Elvis the Wonder Dog

Elvis is my adorable, lovable, cute, and fairly dumb beagle.  Think Odie from the comic strip Garfield and you've got the right idea (in this comparison my cat Elsie would be Garfield, which makes the whole thing work even better because she's fat and cranky).  Here's Elvis:

Here is what he likes to do for most of the day:

He likes to sleep, eat, and run around our back yard howling at random things (and nothings).  He has to chip in and do his part like every other family member, though, so usually when I'm cleaning he will follow around and "help."  He mostly follows me from room to room and then silently sits and stares at me, but I interpret that as a sign of solidarity and support.  "Go mom!" he's saying.  "Do those dishes!  I'll lick them for you if you need help!"  We support each other in the Webb family.

Today I found a job where Elvis could be helpful for real.  I accidentally mixed a pile of washed socks with a pile of dirty socks, and they all sat on my bedroom floor in a pathetic heap.  I didn't know which socks were which.  The thing about socks is that they're pretty smelly after one use, so I figured I could distinguish the dirty from the clean by smelling them.  This seemed to be a fairly good plan, except it meant that I had to smell a bunch of dirty socks.  Ew.  After approximately three socks, I decided that I needed a new plan.  Elvis was doing his usual sit-and-stare support method, but when I looked at him the idea hit me like a lightning bolt: his nose is way better than mine!  He could for sure tell which socks are dirty and which were clean!  I just had to come up with a way for him to tell me.

I thought back to Elvis's puppyhood when he used to try to steal our dirty socks.  Dogs love smelly things, and dirty socks are the smelliest.  Rex made me stop letting him play with socks because dogs can die from getting socks caught in their intestines (I thought Rex was being paranoid, but that's actually true.  Google it if you don't believe me).  Elvis hadn't played with socks in years.  Well, today was his lucky day (kind of).  I called him over and tentatively held the first sock up to his nose.  He sniffed it and then turned away, bored.  Clean socks are boring, you see.  They don't have any fun smells.  I held up the next sock and got the same reaction.  I checked it myself to see if it was clean, and indeed it was.  When I held up the third sock, Elvis tentatively bit the end - not to take it away from me, but more to say, "Mmmm...this smells yummy."  I smelled it to check, and yep!  It was dirty.  I had an accurate sock checker!

I held up every sock to Elvis's nose, and he would bite the dirty ones and look away at the clean ones.  He never tried to run away with the dirty socks, but sat right next to me and checked every sock until the whole pile was gone.  What a good boy!  I wish I could have rewarded him with a particularly smelly sock, but I don't want him to die so he just got a bone and a treat instead.  I don't think he cared too much.  :-)

Baking Fail

Some recipes should come with warnings written right at the top of the page: WARNING: DO NOT ATTEMPT UNLESS YOU HAVE ATTENDED CULINARY SCHOOL!  Or maybe in order to be less exclusive, they could put in small print beneath that warning: "You may also attempt if you have sufficient life experience commensurate to a culinary degree - e.g., you have six kids and have clocked over 10,000 hours in your kitchen.  Otherwise, put down this recipe, back away slowly, and reach for the easy mac."

Because my recipe book doesn't have those handy warnings, I attempted to bake "Raspberry Glazed Lemon Mousse Cake" today.  *hangs head in shame*  I know.  Even the title sounds fancy.  I should have known better.  I was just telling someone how I've been getting better at cooking, though, so I think I was puffed up with false pride.  I thought, "Raspberry Glazed Lemon Mousse Cake?  I can do that!"  I was so naive.

The reason I decided to attempt this recipe in the first place was threefold: 1. I got a new recipe book and wanted to try a recipe from it. 2. The recipe called for a stand mixer, which I recently got at a garage sale and had not yet used.  3. It called for raspberries, which are on sale for $1 this week at Meijer.

Can we talk about stand mixers for a second?  Every housewife I look up to says that they're a "must have," but they're upwards of $300.  Why do I need something to mix for me?  I can mix with my arm and a spoon.  In the event that I need something a little more intense, I can use my hand mixer with the little metal doopies that spin around.  Why do I need a mixer that goes on my counter?  I have yet to figure this out.  When I found an extremely well-priced stand mixer at a garage sale, though, I decided to give it a try.

