Productivity. That's what these are.

I am not a coffee drinker, but this week has required a little help to get going in the mornings since it’s dark and continues to be about a billion degrees below zero.  Fortunately, the guy who can fix everything got chocolate-covered espresso beans for his birthday. A couple of those (the espresso beans, not birthdays) down the hatch and…

Whoa.

MY ENTIRE LIFE IS IN CAPITAL LETTERS!!!

I HAVE ACHIEVED A NEW PERSONAL BEST TIME FOR WASHING DISHES!!!

THE ROOF NEEDS A MURAL!  I’LL JUST JUMP UP THERE AND PAINT ONE!!!

WHY HAVE I NEVER TRIED YODELING BEFORE?!?

HEY! WHO WANTS TO RUN TO SEATTLE?!? ANYONE? ANYONE?  WE COULD GET A LATTE!!!  WE COULD GET FIVE LATTES!!!  WE COULD GET LOTS OF LATTES!!!

I’M GOING TO GNAW THE ICE OFF MY CAR!!!

I’ve been advised that I have had enough chocolate-covered espresso beans.  The guy who can fix everything says the world is not ready for me + them.  He also said something about “detox.”

As if I need that.  I could have stopped on my own.

And the world is totally missing out now that my yodeling career has been cut short.  For a second there, the hills were alive!

But, we’ve been promised ten degrees above zero this week!  In balmy weather like that, I may not even need a jump start.  I’ll be out tanning.  And maybe adding some finer details to the roof mural.

There's a whole orchard in here.

First, an apology to Dan.  Mincemeat inventory status was not reported here to Mincemeat Central.  That is why there was no mincemeat pie at Thanksgiving.  I apologize for the shortage and have informed the DLG Turkey Team that status reports are to be more accurate and timely.  She will be creating an action plan to prevent mincemeat shortages in the future.  Feel free to check her progress on this, but also be prepared to dodge because she likes whacking people.  And hi Marjorie!

For the rest of you, above is a jar of mincemeat.  As a kid, I loathed this stuff.  Of course, I hadn’t actually tried it because I was sure it would be too disgusting for my delicate and advanced palate (the one that also ate Cheetos and and longed for a mother who would buy Kraft macaroni and cheese instead of making the homemade stuff).  However, I should have known that something was up when my dad never expected me to eat mincemeat pie.

See, my dad is the founding member of the Clean Plate Club.  This fine and hallowed organization celebrates the eating of EVERYTHING on one’s plate in the spirit of the founder’s ancient and revered motto, “Because I said so.”  But mincemeat pie was never a club eatable despite it similarity in grossness to other club eatables like steamed rice and waffles (which, for some other delicate and advanced palate reason, I also found revolting).  Mincemeat pie was a food club eaters could choose not to eat.

I have solved the mincemeat mystery (which would also be a very good name for the Ford Bronco that The Guy Who Can Fix Anything And To Whom I am Now Married acquired as a “good deal”)!  Mincemeat pie is dee-licious and completely worthy of hoarding.  Unfortunately for the founding member of the Clean Plate Club, he now has to share his pie.  Fortunately for him, I like making mincemeat almost as much as I like eating it.  Okay, that’s a lie.  Eating it is WAY better.  But, making it is still pretty fun.

Now, turn those noses back down, mincemeat-haters, I know your world.  I used to be one of you.  But, I have repented of my past and now spend a large part of a day here and there chopping approximately 1.3 billion apples, forty-seven oranges, twenty-three lemons, a bathtub-full of cranberries, a whole bunch of figs, dates, raisins, golden raisins, and a paaartridge in a pear treeeeee! Just kidding about the tree part.  And also the partridge.  My mincemeat is certified partridge-safe.  After the chopping-pa-looza, I shovel the whole fruity mountain into a huge stock pot and begin stirring, stirring, and stirring.  And then, I start inhaling the evaporating brandy and sherry that splashes merrily into the mix.  That’s when I get all crazy on up in here!   Fa la la la la, la la la laaaaaaaaaaa!  And then some other stuff happens in the brandy-sherry fog involving some spices like cinnamon, maybe, and somehow, at the end of the day, the house has not burnt to a crisp. no one’s face has been scalded off, and all the little jar seals have done their sealing thing.

