Moderate Hoarders - Reid Edition

In trying to clear out the spare room to make way for my super shiny Ovarian Den, I’ve had to be pretty ruthless in my culling of stuff. I’ve given away most of my books, thrown out all the useless computer software, old keyboard manuals, expired medications, taxidermy mice, bits of petrified apple core and muffin wrappers that I’ve accumulated over the years. I’m in the process of scanning all my photographs so I can get rid of my many many many bulky photo albums. It has been a long process and there is no end in sight.

I come by this honestly, this pack rat mentality. My mother and my late father could both be called Happy Hoarders, experts in the field of “stocking up” on all sorts of nonsense. While I would stop short of calling it a sickness, and I don’t think we are horrible enough to qualify for a reality television spot, we Reids have hoarded our share of items, useful and otherwise. 

We weren't this bad. Not really.

My dad was a collector of paper products. From post it notes to toilet paper by the skid. And I use the word skid hilariously. He had towers of kleenex boxes on top of a cabinet that reached our very high ceilings. We had the storage space. I think it was just his way of building an empire, and he liked to gaze upon it from time to time.

And the multi-packs of toilet paper -  I get it that you don't want to be caught short but seriously? I have to wonder, what was the reasoning behind THAT much toilet paper? What kind of digestive disaster was my father expecting?  Why would we need 200 rolls of 2-ply? We are a family of Scottish origin, so, one, we’re cheap and two, we hardly ever poop, and when we do, it’s because the stupid English forced us to. 

My mom, for some reason, used to buy tomato soup in 24 can packs. 

We lived, literally, 50 yards from a large grocery store.

She also saved every margarine tub that ever crossed the Reid threshold. Vast armies of Imperial Margarine containers lying in wait to tumble onto the floor anytime Ellen would get within range.

Padlocks.

Yes. Padlocks.

My mother’s wool supply was legendary. Garbage bags full of it. Just in case she needed to crochet an afghan at a moment’s notice.

Or crochet 20 afghans at a moment’s notice.

National Geographic back issues. And don’t tell me they were ALL for potential school projects, Mom. We had them in the verandah until I was 30.

I can’t remember what I hoarded, but I must have at some point. I don’t think my brother and I were as diligent about saving and storing up stuff. I try to be sensible, but sometimes it’s really hard to throw out those elastic bands that the postal carrier bundles your J Crew catalogues with. Oh, and the J Crew catalogues. You never know, right? 

Are You More Nervous Than A Fifth Grader?

Well, yes, I am, thanks for asking.

I’ve mentioned - often - that I am of a delicate disposition. Most things upset me. I am easily thrown into a tizzy. I panic. I sweat. I worry to the point of exhaustion. 

I am super super concerned about everything all the time. Other than my personal appearance, apparently.

But, yah, so I’m a scaredy-cat. Established.

I’m so tense that Brian and I had to stop watching Breaking Bad after the second season because I couldn’t handle the tension. Even if I went ahead and read an online episode guide so I knew what was going to happen - I’d still be freaked out by the non-stop, unrelenting dread and anxiety that the main character was enduring. Then I’d be awake all night trying to solve the fictional character’s problems. Including his cancer. 

Not at all restful.

The same thing is starting to happen for me with The Walking Dead, the show with the most decaying flesh and sermons per capita on the idiot box these days. I have to leave the room if things are getting too intense (which is often). It’s not like I don’t know that there will be at least one gnarly zombie grabbing at a moderately loved character per episode.  I know it’s coming.  I can hear the scary music just like the rest of you. But I still crap my pants every time. 

Ok, it's pretty much across the board ninny-dom.

This is not new - I’ve been a scaredy-cat pants crapper all of my life.

When I was little and my mom would read stories to my brother and me, she’d have to read the mildest, most bland Teletubby type stories while I was in the room because anything more stimulating would send me into apoplexy. If I was all concerned about the well being of a character in a story book I’d get all saucer eyed and say “Duckies and Chickies” which meant I could only handle stories about duckies and chickies. And they could not be harmed or endangered or anything but coddled and snuggled by their mommies at any time. My poor brother. He had to wait to hear the sordid and thrilling adventures of Green Eggs and Ham, or Go Dogs Go. Too much mayhem for his vibrating, terrified little sister.

