Flowers At Our Feet

Oreo White.

Who knew Nabisco's secret to the brilliantly white filling in an Oreo Cookie is achieved by the addition of titanium? I didn't. I have to admit, as someone who has mixed together more than my fair share of buttercream icings, I often wondered how Oreo achieved the stunningly white results that are sandwiched between two dark cookies. Well, now I know.

Dang. And to think I purchase Wilton's clear vanilla extract in order to maintain as much of a white appearance as possible when mixing ingredients for buttercream icing. (If only I had known I just needed to add some titanium dust, I could have skipped my Mexican vanilla). Seems the big boys have all the secrets.

On the other hand, the new-found knowledge makes me glad I am not an Oreo fan. Granted now, the titanium is safe, as it only causes lung tumors in rats~and everyone knows~they have sensitive lungs, so I'm just sayin'. (Poor rats. Can't eat Oreos.)

Anyway, I have a friend who is aghast to learn her favorite cookie is laced with titanium. I tried to calm her: Laced? That's rather extreme language, don't you think? They aren't exactly 'laced,' it appears titanium is a safe ingredient for human consumption. It is only harmful if you are a rat. And, here's the great news~you're not! 

I hear wailing on the other end of the line.

"Why are you crying? Didn't you hear me? YOU ARE NOT A RAT!"

"But I eat them by the sleeve!"

Oh. 

The wailing continues as I search my mind for words of comfort.

"Seriously, I think you're okay. Listen you can't become so distraught over a cookie! Get a grip! I mean, so what if you eat them by the sleeve? From what I've seen they barely get a smear of icing."

She wails.

"I eat the Double Stuff ones!"

Dang. 

Putting Peppers On Your Eyes Is Bad Manners!

"Putting peppers on your eyes is bad manners, right Gram?" Thomas asked.

"Peppers?"

"Yeah...if you put them on your eyes, that's bad manners, right Gram?"

"Uhhhh, yes, that would be bad manners, I suppose."

Being that we were en route to the office, I had no idea what prompted his statement. Surely I hadn't missed a pepper masked jogger.

Several minutes passed.

"Why did you say that Thomas?"

"Say what?"

"That if you put peppers on your eyes it's bad manners."

""Cause if you put them on your eyes...that's not where they go!" 

My question was as irritating to him as jalapenos on eyeballs.

Okay, I thought, don't get him more riled up than he already is. Just let it go. But, all day I wondered why this particular scenario was going through his mind. When I'm driving down the highway, my mind is filled with work, demands, dinner plans and the like. But a child...well...who knew they were in the backseat contemplating placing peppers on the eyes?

Later that evening as Thomas ran plastic motorcycles across the coffee table, the television blared away with no intrigued viewers. My husband was reading a book and I was cleaning the kitchen. 

"There her is Gram!" Thomas suddenly shouted.

"There who is?" I asked, as I made haste toward the living room.

"HER!" he said, as he pointed toward the television. "THAT IS BAD MANNERS!"

Sure enough, he had nabbed the jalapeno abuser.

For there on the television screen was an advertisement for an area spa complete with relaxing cucumber facials. And, I had to admit, the cucumbers on the model's eyes looked a whole lot like jalapeno peppers.

"Boy!" I said with aggravation, "What is she thinking?!" 

With his reply came the answer to his pent-up irritation: 

"Yeah!" he said with a frown, "We need those for our nachos!" 

And there you have it. To all the women out there: Don't come between a guy and his nachos!

 

Mind Games. (I Hope!)

So there we were, two weekends ago, ready to eat our meal at Outback. I asked my husband if he was going to say the blessing--(what's the holdup?)--and he said with a chuckle, "I've already said it!"

"You did?!" I replied.

"YES!"

I searched my mind as he continued to laugh. Then, as he forked his salad, he added:

"Boy! Where's your mind? You must have been in deep thought about something else....."

The entire meal, I searched my mind for the prayer:

How could I have missed it? Actually, I don't think he said it. I think he thinks he said it. No, he didn't say it. I'm sure he didn't. The waitress placed the bread on the table, we were talking, the salads came, he asked for extra ranch, she went to get it....this is when he would've prayed.....did he? I don't know if he did or didn't! I can't believe this! If he did, why don't I remember?

"You're thinking about the prayer, aren't you?"

"Yes. I don't think you said it."

"Yes I DID!"