And mincemeat pie is in the future which makes everything merry and bright!

And then I wash a million dishes.

Note: numbers may be slightly exaggerated in this post due to brandy-sherry fume inhalation.

Also, I am not good at math.

I’ve got the bear meat that I corned this week cooking in my trusty 1972 Crock-Pot.  This is actually my first experience with bear meat, corned or otherwise, since we never ate bear in my family.  This is because bears in my hometown eat a lot of often-rotten fish and the occasional buffet de la garbagio.  You are what you eat, even if you are a bear.  But the guy who can fix anything comes from an area where bears eat berries and plants, therefore, his family eats bears.  So now, I will eat bears too.

I fed Levi the Dog and Artemis the Cat.  This doesn’t really count as something, but it’s technically more than nothing.  Plus, if you ever want to feel like a superhero, find a dog and feed it.  Their standards of heroics are low, low, low, but their enthusiastic responses are off the charts.  Levi the Dog is currently composing an ode to my greatness:

I have read the news.  If you haven’t experienced the news today, I will sum it up for you: things happened and people did stuff.  I’m not sure why CNN hasn’t offered me a cushy desk job yet.

I caught up on my Old Farmer’s Almanac daily calendar.  I was two weeks behind.  See, I teach seventh grade, cook 90% of the meals we eat from scratch, write book reviews, and sort of run a jewelry business when I have a spare moment, so my days sometimes don’t allow for things like reading non-essential calendar pages.  Or sleeping.  Or moving at less than a sprint.  This is why I wish to do nothing on weekends.  Today’s calendar page inquires if I know which person was not a child of Erik the Red:

A.  Freydis

B.  Olafur

C.  Thorstein

D.  Thorvald

Answer: B.  

Finally, I spilled tea all over the desk which was covered with papers that I am supposed to be grading.  Awesome.  I will tell my students that I antiqued their writing in order to add character to the pages.   I’m crafty like that.

What needs to happen today is some letter-writing on real paper as a personal effort to aid the ailing U.S. Postal Service, decluttering the kitchen table since it has somehow become the junk mail center of the universe,  going to church in clothing other than my pajamas, filling the three necklace orders that came in this week, and walking Levi the Dog so that I might achieve sainthood in the Kingdom of German shepherd-huskies.

Ready, set, go.

The guy who can fix anything, including well pumps, furnaces, and wonky toilet installations, has promoted himself to the guy who can fix anything and is now married to me, so he has a big list.  I love that guy.  I am glad he’s around all the time now.  And I’m in all-wifey mode where I’m making beee-you-tee-ful dinners and roasting vegetables and baking vast quantities of banana bread.  This works out nicely for the guy who can fix anything, etc. as that boy likes to eat.  And he likes to bring home dead things to eat.

Now, if you are opposed to bringing home dead things to eat, please chillax.  My husband and I are both big fans of the sanctity of life.  We hunt and fish only what we will eat, and we kill quickly and mercifully and follow all fish and game regulations.  We look with our mean eyes at those who don’t. I sometimes incorporate one raised eyebrow into my mean eyes.  We do our part.  And I can blog about it if I want.  The First Amendment says so.

I’m deeply devoted to a quasi-subsistence, living off the land, berry-picking, spending a lot of time gardening lifestyle.  In fact, you could say that I’m bone marrow deep into it.  As in, I spread it on toast.  I scrape it out and eat it plain. I make mashed potatoes with it.   And I revel in every moment.

