Jamaican Jerk Chicken

This pizza is da-bomb! I love a kick in my food and this pizza definitely had it. I cheat and buy the frozen pizza dough balls from Sam's club. You can ask for them at the food counter and they will give you a box of 20 for like 15 bucks or something. It's worth it because they make good bread sticks, pizza and calzones. You just thaw them, and shape them however you want. Anyhow, Just thought I'd post this recipe. It was definitely a winner.

Jamaican Jerk Chicken

Jerk Chicken Pieces

1/2 pound boneless, skinless chicken breast tenders 

1 teaspoon olive oil 

2 teaspoons jerk seasoning

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Caribbean Sauce

1/2 tablespoon cold water

1/2 teaspoon flour

1/2 cup sweet chili sauce

3/4 teaspoon jerk seasoning (McCormick)

For the Pizza

Pizza dough ( I cheat and boy the frozen dough balls from Sam’s Club... Hey it’s easier!)
Caribbean Sauce to taste (I like all of it)
1 cup mozzarella
 (or to taste)
½ each one red and yellow pepper
(stir fried in a pan until softened)
½ cup sliced yellow onions
(Stir fried in a pan until softened)
¼ cup crispy bacon 

Jerk Chicken
green scallions, chopped and sprinkled on top

To make Jerk Chicken:
In a bowl mix chicken, olive oil, jerk seasoning and cayenne pepper. Place mix onto a piping hot oiled (or Pam-ed) skillet and cook each side until browned and cooked through. Cut into medium sized chunks.

To make Caribbean Sauce:
Mix water and flour in the pan. Add sweet chili sauce and jerk seasoning to flour mixture. Cook over medium heat until thickened a bit (about 4-5 minutes), stirring often.

To make the pizza:
Pre-cook the dough on a pizza stone (or pan) for 5-7 minutes at 425 degrees until slightly cooked and holds its form.
Use a spoon to spread the Caribbean sauce to within an inch of the outer edge of the crust.
Top with mozzarella, peppers, onions, bacon and extra mozzarella if wanted.
Lightly brush (or spread with your fingers) olive oil over the crust that’s still showing so it will brown nicely.
Cook about 15 minutes or until browned and the cheese is golden in places and bubbling.
Garnish with scallions after cooking.

This makes one good sized pizza.

Stephan King Eat Your Heart Out

When I was in high school I went on a bit of a health kick. Ok, a major health kick. For about a year I wouldn't eat chips, or french fries, ice cream, candy, or any other good thing. In fact, for about a year I ate lentil soup with whole wheat toast, cottage cheese and a salad for lunch- every day. How virtuous. And boring.

On top of that crazy eating regime I started taking multi-vitamins that my mom had bought from one of my Aunts. They weren't just any old vitamins, they were top of the line, health nut vitamins. You know, the ones with the packaging that shows a man and woman hiking and the man has thighs that could crush a walnut shell, while the woman has a long blonde ponytail with pink flushed cheeks. She's the kind of woman that smiles triumphantly like Mona Lisa from the box, except her secret is that along with the vitamins (which explain her exceptionally healthy pink cheeks) she also does liposuction a few times a year and has a personal trainer, so with the vitamins alone you will never look as good as her.

Anyhow, I started taking these vitamins each morning before early morning seminary and expected to look like her within a few weeks. And I might have (right...), except something happened that ruined me on powdered vitamins for the rest of my life.

It was about 5 am and I was downstairs in the kitchen grabbing a glass of water and one of those vitamins before I went upstairs to take a shower. The vitamin was of average size and in a gel case that would dissolve in your stomach, therefore allowing your body to absorb the vitamins quicker. This morning however, something went amiss with the vitamin when I went to swallow it. Instead of swallowing the sucker down, the gel turned into its own form of super glue and attached itself to my throat just out of reach. I tried drinking some water to wash it down but it didn't help and after a few moments I figured that eventually those muscles would do their job and move it down to my stomach by themselves.

In the shower I washed my hair, shaved my legs, drank some water and yet still the feeling of having the vitamin there lingered. I wondered if it was just a phantom sense or if it really was still lurking there.