Hmmm. I guess he did. Weird. I'm worried about my brain. Let it go. No big deal. He says he did, I guess he did.

So, yesterday (not being Football people), we decided to go out to eat.

"How about Outback again?" he asked. 

"Okay."

Our salads came, he prayed, (I have my mind on high alert) and we enjoyed our meal. 

Later that evening when we returned home, I remembered a problem from the previous week that needed his attention. As I walked past him I asked if he had taken care of it.

"Yes," he replied. 

But, I know my husband. His yes had that weird ring of, "Noooo, but I will as soon as I get to the office in the morning."

"You're sure you've taken care of it? Or should I call you in the morning to remind you?"

"I took care of it! I took care of it! Why do you ask again?! You're the one who didn't even remember the blessing when I blessed our food!"

"Why are you bringing that up?"

"Because...you're questioning me if I took care of something that I said I took care of when you can't even remember when I blessed our food today at lunch!"

"Excuse me? The prayer issue about whether or not you blessed the food was last weekend, not today!"

"No, it wasn't! That was TODAY!"

"No, it was NOT! You prayed today right after the woman set our salads down! I made SURE I was on alert!"

He looked around, his mind searching for the correct day, just as I had searched for the prayer.

"It was today..." 

"No, it wasn't."

We both began laughing as we continued to argue. 

Either one of us is slipping just a bit, (and I know it's not me) or Outback is sprinkling amnesia spices onto their food. 

The Ultimate Cupcake!

Designer jeans, designer bags, designer glasses were the forerunners to what seems to be a hopeful march toward designer food and drink. When Starbucks came on the scene, predictions were made they would never make it. Who, just WHO in their right mind would hand over a five-dollar bill for a cup of coffee? Evidently, a lot of people. 

Okay, in all fairness, you can get a plain cup of coffee at Starbucks for less than $5. But, if you want to add the houkalacha, quad-shot, elekifatatta, serimochadohickeywata, with low fat milk (skinny)/venti, you better dig a little deeper in that wallet.

The first time I went to Starbucks, I felt as though I'd just stepped into a hip, yet dark hole of, gulp...seniorism. Yes, suddenly, I felt, old. The computer geek crowd, clang of stainless carafes, whir of blenders, weird hair, earrings on guys (which actually looked good) and savvy (young) customers who had machine gun tongues and accuracy when placing their order: (lemme have an espresso machiatto whole, double, extra dry, venti) made me want to back away from my next-in-line position, tuck tail, and sheepishly sneak back out the door from which I came. What the #@$% was I doing here anyway?

"Hey, 'daaawl' what 'cha having?" 

My eyes were staring at a 30ish man with hair moussed toward the heavens, glints of gold highlights radiantly beaming from the tips. His earlobes held what appeared to be washers (in my day) and he had a tiny little beam running through the lower part of his nostrils. Swueeet.

"Uh...." 

Between the commotion, the menu "selection," and this charming young man who had just called me doll, I was speechless. 

"So, daaawl, how 'bout a cafeaulaitdoubleshotmochaextracream? Like to try?"

"Sounds great," I managed to mutter. 

I left Starbucks with these things in my mind: 1. I don't know what in Sam Hill is in my cup. 2. I can't believe it cost that much-whatever it is. 3. Thank you God, my legs carried me out of there, though I thought for sure they had frozen in time. 4. I must learn a new language to purchase a cup of coffee. 5. He called me doll. 

#5 was enough to send me back time and again. I don't care if a guy has custom rims in his earlobes, if he calls me doll, I am sold on his product. 

So, on to the newbie: designer cupcakes.

The Ultimate Cupcake opened its doors a few months ago and I finally decided to check it out. Imagine my relief when the guy who met me at the counter looked, (what I know as) normal. No hair standing at attention, no highlights, no ear or nose jewelry. He spoke plain English and I understood every word. Selections were simple: strawberry (best seller), red velvet, dark chocolate, pumpkin, vanilla, etc. The cost? $3.25 per cupcake. I purchased a half-dozen, which did a number on my twenty-dollar bill. 

The verdict: there's truly something special about the curly q's on top of the cupcakes. Must be that Belgium knows curly q's better than America. The strawberry was the best (mine and grandkids opinion). Would I buy them again? As an occasional indulgence, maybe. As a special gift, definitely. I have a hard-to-buy-for friend who will swoon over these. 

The only thing I found lacking at The Ultimate Cupcake: Not one time did the gentleman call me doll. :-(