Bone marrow is fabulous.  It’s delicious!  It makes the most delicately-flavored and yummy-textured mashed potatoes ever.  In fact, I don’t have a picture of them for ya’llses because we ate them.  There was no time for pictures.  Sorry.  Put on your imagination cap and visualize.  Or better yet, make your own bone marrow mashed potatoes if you want to see them in person.  Here’s how:

1.  Marry a guy who can fix anything and who thinks it is romantic to bring home a dead moose.  If you can’t find one of those, you may buy beef thigh-bones at the store.  If you must.

2.  Make killer banana bread for guy who can fix anything.  I like this one despite its profane name.

3.  Now that the guy who can fix anything is all happy and banana bread fortified, have him cut the moose leg bones in chunks that will fit in the roasting pan you own.  Or have the butcher at the meat department do that for beef leg bones.

4.  Roast the bones at 350 degrees for 15 to 20 minutes or until the marrow starts leaking out.  Mmm.

5.  Using thin, poky things (I use an iced tea spoon and a filet knife), scrape the marrow out of the bones and into some little dish thing.  Let it cool.

6.  Cook potatoes in water.  I make a lot, like 10 good-sized potatoes or so.  Use organic ones so that you can leave the skin on.  The potatoes should come to a boil, then simmer for 20 minutes.

7.  Then, drain the potatoes and mash into them the cooled bone marrow with a few minced garlic cloves if you are anti-vampire or if you just have 85 thousand cloves of garlic from your garlic planting experiment last fall.  Maybe this year you will only plant a few cloves instead of a few heads.  Not that I would know anything about that.  I’m just blogging.  And add enough milk to make a consistency that you like along with salt and pepper to taste.  Mash, mash, mash.  I like to leave chunks of potato in the mix.

8.  Then, sprinkle parsley on top because you like things to be pretty.  You know you do.

9.  Serve to unsuspecting guests.

But then it occurred to me, I could just whip up my own!  The trusty Internet always has recipes.  So I googled my way to veggiewiz.blogspot.com and found the following recipe:

Honig Brat Madeln

• 1 cup almonds, whole with skins on
• 1 cup cashews
• 1/4 cup brown sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon roasted sesame seeds
• 2 tablespoons honey
• 2 tablespoons water
• 2 teaspoons almond oil or vegetable oil

1. Spread the almonds and cashews in a single layer in a shallow ungreased baking pan and place in cold oven. Bake at 350F/180C, stirring occasionally, until the color of the nut is tan to light brown, 10 to 12 minutes. (The nuts will continue to roast a little more after they are removed from the oven.) Set the roasted nuts aside.
2. Thoroughly mix the sugar, salt, and sesame seeds, and set aside.
3. Stir together the honey, water, and oil in a medium-size saucepan and bring to a boil over medium heat. Stir in the roasted nuts and continue to cook and stir until all of the liquid has been absorbed by the nuts, about 5 minutes.
4. Immediately transfer the almonds to a medium-sized bowl into which some sugar mixture has been sprinkled. Sprinkle the remaining sugar mixture over the nuts and toss until they are evenly coated. Spread the nuts out onto a silicon pad or parchment paper. When cool, store at room temperature in a tightly covered container or plastic bag. Will keep up to 2 weeks.

Now if I could just find a recipe for Trader Joe’s Pomegranate White Tea.  Trader Joe’s, why do you despise me and refuse my advances?

Hi! I am a sockeye salmon! I am also a red salmon! Please buy me and all my friends so that Stephanie's commercial fishing family can have your money.

I suppose you pay extra for extra letters on the packaging.  The letter ‘y’ isn’t free, you know.

This is Peninsula Airways, affectionately commonly known as PenAir in rural Alaska.   Due to Alaska’s charming lack of connecting roads, this is the only way in or out for many communities, including Dillingham.  Thus, it was the only way to send birthday raspberries to my dad for his birthday on Sunday.  The only FORTY-FIVE DOLLARS way.