Well, I still don't get it.  My mixer works well, but it took a bit of the fun out of baking.  I put in my ingredients...hit a button...and then the bowl started spinning and the machine started mixing.  I just stood there and watched it.  What fun is that?  I had nothing to do...until the recipe said to turn the level from "low" to "high" after two minutes of mixing.  Let me tell you - turning a mixer on level "high" is a bad idea.  I hereby vow to never do it again.  Globs of lemon mousse flew everywhere!  It was like turning on a blender with no lid!  How dare those mean people tell me to turn the mixer on high?  I looked to see if the next direction in the book was, "Did you actually turn the mixer on high?  Ha ha SUCKER!" but it wasn't.  So I'm still not sure about why they wanted me to do that.

After I turned off my psycho mixer, the book told me to "fold the whipped cream into the mousse."  Um.  How does one "fold" whipped cream?  Do they want it folded hot dog or hamburger style?  Do they want me to get fancy and make a crane?  YOU CAN'T FOLD CREAM, RECIPE BOOK!  IT'S CREAM!  In the end, I decided that "fold" was just a fancy kind of mixing.  Sort of like how name brand shirts are fancy, but at the end of the day it's really just a shirt and no one would know the difference if you wore one from New York and Company or from Wal-Mart.  So "folding" sounds fancier, but no one would really care if I just mixed it up, right? Therefore I put the whipped cream in the mixer and turned the mixer back on (on low, obviously).  Well...  I think folding is actually kind of important, because my mousse ended up all lumpy.  I repented, turned off the mixer, and tried to "fold," but the damage was done.  It was time to cut my losses and move on to the next step.

I was supposed to set up the vanilla wafer crust (see how yummy this sounds?) in my springform pan.  I definitely do have a springform pan.  I got it for our wedding and thought, "Wow!  I can make all sorts of fancy wifely things with this fancy pan!"  Amazingly, though, I've come across a shockingly low number of recipes that require one.  When I finally needed it...the springform pan's moment of glory...it was nowhere to be found.  It's like the kid that's been benched the whole game is finally called in...and he's at the concession stand.  Where was my pan??  I couldn't find it, and I had to improvise with this weird cake carrier stand thing that vaguely resembled a circular shape. I knew I wouldn't be able to get my cake out and display it nicely like I would be able to with a springform pan, though.  What a shame.

The raspberry glaze on top is made partially from fresh raspberries and partially from raspberry gelatin.  This part of the recipe looked deceptively easy - how could I mess up jello?  Well, mostly because I wasn't making jello.  I was making "raspberry glaze," which is apparently a lot more complicated.  You have to mix the gelatin with boiling water, then immediately dip it an ice bath to initiate rapid cooling.  Then you have to wait the exact right amount of time until your gelatin is "slightly thickened."  If you wait too long, it comes out like a jello jiggler, which doesn't look nice.  If you don't wait long enough (like I didn't), then it just spills all over your entire creation and makes your carefully crafted crust a soggy mess.  In my defense, though - the gelatin started out the consistency of water, and I stirred it until it was the consistency of corn syrup or molasses.  I think that qualifies as "slightly thickened," don't you?  The recipe book should have been more specific.  I hold them accountable.

In the end, the cake wasn't pretty.  It was pretty horrible looking, if I'm being honest.  I was going to just throw the whole thing away, but I felt bad throwing away all of the good ingredients I had purchased to make it.  I decided to try a little slice.  The taste was actually pretty good!  Sure the mousse was a bit lumpy and the crust a tad soggy, but it definitely wasn't as bad as it looked.  Rex even had two slices.  So really maybe the whole thing was't a total fail, but I think I'm sticking to boxed brownies for a while after this.

Zazio's

When I was a little kid, my dad used to take me on "date night" each week.  I would get $1 to go anywhere I wanted, which was a lot of money when I was seven.  I mean, there are dollar menus at almost every fast food place, and do you know how many different candy bars you can get for $1?  Or you could get one of my favorite combinations - two zebra cakes AND a mini-donuts package!  (It was the nineties...a dollar went a bit further than it does now). It doesn't seem like a lot of money, but when I was growing up I was positively RICH every Tuesday night.

