Ryan's Marmalade

After much, much, much badgering, Ryan is not going to start up his blog, Crsipybits at this time.

This is bull#%$^ people! We need to come together to make it happen. I get mad when Ryan doesn't blog. Or when he doesn't do what I want him to do. Which is write his blog and come on vacations with my husband and me.

I know that probably sounds like my husband and I take Ryan on our vacations because he is our sex companion. He is not our sex companion.

Oo, you caught us by surprise!

But we can dream can't we?

Anyway. Fine, then, Ryan. If you're not going to re-boot Crispybits, I'm going to do it.

So ladies and gentemen, I give you:

                                                     

Hi I'm Ryan and I'm super excellent. I'm going to show you people how to make marmalade.

Today we're going to make my jam-tasctic marmalade that I got from a super fancy recipe book from a different country so don't even try to find it and If I give you the recipe, it will be a scanned photo that's hard to read, so just shut up and sit back and watch me do my magic because you can't touch this, you stupid, stupid person.


First you need to plan for 3 different types of marmalade and prep them so that they are at 3 different stages in the process of cooking. This makes it easy to show your friends how to make marmalade and makes me look more like a cooking show host. WHICH I AM!

Then you get your friends to cut up a bunch of oranges, put in some sugar and a splash of booze.

she is only fake laughing.

Boil the sweet heck out of them. The oranges. Not your friends.

Also boil  some jars.

Put the liquid gold into these jars.

Action shots show how dynamic is this process, when you are me.

Here, eat some of these snacks to keep you fortified so you can....

Clean up, you bitches!

I make the 17 month pregnant woman do the hard chores.

Here's some homemade soda bread that I veganized so that pernickety bitch-pants Reid can have some.

I am amazing. And dangerous.

And VOILA, you have marmalade.

The recipe is from Christine Ferber's, Mes Confitures. That's French for My Jams, in case you were wondering. This particular recipe takes 3 days to complete because why even BOTHER doing something that doesn't take that long. Jesus, I am amazing.

So, there you have it. Marmalade. I made it, you enjoy it, you worship me. It's just the way it is. And ever shall be.

Until next time,

Ryan.

I can't tell celebrities apart any more.

I don't like the new things. I don't understand all your new fangledness.

Also, I get things mixed up a lot. Like days of the week. Like recipes. Like medications.

I can't tell celebrities apart anymore. They all blur into each other.

Here are a few celebrities I regularly am confused by:

Carrie Underwood AND Reese Witherspoon

Simon Baker (aka The Mentalist) AND Ed Speelers (James from Downton Abbey)

Katy Perry and Zooey Deschanel

Stana Katic (of Castle) AND Mariska Hargitay (Law and Order SVU)

Josh Morrow (aka Nick Newman on the Young and the Restless, AND Vincent D'onofrio

Piper Perabo of Covert Affairs AND a Lost Kitten

Washington Caps coach, Adam Oates,  AND  Spock.

This blonde lady who I have no idea who she is AND The Smeebs

Major Frank Burns AND Stephen Harper

Lead guitarist of The Tragically Hip AND Lead Guitarist of CTDs

Ellen from CTD's and that one model from the 1980's.

January's Crochet--a-Long

I took part in the Crochet-a-Long hosted by Alycia over at The Curious Pug. 

This month's project was a pair of adorable Mary-Jane slippers.

Everyone did such a great job.

Except me.

Everyone else's slippers are cute and finished nicely. They all have small, cute feet.

Mine look like reggae threw up on my feet.

Sam says, "Seriously?"

Fiona says "Gross".

So I tried again.

It's more like a Butternut Squash Cozy.

I didn't even finish the second one.

Well, it wasn't a total waste of time.

This one was beyond me, Alycia. But I tried. I really tried.


Not really. I totally half-assed it.

Next time, I'll work harder.

Promise.

Sorta.

I think I've ruined my cat

There is a good reason I do not have children.

Well, several reasons, but the main one being that I know in my heart I would be a lousy mother.

I'm all fine with 15 minute bursts of fun activities and buying matching outfits, but any attempts at actual parenting would have been, as the young people say, "an epic fail".

Nowhere is this lack of parental skill more clearly manifested than in my inability to raise a normal animal.


Fiona, my cat. The cat that I love more than anything. Even cake. Even Santa.

Fiona is awesome and came to us that way from Toronto Animal Services. She was about a year old and was a stray. While I was "Ooooo-ing" and "Ahhhh-ing" over the fluffy beauties, I failed to notice the tabby/tortie that was desperately trying to get my attention.

Brian said "You need to look at this one".

"But she's not fluffy and grey", I whined.

"Remember the last time you picked a pet based on how it looked"

"Right", I responded. And so the cat that worked the hardest got to go home with us that day.

Fiona fit right in immediately. No weirdness, no soiling the furniture (that came later, but only when she was really mad at Brian). She liked to be with her people and to play. The laser pointer was a huge hit, as well as some bouncy balls that she'd chase down the stairs and return to us.

Almost every night, she brings a gift to us in the bedroom, be it a pen, a candy wrapper or a hair elastic. She's so generous.

But now I've spoiled her so rotten that I worry she's beyond redemption.

At bed time Fiona will wait until I'm tucked in to bed and then start meowing. She wants me to come downstairs and play hair elastic hockey with her.

I'm tired, but dammit, she's calling to me!

I hear this:

Brian hears this:

This is hair elastic hockey. Note how her pupils dilate at about 1:05, if you make it that long. I know it's not interesting to anyone but me. But the internet is my bitch and I will make it watch my cat play games for as long as I see fit.

She has developed this habit of wanting me to watch her eat. She'll circle around my legs til I go down to the furnace room where her food is and I have to pet her while she eats. She purrs like mad and looks  up at me like I am the Best. Thing. Ever.

She drinks her water from a glass on the kitchen counter. That's right. No one will ever want to come to my house for dinner ever again.

Portrait of Water. And Fiona.

While I'm on the treadmill she will sit with her back to me. As soon as I am done she hops up on the treadmill, flops on her back and demands to have her belly rubbed. Then she'll lick the sweat off my shins. I wonder if this would be poisonous to her.

Her favourite place to have her evening snack is on an unfinished needlepoint of the Dowager Countess from Downton Abbey.

Awwwwwwww, it's like she's smooching Maggie Smith!


When I go out, Fiona will wait for me by the door - or at least she's always there sitting in the same spot when I come home. If she is upstairs when I come home I hear a *thump....skitter skitter" as she runs downstairs to greet me.

Who could ask for anything more.

So I suppose if I have ruined my cat, I've ruined her in the best way. She's my baby.