Extravagant?  Well, yes.  Absolutely.  Great Jehosophat.  In fact, I can’t quite believe I did it.  But my dad is cool.  So, I shelled out the cash and sent the little, perishable, non-mailable raspberry guys on their big adventure.  I’m trying to think of it this way: Dillingham is 350 miles southwest of Anchorage.  If there were a road between the two communities, it would cost me a tank of gas for The Black Thing each way as The Black Thing is not a dainty consumer.  We’d be talking over a hundred dollars for me to deliver the raspberries.  So, I’m actually saving money!  Hooray for thriftiness!  I am a financial whiz-kid!

And my dad isn’t really the gift card type.  This is the guy who advises me to grab my students by their ears if they are not behaving and who thinks that you turn off a computer by unplugging it.  He thinks the microwave is communist.  He’s sort of from a different age.  Raspberries, however, are always current.  Haha–I was sooo tempted to write “currant” since raspberries are a berry and currants are ALSO a…sorry.

Raspberries are always appreciated, especially in rural Alaska places like Dillingham where produce prices rival that of fine jewelry.    The birthday raspberries will be a nice treat, especially since most fruits and veggies arrive at my mom’s grocery store looking like they traveled with a screwdriver in some hefty guy’s back pocket.

Besides, I think I still owe Dad for the time that I high centered the truck on a log and maybe also for the time that I melted an entire box of crayons down the side of the wood stove.  Forty-five dollars in raspberry plane fare seems like a good start.

Thug: Khkhk…Mother Eagle is flying…okay? Khkhkhk…

Me: Khkhk…copy that.  Standing by.  Alerting Wal-mart.  Khkhkh…

Thug: Khkhkhk…heard that Costco was hiring temp workers; true? Khkhkhk…

Me: Khkhkhk…not sure.  Fred Meyer had a pep rally though…okay?  Khkhkhk…

Thug: Khkhkhk…copy that.  I’m out.  Khkhkhk…

Yes, we talk in VHF even when we text.  Complete with the mic click.  And thank you, Mom, for always stimulating the Anchorage economy and for not smacking us for our obnoxiousness.  This will come back to you on Mother’s Day.  I promise.

Clear.  Khkhkhk…

NotebookStories is also just a cool website.

Quick history of Stephanie and the dentist: lots of scary shots, treatment, complications, repeat.  Add in a number of impacted extractions just for fun.  The dark force really likes those.

Note: I am  NICE to my teeth.  No hard candy and lots of brushing, flossing, gross fluoride rinse, etc.

The latest round started in December with a cleaning and exam.  Of course, I needed a filling which the people at my dental office are now calling a “restoration.”  My dental office people are hip to the very latest dental jive.  Of course, I also had a tooth that had cracked and now needed a crown.

I had the filling restoration done.  I scheduled the crown treatment despite every panicky voice in my head that told me not to, that reminded me it would involve scary shots, and that demanded we run away instead of accepting the appointment reminder card.

The filling restoration hurt for the next three months.  Hooray for restoration!

The crown fitting appointment was supposed to take place on Thursday at 9:00 A.M.  I like to schedule my dentist stuff in the morning because otherwise, the panicky head-voices spur me into pulse-fast forward and hyperventilation as I wait for the looming appointment hour.  It’s better if the panicky head-voices don’t have a chance to get their performance together.  Due to an office problem, my crown appointment couldn’t take place in the morning.  The panicky head-voices began warming up as I was rescheduled for 4:00 P.M.

Note: I realize that most people are able to get a crown fitted without freaking out.  I realize that I qualify as a chicken-wimp.

At 4:00 P.M., the crown fitting did not go well.

I was back in the dentist chair on Friday to try and adjust it.  Drill, drill, drill some more, drill.  That didn’t go well either.

We all go back on Wednesday.  I am thinking about opting for a head transplant since I think that might be less invasive than my string of recent procedures.

The panicky head-voices have begun material for a new album.