sliced Onions

1 1/2 Teaspoons Chopped Fresh Thyme

18 Garlic Cloves, Peeled

3 1/2 Cups Chicken Stock Or Canned Low-Salt Chicken Broth

1/2 Cup Whipping Cream

1 Cup Finely Grated Parmesan Cheese (About 4 Ounces)

4 Lemon Wedges

Roast the garlic.  Preheat oven to 350°F. Place 26 garlic cloves in small glass baking dish. Add 2 tablespoons olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper; toss to coat. Cover baking dish tightly with foil and bake until garlic is golden brown and tender, about 45 minutes. Or use this method for the crockpot.  


Cool. Squeeze garlic between fingertips to release cloves. Transfer cloves to small bowl.

Melt butter in heavy large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add onions and thyme and cook until onions are translucent, about 6 minutes. Add roasted garlic and 18 raw garlic cloves and cook 3 minutes. Add chicken stock; cover and simmer until garlic is very tender, about 20 minutes. 

Let soup cool.  Working in batches, puree soup in blender until smooth. Return soup to saucepan; add cream and bring to simmer. Season with salt and pepper.

Divide grated cheese among 4 bowls and ladle soup over. Squeeze juice of 1 lemon wedge into each bowl and serve.

Note: Can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate. Rewarm over medium heat, stirring occasionally.

Sweet Mary Mother of God!!!

Due to technical difficulties that lasted for FAR too long, poor Miss Pierce was not able to access;

Her cell phone (it was stolen off of her desk!)
Her email
Her blog

I was shocked and disappointed, too, Sister.  

AND my spiffy new cleaning ladies apparently interpreted "deep cleaning" to mean, "Please help yourselves to the family silver that is more than 100 years and several generations old but whatever you do....don't steal the wii".

Really?


Please come back.  Please.  I will pay you to bring it all back, more than it's worth and give you the wii as a parting gift.

Don't look so smug, you sticky-fingered tramp.  Karma is painful stuff, you know.  I hope you sit on that fork and get a boil.

They took the silver and left the electronics??? Hey, I have SOME electronics.  No silver, but I have electronics....They didn't even clean the blinds.  All that stealing must have worn them out because they were not tired from cleaning, that much is fact. Don't even get me started.

"NO STEALING FAMILY HEIRLOOMS!"

If you see a fat lady in the street beating a maid with her one remaining pewter serving fork,  it's me.  Keep your distance.  I may only have one piece left but it's good pewter and quite hefty.  I intend to show her what quality serving ware can do to the instep and the center of the ass.

Look, I know people okay? Dangerous people.  People who sometimes don't shampoo for DAYS....

Okay Boba.  Here is a pure white kitten and a stack of lego bills.  Track down the beast that took my grammies flatware! 

Can you imagine the horror?  Not of a woman being beaten for her thieving ways but the horror of ME experiencing all this drama but without anyone to talk to?  Without my precious?  Without my BLOG!

I was starting to experience organ failure.

Look, I have a LOT to tell you all.  I mean, my imaginary and evil boyfriend was "elected" as the new Russian Czar and me...here....with not one electronic option.

What do you want to bet he uses this for a fishing hat? 

Just thinking about it makes need to eat another giant handful of jelly beans and try to block out all those images of Rachel Ray on QVC.  Really?  Gradient cookware, Rach?  I don't like it.  It looks thin and cheap.

Have I ever shown you my pewter? Let me demonstrate for you, Rach, what real heft in a serving piece can do....


I have so much catching up to do but I am back to the blog, thank god!  More later.  Much more.

Your ever lovin',

Miss Pierce

I love kisses cuz they're so delicious

People give kisses to show affection.  As evidenced here fishes give kisses . . . but what is their motivation?  Is it love or something else?



These fishes are not kissing to show how much they care . . . they are challenging each . . . it's a display of aggression.


However, other primates are known to kiss in the same manner and for the same reason as humans . . . these are creatures in the wild who have not been influenced by outside sources and therefore are clearly not imitating the behaviors of others  . . . and sometimes they tongue tangle in addition to swapping spit.








Our kitty gives "kisses".  Whether out of love or otherwise I don't know but it is clearly as a means of greeting and is often followed by snuggles.  Is that love?  I'd like to think so.







There are other animals that press their furry lips or beaks or whatever.  Some do it to say hello, some to subjugate, others as a prelude to mating . . . and some apparently just because the like to . . . kind of like us.  Huh . . . I guess they do kiss for the same reasons we do.


It is interesting to note, that not all human cultures smooch.  In fact, 10% of the people on planet Earth do not press lips for any reason . . . it just not something they do.  They obviously don't know what they're missing but who am I to judge?

Roasted Garlic in the CrockPot

Roasting garlic creates a mellow, somewhat nutty flavor. The softened garlic is also easily squeezed from the bulb.

Bulbs of Garlic

Aluminum Foil

Cut the top of the bulb of garlic off exposing the tops of the cloves but keeping it wrapped in the outer skin layers. 

Wrap each bulb in it's own piece of foil.

Place into crockpot and cook on low for 4-5 hours.

Unwrap the foil, and squeeze the bulb. Use as a spread on crackers or pieces of crusty bread or in any recipe calling for roasted garlic.