After a while, I grew up and went to high school.  I started going on real dates, and dates with my dad dwindled.  Then I went to college, and I wasn't even ever home.  After college I got married and moved to Nevada, so then I was separated from my family by over 2,000 miles.  I hardly ever saw them.

After I moved back to Michigan, I had the opportunity to start hanging out with my family more often.  While downtown with my family one day, I passed the fanciest restaurant in town: Zazio's.  I offhandedly mentioned that it was on my bucket list to go there one day, and my dad said, "Really?  That's an easy one to cross off.  I'll take you there."  He said we could eat at the chef's table, where the chef cooks the food right in front of you.  It is so awesome!  I asked if he was sure, positive that he hadn't seen the price ($70 per person!), and he said no problem - that he "owed" me lots of dollars from years of missed date nights.  This was coming from the guy who wouldn't let me get something for $1.19 when I was a kid because it was "way too expensive" for my $1 limit.  Alas.  I guess a decade or two can change people.

I definitely took him up on the offer, and a few days ago we had a FANTASTIC five course meal at Zazio's. I was happy, he was happy, and Rex was super happy that now he doesn't ever have to take me there.  :-) Here are some pics from the dinner:

This was the bread with two kids of dip - an olive one and a garlic one. Both were delicious.

Here is a picture of our chef and our waitress.  They were both fun.

Course 1: "Mozzarella in Carozza"  Mozzerella in a carriage of crumbs and spices, summer greens, lemon-anchovy sauce

Course 2: "Suppli alla Romana"  Crisp baked risotto filled dome, capers, crisp country acres cherry tomatoes (This course was my dad's favorite)

Course 3: "Maccheroni all' Amatriciana" Housemade rigatoni pasta, guanciale, onions, tomatoes, peperancino, pecorino Romano (This course was my favorite)

Course 4: "Agnello con fritti" Roasted Buckham farm lamb, crisp fried summer vegetables

Course 6: "Ricotta"  Sweet ricotta mousse, savoiardi, Schultz's farm sweet cherries

Me and the best dad ever.  :-)  Bon apetit!

Snapshot

People say that life is like a roller coaster.  There are ups and downs, and sometimes all you can do is just hang on for dear life.  That's pretty true, I guess.  I wish that the metaphor extended one part further, though: I wish that right when something really exciting happened, a hidden camera would snap a picture of your face and then you could go over to a little booth and buy prints for $14.99 plus tax.  I would absolutely buy an overpriced print of the moment when Rex found out that he passed his physical therapy boards.

We were sitting on the couch, clicking "refresh" on the page that was supposed to show his scores.  No exaggeration - I think Rex had refreshed that page literally thousands of times.  We had a lot riding on this test: he had already accepted a job that he would lose if he didn't pass, and he wouldn't have another chance to take the test until October.  Oh, and that would cost us another $1,000, plus the lost wages from not working for these months.  No pressure, right?

His PT class facebook page was blowing up with people receiving their scores (not all of the scores were received at the same time, so we just kept hitting "refresh").  Some people passed; some didn't.  The people who passed all posted a screenshot that looked like this:

Please notice the part that says "Score received from Prometric - Passed."  That's the really, really important part.  You need to see that beautiful word:  PASSED.

Well, after we refreshed for the 1,876,567th time, finally the screen changed.  Guess what it said, though?  It said "Score received from Prometric."  No "passed."  Just "Score received."  At first we were both confused.  Why didn't it say "passed"?  Then the only logical conclusion hit both of us simultaneously:  maybe he didn't pass.  It felt like someone punched me in the stomach and poured ice water over my head at the same time.  I couldn't believe that could be true.  Rex was top of his class in PT school - how could he not pass?  It didn't make any sense.  I told him to refresh again, and he did.  And again.  And again.  Still no "passed."  We were both freaking out by this time.  WHY DIDN'T IT SAY HE PASSED?  There was another part of the page where you could buy a detailed score report for $56.  Rex's new job had said they'd pay for the detailed score report so that he could get his license processed faster, but now he didn't know if he wanted to buy it.  They probably wouldn't reimburse him if he didn't pass.  I told him to buy it anyway, simply because we HAD to know what happened.  