When I sort of grew up and was an adult, my mom, my brother and my niece and I went to our family cabin near The Pas, MB. It was not a fancy place, to put it mildly. Walls were basically just paper, and the ceilings were open to the roof, so you could hear a pin drop in the next room. My mother was reading to my then 10 year old niece a story called The Hatchet, about a young boy who gets stranded in the Canadian northern wilderness after a plane crash. The kid only has a hatchet to survive with, and he runs into all sorts of mayhem.

Ok, I had to ask my mom to keep her voice down while reading it because it was stressing me out too much. I was 35 years old.

I was freaking out over a kid’s book. My 10 year old niece was nonplussed.

My inability to tolerate stress has been a joke in my family and a source of income for therapists nation wide. But this extreme sensitivity must be adaptive in some way. Maybe people like me will end up ruling the human race because we avoid conflict and danger so completely that no harm can befall us. Fewer lion maulings, sky diving mishaps, gardening accidents, twisted ankles while running from bears, fewer horror movie induced heart attacks - all means more nervous people to breed and take over the planet.

The totally meek and antsy will inherit the earth?

Makes sense.

Unfortunately, I have not had children. I failed to produce more psychologically fragile and nervous humans. I am afraid of childbirth. And children. 

Once again, my plans for world domination are thwarted by my inability to handle anything beyond snuggly teddybears and cookies.

Unless the teddybears are evil and come to life. And the cookies are poison.

Damn.












PS. Just found THIS on the internet and it totally rounds up much of my frustration with Walking Dead. Spoiler alert.

Foodie Friday - Peanut Butter Surprises

You’re not going to forgive me for this one. Unless you are desperately trying to gain weight, you’ll probably want to give this post a miss.

These cookies will freakin’ kill you.

I only make these when I know they will be leaving the house in someone else’s hands. They are pure evil. 

These cookies, if I make them at just the right time (i.e. there are no sports on TV), are a sure fire way for me to get lucky. These cookies are Brian’s kryptonite. The only protection Brian has against these cookies are the distraction of sports on TV.

These are chocolate cookies with peanut butter inside. The peanut butter is the surprise part, but you probably already figured that out. I suppose you could adapt these and put a surprise in the surprise, like a Hershey’s Kiss, or a bit of gum. Or a sardine. Listen, I’m not the boss of you. You have to make your own choices here.

Right after I made these cookies, I was talking to some Hydro workers outside the house and told them I'd just made cookies. I gave them some and then went on my way, because I'm just that awesome. When I came back the big burly hydro worker asked for the recipe. He said they were the best chocolate and peanut butter cookies he had ever, EVER had. I swear there were tears in his eyes.

Peanut Butter Surprises

Prep: 40 min Bake: approx 10 min per batch

1 and 1/2 C flour

1/2 C unsweetened cocoa powder

1/2 t baking soda

1/2C butter, softened

1/2 C white sugar

1/2 C packed brown sugar

1/4 C peanut butter

1 egg

1 T milk

1 t vanilla

3/4 C sifted powdered sugar

1/2 C peanut butter

granulated sugar

1. Preheat oven to 350. In a medium bowl, sift together flour, cocoa, and baking soda. Set aside.

2. In a large bowl beat together the butter, 1/2 C white sugar, brown sugar and the 1/4 C peanut butter until well combined. 

Put stuff in bowl

Mix stuff in bowl. Action shot!

Add egg, milk and vanilla. Stir in flour mixture.

Resist temptation to sit in darkened basement and eat chocolate cookie dough paste.

Form the chocolate dough into balls about 1 and 1/4 inches in diameter

3. For filling, combine powdered sugar and the 1/2 C peanut butter. Shape this mixture into 3/4 inch balls.

kinda looks like bone-fed dog's poops. But I assure you, it' is sugar and peanut butter

4. Flatten a chocolate dough ball. 

Top with a peanut butter ball. 

Cat is bored by shenanigans.

For each cookie, shape the chocolate dough over the peanut butter filling, completely covering the filling. 

Roll dough into balls

 Roll the balls in granulated sugar.

Aren't you glad of these highly instructive photos?  I don't think you're an idiot. I know that you know how to roll cookie dough in sugar. I just have to fill up the space here. You understand, of course.

Bake in a preheated oven for about 10 minutes or until just set and surface slightly cracks. 

Let stand for 1 minute and transfer to wire racks to cool.

Buy elastic waist pants. You'll need them after these.