Out of the shower I dried my hair and thought surely all the tossing of my head while I blow dried would loosen the subborn pill. But still the pill persisted, although unbeknownst to me it was ever weakening...

It wasn't until I was doing my make-up that things start moving along. I had applied my powder, some blush (pre bronzer days), eye liner and was just finishing my last set of lashes with mascara when the gel capsule burst. The vitamin powder trickled down my throat causing a tickle that created a powerful reaction. Before I had time to even move the mascara wand from my eyelashes the most violent cough of mankind erupted from my throat making the next scene possible.

The force of the cough jammed the brush all over my eye, giving me a temporary blackened eye while powdered vitamins blew in all directions of the bathroom. It was scary to experience, but even scarier to watch in the mirror. Picture this:

Black eye that looks as if it's been poked out while the other is bulging from the vigor of the cough; and an open mouth that is spewing out powder like a horror novel that would have made even Stephan King envious. It would have been better if I had been touching up my make-up in the high school bathroom at prom, but we can't have everything. What was worse was it was the vitamin that just kept giving. There was not one cough but many and for the first few the powder just kept flowing.

I was like a powder spewing dragon, or the little dinosaur on Jurassic Park. I was subhuman. Imagine being able to harness that power so you could use it as a bargaining chip.

"Watch out." Uncle George would say at Thanksgiving dinner. "Just give her the loan Jane, she's got that look in her eye..."

I looked at my evil black eye and the bathroom counter covered in "health dust" and vowed to never consume a powdered vitamin again. It was like sucking on a multi vitamin as hard candy for the rest of the day. Not something that you would willingly want to do. Since then I have not kept my vow, I have taken powdered multivitamins. But not without a little shudder, and the desperate urge to spray my throat with Pam to protect me from that ever happening again. And Stephan King- eat your heart out for a true mouth spewing horror story.

Peppermint Marshmallows

What's more wonderful than a big mug of hot chocolate on a cool winter (or spring!) night? I'd say about nothing, well except a hot chocolate that is over flowing with marshmallows. Marshmallows are definitely one of my favorite things. I few weeks back I watched as Paula Dean made homemade marshmallows and I knew I had to try it. Winter was over, and a warm spring was on, but for the last week we've had a bit of a cold spell and I jumped at the chance. The result was awesome. Hope you enjoy them too!

(side note: this gets your kitchen-aid mighty hot, so I wouldn't risk it unless you had a heavy duty mixer or a very strong one...)

Toasted Coconut Marshmallow (or Peppermint)

7 ounces sweetened shredded coconut, toasted
1 recipe Homemade Marshmallow batter, recipe follows
Confectioners' sugar

Sprinkle half the toasted coconut in an 8 by 12-inch nonmetal pan. Pour in the marshmallow batter and smooth the top of the mixture with damp hands. Sprinkle on the remaining toasted coconut. Allow to dry uncovered at room temperature overnight.
Remove the marshmallows from the pan and cut into squares. Roll the sides of each piece carefully in confectioners' sugar. Store uncovered at room temperature.

Homemade Marshmallows:
3 packages unflavored gelatin
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1 cup light corn syrup
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
Confectioners' sugar, for dusting

Combine the gelatin and 1/2 cup of cold water in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment and allow to sit while you make the syrup.
Meanwhile, combine the sugar, corn syrup, salt, and 1/2 cup water in a small saucepan and cook over medium heat until the sugar dissolves. Raise the heat to high and cook until the syrup reaches 240 degrees F on a candy thermometer. Remove from the heat.
With the mixer on low speed, slowly pour the sugar syrup into the dissolved gelatin. Put the mixer on high speed and whip until the mixture is very thick, about 15 minutes. Add the vanilla and mix thoroughly.

OR:
Add peppermint extract instead of vanilla and crushed peppermint candies instead of coconut, like I did.

Hand Slam

(I was complaining to Jarom about my back hurting the other night and I told him how it originated (which he thought very funny). I was having a hard time capturing the real humor in it. Anyhow, this about sums it up.)