He paid the $56, and the report was delivered almost immediately (a relief, because it said it could take up to 24 hours).  He opened the report, and we both held our breath.  The report was very convoluted and detailed.  I think they should make it really simple:  they should put a giant neon "YOU PASSED!!"  or "TOO BAD, YOU FAILED!"  at the top of the page, but I guess no one asked me.  So we started reading all of these numbers and medical jargon, and about halfway down the page I saw something awesome in about ten point font: "Status: PASS."  

I screamed. "REX! YOU PASSED!  RIGHT THERE!  YOU PASSED!"  He looked where I was pointing, and then he pumped both fists in the air and yelled as loud as he could.  "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!  HAHAHAHA!  AHHHHH!  I PASSED!!! I DID IT!!!"  His eyes were huge, he almost dropped his computer because he jumped up so fast, and it was basically the most jubilant I'd ever seen him. That's the part where I needed the hidden camera.  After celebrating with me, he instantly called JB (his best friend for PT school with whom he had spent weeks studying for this thing.  At this point, JB had already found out his score - the screenshot earlier in this post was from him).  JB answered the phone and was just as excited.  "WE DID IT, BROTHER!  WE'RE LICENSED PT'S!"  It was the most touching bromance moment ever.  I actually teared up.  They worked together for three years for this, and they got it.  It was so awesome.

As he celebrated with JB, I went back and read the whole individual score report.  Rex needed a 601/800 on the test to pass (that's a 75%), and guess what he got?  A 718/800.  That's a 90%.  He got an A.  Go Rex!  See why I was so incredulous about him not passing?  It's just not possible.  He's too smart.  Still today, though, if you go to the Prometric front page, it just says "score received" instead of "score received - pass."  We don't know why.  He's got his licence and starts work in three days, though, so it all worked out. Thanks for the heart attack, Prometric.  

Iowa Adventures

When life hands you lemons...blog about them.  That's what I say, anyway.  When I'm feeling very bored or very frustrated, I frequently think, "Okay, how could I turn this into a blog post?"  Then I end up with posts like THIS ONE or THIS ONE or THIS ONE.  Some of my favorite posts, actually, came from junky situations.

I was trying to use this same philosophy in the car today as I drove eleven hours to Middle of Nowhere, Iowa.  I have to be here for an education conference, and I rode down with two middle-aged male teachers.  I was thankful for the ride, but it was still really boring.  I decided that maybe I could blog about it, but even the blog post would be boring.  This would be it:

Look - some corn!
More corn
More corn
More corn
Ew, someone farted
More corn
"Wow, they must be using some fertilizer here," says one of the teachers.
I know the smell of fertilizer, Farty McFarter, and that's not it.  But I'll nod in agreement to make you think you tricked me.
More corn
More corn
More corn

See?  Not much to say.  I wasn't even going to blog about it, but then my evening turned into a bit of an adventure so I decided to blog about it after all.  The teachers dropped me off at my hotel (15 minutes away from their hotel...not sure why).   It is in a tiny Iowa town on the outskirts of...well...thousands of acres of corn.  The nearest city is over an hour away.  Great place for a conference.  Good planning, team.

I was waiting for my friend Trish to get into town (she flew in from Washington state), and we were going to get dinner together.  She had a car, which was a great plus, and the school was going to pay for dinner so we could go somewhere fancy (though I realized "fancy" was going to be a relative term in this town).  By eight o'clock, I was getting pretty hungry.  Finally Trish texted me, but instead of saying she was on her way to pick me up, she bailed out and said she was too tired to come get me and get dinner!  Junk!  I was pretty disappointed, especially since I had been waiting for her and hadn't seen her in a few months.  I called the front desk and asked if there were any restaurants within walking distance of the hotel, and the receptionist sounded genuinely surprised: "Walking distance?  Oh... No, I don't think so.  There is a convenience store a few blocks down...they have chips and stuff...  Other than that, not really."

Great.  I was alone in the middle of a cornfield with only chips as a dinner option.  At least they would probably be corn chips, which are infinitely better than potato.  So there's a silver lining.

