Wanna know what I did on my summer vacation? Besides drive myself and everyone else batty? And tweet too much? Well, I’ll tell you. I…
Visited a beautiful farmhouse B&B set on a five-acre organic farm in Wisconsin. Then I wrote it up for an article.
Celebrated my un-burfday with my twin brother, Johnny. Being born on Christmas could have sucked royally. Thankfully, my family applied the same logic to birthdays as they do to shopping furniture sales–Christmas in July is never a bad thing. What you see there is my birthday dessert of choice–a banana cream pie from the always-nommiful Hoosier Mama Pie Company in Chicago’s bohemian West Town neighborhood. Better pie I have not found. And believe me, I’ve looked all around.
Did you notice that rhymed? I worked hard on that.
I’m also going to take this opportunity to offer a shoutout to The Brother, Johnny. You’re one cool dude, Johnny. If Bad Mama Genny has to share a birthday with someone, she’s glad it’s you. ‘Cause frankly, you’ve put up with a lot of shite over the years. I’m sorry about that one time with the thing. And that other time, with that other thing. And though I’m sure it scarred you for life, the incident with that third thing, that was really hilarious to me at the time, but which I’m sure was annoying as hell at the time said thing occurred.
Uh, love you!
Made an extremely popular, mostly-natural version of those cream-filled Hostess cupcakes for one of my many un-burfday parties. What? Look, if it’s just a birthday, maybe you only have one party, but this was an un-BURFday party, ‘kay?
Notice the “g” hidden in the swirl.
Blew up an obscene number of balloons for said un-burfday party. Walked through, bodysurfed over, and danced around them for two days. Vowed to fill my apartment with balloons and live that way year-round. Carefully migrated the balloons down two flights of curving stairs and into the backyard for the un-burfday party. Watched them all pop systematically as soon as the vicious heat expanded their gases enough to push them past their limit. Cried a little. Jumped into The Boy’s arms and screamed every time one bit the dust.
I also scream every time that timer thingy from Scattergories goes off at the end of the thinking time. Every time. Does not fail. Hey, guys, wanna play Scattergories with me again?
They must be intimidated by my brilliance.
Carefully migrated every refrigerator magnet, including the magnetic poetry, from the old fridge into a plastic bag. Then put them up, one by one, on the new refrigerator. Which, by the way, bit the dust one month after purchase SO HOLY HELL I HAD TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN. Onto a third fridge.
I think there’s a circle of hell where all you do is migrate magnetic poetry from fridge to fridge. And now that I think about it, that’s probably the circle of hell I’ll inhabit one day. Magnetic poetic justice.
What’s that, dearest mommy? You didn’t think I was going to hell? Well, I am. Apparently, it’s all part of selling your soul to Satan. But I’ve talked it over with Jesus, and he knows it’s nothing personal, and he promised not to take it out on you. So I’m sure you’ll still get that pineapple whipped cream room when you die, like you’ve always wanted.
Glad we had this talk.
Took bizarrely-lit nighttime photos of my cucumber bounty before I turned it into pickles.
Yep. We made pickle spears, smaller pickle spears (out of the white cucumbers), and bread and butter slices (from extra lemon cucumbers). I dunno about you, but I’m not a huge fan of sweet pickles.
Actually, that’s an understatement. I LOATHE SWEET PICKLES. So when I’m in my magnetic poetry circle of hell, I’m sure someone will be force-feeding me sweet pickles. DAMMIT!
Ooh, look, finally a natural light photo. Took me long enough. Pickles, pickles, pickles!
Made brandied cherries…aren’t they pretty? And I love that vintage pink jar (thrift shop!). You don’t even need a recipe, but here’s one that’s sorta close to my method. By the way…these things’ll knock your socks off. Put ’em on a cocktail, top a sundae with ’em, or just sit on the couch armed with a jar of these and your cherry-pickin’ fingers. Just know that they’re strong. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you stand up to put ’em back in the fridge and Charlie the Unicorn invites you dance with him to the greatest hits of Pink Floyd while you search for his missing kidneys.
Made some kickass chicken thighs. Very good recipe, by the way. The Boy died in my arms tonight when I made them. Then he unmelted and asked for seconds.
And by golly, any chicken thighs that can melt and unmelt a man with as much structural integrity as The Boy is A-OK in my book. A-OK, I tell you.
Harvested every one of these little Parisian round carrots from a little spot in back of the old apartment that my landlady so kindly allowed me to borrow. I couldn’t bear to leave them behind, so just know that some of them are a little undergrown. At an inch to an inch and a half per plant, they’re not the most efficient use of space, but you know what they are? Cute. Very, very cute. And probably a great addition to a garden-themed dinner party’s appetizer spread. Ooh, note to self: garden-themed dinner party. Wanna grow these yourself? Ask and you shall receive, my sweet poppets. Sweet, sweet misfit poppets.
Sweet, sweet, sweet misfit poppets.
Too much? Chill out–there will be no eating of your liver with fava beans a nice chianti, okay? Not today. Here’s the link.
Took unfocused, sideways shots of unwashed produce and didn’t bother to reorient them before posting them here. It’s just who I am these days.
Celebrated my mom and aunt’s actual, for real birthday! Like, it wasn’t even an un-burfday! They’re also twins, but they’re for really real twins. Not that Johnny and I aren’t for really real twins. But we’re fraternal. And we don’t have a mind-reading thingy going on. My mom and aunt are identical twins, and they do have a mind-reading thingy going on. Wanna know what kind of cake this is? Yellow, with pineapple and whipped cream filling. And, oh my, look how this blog post has come full circle; suddenly I’m filled with a feeling of oneness and harmony.
Tried to figure out what happened to make my eggplants change color and stop producing. The answer is me. I happened. By neglecting to fertilize my eggplants for a two month stretch while I moved my earthly possessions from one plot to another, I happened to my eggplants. And they weren’t happy with the happening that happened. But I’ll be better next year, lil’ eggplanties, ‘kay? I’ll also plant a billion more, since aside from the happening that happened to them, they were beautiful and productive and beautiful and problem-free and beautiful.
May I remind you of a fabulously delicious way to use prepare eggplant? Besides the eggplant parmigiana thing that everyone knows about and has done a thousand times? And baba ghanoush? Here you are. She’s my all-time favorite food blogger. And I hear she’s also absolutely stunning in person. True story.
Found my old favorite gym shirt! From back when I used to go to the gym. When dinosaurs roamed the earth.
In case you’re too damn lazy to read this backwards, it reads “Asthma is Sexy!” Note the striking background silhouette of a man using an inhaler. I’ve now made a promise. A life changing promise. To myself. To never go to the gym again. Oh, and another promise. That every time I use my inhaler, I will strike a sexy, dramatic pose like that one. To propogate the notion of asthma’s sexiness.
So what have we learned today?
Well, I’ll tell you what we’ve learned.
One, I am now on a personal crusade to erase guilt from my life by legitimizing all my actions. It’s a beautiful thing.
Two, other stuff.
Three, I’m pretty lazy when it comes to wrap-ups of what we’ve learned. It’s just who I am these days.
See you soon, my precious babies! Precious, precious, babies.
Precious, precious, precious misfit babies.
Am I doing it again? Sorry.
It’s just who I am these days.