I'm not really sure what I was thinking when I signed up for the gymnastics class at BYU my freshman year. Perhaps I thought that I would sail gracefully from bar to bar, landing a triple flip mount into a pit of foam bits while my classmates "ooo'd and awed" at my incredible learning curve. Perhaps I figured that when BYU said Beginning Gymnastics they would begin us with somersaults and cartwheels like a proper Beginners class would offer at The Little Gym. I must have been on crack, or seriously delusional because I have never been particularly gifted with balance, especially since my body is all arms and legs and no muscle.

Anyhow, seven years ago I got the urge to sign up for a Gymnastics class, and I took one. For one day.

And I was defeated.

That morning I carefully selected a pair of stretchy yoga pants and a fitted tank top. I was excited to learn how to do some cool tricks, learn how to do a flip on the bars (in time), and get in some spotting with my teacher. What I got instead was a intermediate class for girls who had done more than ribbon dancing and cartwheels in their front yards as kids.

We began with some stretches, which was exciting because I was good at this. From there we moved into a brand new world of body contortions that I was neither prepared for nor expecting. But, I was also proud and didn't want to admit that I didn't have the strength or training to do these seeing that all the other girls were nodding enthusiastically. Today we were going to begin with hand stands that evolved into a forward roll! Yeay! Now if that doesn't make sense imagine standing on your hands and than maneuvering your body into the position that you do a cartwheel from that. Sounds easy right? Please.

I made my way into the back of the class, carefully watching from the back of the line how the girls were balancing themselves in perfect pencils before they gently tucked themselves into a ball. It was amazing; like watching an assembly line of people moving across the mat; art even. Before I knew it it was my turn and the teacher was giving the signal to begin.

Now I had never done a hand stand that actually made it straight up before falling back over, but somehow I tricked myself into believing that today would be different. Not only would I hand stand, but I would roll.

Taking a deep breath (which in seconds I would regret), I threw my full body weight onto my hands, flying past the hand stand stage where you gain control before maneuvering the next move. Instead of rolling into a ball I realized that I didn't know what to do and I panicked.

I looked like a cat in a desperate attempt to right myself in mid air, my body twisting in a strange tense arch. I wasn't even graceful as I slid from the hand stand into a back slam on the floor my breath rushing from my body in a loud and violent "Ha!". It was like a WWF wrestling move gone terribly wrong. While other girls rolled into a ball and jumped to their feet like a rehearsed version of the rockettes at Radio City Hall-I lay there on the ground, my eyes dilated in pain, while peoples faces passed in an out of focus as they tumbled all around me. And then my teacher uttered the words that echoed in my head for years after.

"Just go around her."

Just go around her? Honestly? As I lay dying; partially paralyzed; my pain sending waves of heat through my body; girls rolled past me, all the while my teacher calling out to them with instructions. There was no running over, no attending the to girl who hadn't breathed for at least 3 minutes, and couldn't feel her arms.

It was like a bad movie. What was worse was the fact that the girls who were "tumbling" were nearly missing me, and in a sense of self preservation I somehow mustered the ability to army crawl off the mat into the corner to regain total consciousness.

For the rest of the hour my teacher instructed the class, offering suggestions to the star pupils while I lay perfectly still in the corner. At the end of the class she left, without a word to me. And I walked home and laid in my bed wondering when my back would heal itself. Which it still hasn't totally.

So this girl went back to somersaults and cartwheels and ribbon dancer. And I'll leave the real gymnastics to the pros.

Nice to meat you

I have always had a volatile relationship with meat. When I was still a very small child I remember "seeing" blood in my campbell's chicken noodle soup chicken bits (I'm sure that I didn't really, but it freaked me out just the same). I still don't eat them to this day. Soup meat is on my unsafe meat list, along with most cold cuts, fried chicken, chicken sandwiches in restaurants, sausage, fatty meat pieces, and canned meats (usually including tuna).

However, the real winning point for vegetarianism happened when I was 14 and my relationship with eating meat was changed forever. One evening while eating dinner at a friends house I made the mistake of grabbing a slice of roast that contained a major artery. The artery provided two purposes; one was to provide the departed cow with nutrients, the other simultaneously provided me with a fear of meat products for the next 4 years, one that still pops up like a bad case of acne to this day.