I was frustrated and hungry, so I decided to at least go for a walk and see what I could find.  It was better than being cooped up in my lonely hotel room for the rest of the evening.  I walked down the street and almost immediately saw a place called "Lighthouse Bar and Grill."  What luck!  A beacon for my hungry stomach!  I hurried over to the restaurant and saw, to my dismay, that it was closed.  Actually, it looked like it had been closed for the majority of the twenty-first century.  What a shame.

I walked a few blocks farther, and I didn't see much of anything.  I was starting to get very frustrated, and then it started to rain.  I literally glared at the sky as if to say "Really right now?  Really?"  Ugh.  I found the convenience store, but everything looked gross.  I decided to keep hunting and then save the chips as my back-up plan.

I walked along the line of mostly closed stores for a few blocks (I even took a picture just to show you!), and I finally came to a Taco Bell wannabe store called Taco John's.  It was open, so I decided to go inside and investigate the dinner options.  There was no one at the counter, and finally a girl came out and said, "Oh!  Someone will be right with you."  Then she yelled into the back at someone, and a pimply blonde teenage boy came out to take my order.  I started by saying, "I saw your ad for the Santa Fe burrito...it looks pretty good.  Is it good?  Have you had it?"  Pimples stared at me for a second and then said, "No."  Okay, no problem.  I tried again: "Okay, well I've never been here before.  What  have you tried that you would suggest?"  Pimples looked at me as if I were an alien, then shrugged and said, "I've tried a lot of things.  A lot of things are good."  Great customer service, friend.  You are well on your way to making it out of this tiny corn town.  I decided to go with the Santa Fe burrito just to get this ordering experience over with, and I went to fill up my water cup.

When I got my burrito, I must admit that it wasn't bad.  That could be because I was starving, but I guess we will never know.  The problem wasn't the flavor, it was that our local Taco John's team could not wrap a burrito if their corn fields depended on it.  The burrito was so messy that it was falling apart in my hands.  I got up to grab some napkins, and I had to hold my hands up in front of me so that they wouldn't drip.  I looked like a burrito surgeon just coming out of the operating room.  "Sorry doc...the Santa Fe didn't make it."  I grabbed the napkins and finally resorted to eating the burrito with a spoon (not even a fork - a SPOON), but the flavor was good so I wasn't too cranky about it.  It was better than a dinner of chips.

After eating at Taco John's, I started the trek through the rain back to my hotel.  I noticed that a cute place called Olivia's Bakery was open across the street, and I decided to check it out.  A yummy cupcake from a tiny family-run bakery was just what I needed for a pick-me-up after my horrible day.  Picture "Olivia's Bakery" in your head for me a second.  What do you think it looks like?  Who's Olivia?  I was picturing a little old lady who loves to bake, and maybe her granddaughters run the cute pastel-colored shop as their summer job or something.

WELL.  That's not what it was.  As soon as I walked in, I regretted it.  It was a dirty, grimy establishment run by a twenty-something Mexican who glared at me as soon as I walked in as if to say, "Por que estas aqui, gringa??"  That's right, dude.  I just translated your mean glare.  Into SPANISH.  All of the signs on all of the baked goods and all of the directions written on the displays were in Spanish, and Spanish TV was playing in the background.  No English translations were anywhere to be found.  I speak Spanish (ish), so I could read all of the signs.  It was mostly stuff like, "Don't touch the bread!" and "Don't grab the cookies with your hands!"   While Mr. "Olivia" watched me like a hawk, I tried to find something to buy.  They didn't have cupcakes.  They didn't have anything yummy.  They had jalenpeno doughnuts, which sounds like a horrible idea.  They also had cookies shaped like pigs, which made me wonder if they were pig flavored or simply pig shaped?  They had butter cookies, walnut cookies, and a bunch of varieties of Taquitos.  Ew.  I looked around for a while, but I didn't see anything I wanted.  I had to buy something, though, because this guy was staring daggers into me and I didn't want to make him mad.  That's a good business tactic, actually - frighten your customers into buying things.  Finally I decided to pay fifty cents for a cookie that promised to be "muy delicioso," but it wasn't.

I walked back in the rain, eating just the sprinkles off of my cookie (because it's really hard to ruin sprinkles) and generally feeling pretty sorry for myself.  Then I thought, "Forget that, Christine.  Just go blog about it, and the whole ordeal won't seem so awful."

And you know what?  I was right.  I feel better.  Now I'll kick back in my room and watch some *gasp!* cable TV.  Bring on tomorrow's conference.

Earl, Etc.

Rex and I went on a getaway last weekend to celebrate him being finished with studying for his boards.  He's been studying his butt off all summer, and he really deserved a break.  We went up to my parents' cabin, which is located back in the woods right on a river.  It was awesome.  One of my favorite parts of the trip was our new little friend named Earl.  Rex and I were sitting on an outdoor swing, overlooking the beautiful river, enjoying the peaceful tranquility, when all of a sudden...

FLAP FLAP

FLIP

FLUFFLE FLUFFLE

TWEET!

THUD

We both instantly turned around, trying to discover the source of the weird noise.  We saw a stunned baby robin on the ground, looking around with wide eyes as if to say, "WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!"  He had jumped out of the nest for the first time.  Poor little brave guy!  (That's not Earl, by the way.  That's just some baby robin.)  Anyway, he started hopping around, trying to fly, and it was hilarious.  He couldn't even really walk (he'd never been out of a nest, remember?), so he looked like a drunk little ball of fluff.  Finally he hopped and flapped and landed on a tree, and then I swear I saw him smile triumphantly as if to say, "Look at me!  I FLEW!"  Then he looked down and realized that he was only four inches from the ground, sitting on the side of a tree trunk.  Oh well.  You have to start somewhere, right?

Rex and I walked over to the nest to investigate the situation.  There was one little bird left in the nest, and he looked understandably pretty lonely and scared.  We felt bad for him, but we didn't want to freak him out more by having two humans stare at him, so we walked away.

About twenty minutes later, Rex peeked around the corner and said, "Christine!  The last robin is about to jump!"  I looked around too, and I saw the little guy standing on the side of the nest.  He looked very concerned (I didn't realize that robins had so many facial expressions).  He would briefly look down to the ground, then snap his head back to looking straight ahead as if to say, "Holy CRAP that's a long way down!"  His eyes were wide, and it was easy to see he was scared.  I decided to cheer for him.  "Come on, Earl!  You can do it!"  I said.  Then Rex said that he thought "Earl" was a great name for a robin, so it stuck.  

We cheered for Earl, but I don't think he interpreted human shrieking as the encouragement he needed.  He just kept standing on the edge of the nest, clinging to the twigs for dear life, and staring straight ahead.  We decided to go back about our business.

We kept swinging on the swing for a while.  Earl didn't move.

We read our books for a while.  Earl didn't move.

Rex decided to grill some hamburgers.  Earl didn't move.

We ate the hamburgers (well, kind of...they didn't turn out great so we ended up throwing them away, but that's a different story entirely).  Earl didn't move.

Earl stood on the edge of that nest for FOUR HOURS.  After about two hours, I felt absolutely ridiculous for spending so much time watching a bird.  By then, though, it was a battle of willpower.  Who would last longer - Earl standing on the edge of that nest, or me watching him?  Plus, I named him.  I cheered for him.  I was clearly invested in the situation.

Finally, after four hours, I was about to turn a page in my book when I heard something move.  I snapped my head up to look at Earl, and he did it!  He jumped!  He jumped out of the nest, stretched out his wings...

...and flew directly into the side of our chimney.  Oops.

He hit his head on the chimney and stopped flapping as much as he fell to the rocky ground below.  Aaaaaah!!  I could not believe I had waited four hours to watch a bird kill himself.  I ran over to the ground to see if he was okay (which, in retrospect, was pretty dumb.  What was I going to do if he was injured?  Bird CPR?  Make a wing splint with some toothpicks?).  Robins must be resilient little buggers, because Earl was okay.  He was just cranky (see picture below.  I told you birds have facial expressions).  He stared at me for a long time, then started trying out his new legs in the same hoppy/flappy motions his brother had done hours earlier.  Rex and I watched him drunkenly flop away, and we wished him luck on life's endeavors.  Hooray for Earl!