The problem was that the artery was not a skinny vein that could be dealt with, it was thick at the bottom and branched out like a tree, hogging the whole slice of roast. The shock of seeing something like that in my food sent a reaction that probably doesn't have a medical term but is similar to the 5 steps of grieving (but with a twist):

Denial: Whoa, is that a vein? No, that is an elaborate piece of fat. Shoot, that's a vein. Wait, no, it's something else. Gag.
Anger: Out of the 20 pieces of roast how come I got the freaky piece?! Honestly, anyone else would have been fine with it, but nooo, I'm the one that has to get it. Meat is gross! I hate my life! Gag.
Bargaining: Ok, look, if I turn the piece over maybe we can just forget about it. Yea, that would work, right? I don't want to hate meat, I'll do anything. Gag.
Depression: I probably deserved this to happen. I think I just need to sleep this off. Gag.
Acceptance: Ok, there is a nasty vein in my meat. I have two options; take this like a champ and suck it up, or go without meat indefinitely. Gag. Go without meat indefinitely it is.

Now just add in some hot flashes, a few badly concealed gags that took place under the table (while I pretended to get something out of my purse), and a near miss for passing out and you get the picture.

However, after 4 years I realized that I couldn't go without meat forever and I slowly added it back into my diet. All was going good until last monday when I had a repeat offense, but this time in my steak at Applebee's.

Jarom's parents had offered to take everyone out to eat and it had been decided that Applebee's was the place to go. I was on the fence on whether to order the fiesta lime chicken, or a steak like everyone else. In a moment of peer pressure I opted for the steak. Oh, how I wish I had resisted because what I got was not edible.

When the steaks came they were sizzling, a good sign right? I had ordered mine medium-well and wasn't surprised to find my steak was medium to medium-rare in the center, but that was something I could deal with. What I couldn't deal with was the 2 rubbery veins that remained uncut even though I had cut clear through the rest of my steak with my knife. How does that happen by the way? How can you cut through a whole steak with your knife but not get through the veins? Anyhow, that should have been my red light indicator but I'd dealt with a few measly veins before and I was trying to become tougher about eating meat.

I worked around them, making a Picasso of my steak by cutting random geometrical shapes off places that seemed safe. And then it happened. I cut the back of my steak and found a cluster of veins, a cluster that resembled california freeways running together, a cluster that was the thickness of a pencil. I kid you not.

Hot flash! Slowly I pushed my steak back together to conceal my discovery. Then I leaned my head back and took a few deep breaths so that I wouldn't share my already consumed salad with everyone at the table.

"What's wrong." Jarom asks after I dramatically gag.
"My steak." I gasp.
"What about it?" He questions me again.
"There is a vein." I stage whisper.
"So?" He asks.
"No," I say, "There is a VEIN. Like a big one. Like an artery."

At this point I have everyone at the tables attention.

"Let me see." Jarom says and then pulls my steak apart. Like a bungee cord the other side of the steak snaps across my plate to the one that Jarom has just dragged forward. "It's fat. Just eat around it." He says.
"Are you kidding me?" I ask him. "That is a vein! There is no way I'm going to eat that..."
"Let me see," Kim asks. I hand the steak over and she prods the steak like an expert coroner. "That's definitely a vein."
"What's wrong?" Craig asks. "Did you get the varicose special?"

Hot flash! I lean my head on Jarom and fight the nausea.
"You should make a little R.I.P. stone for him out of your potato skin." Jarom's brother Tyler adds.
"Hey," Jarom says as he picks the steak up and swings it around on the vein, the two pieces swinging wildly like nunchucks. "You can play tetherball with it."
Gag, Hot flash!

"Ok, ok, ok, you guys. Seriously, I'm going to throw up." I say, my eyes watering from the effort of holding my nausea in. I'm starting to perspire. I keep having to take deep breaths and I'm sure I'm going to lose it if I see anyone else playing with my steak.

At this moment the waiter comes over. "How is everything going?" He asks.
"Something is up with my steak." I tell him
"Does it need more cooking?" He asks concerned.
"Well, it's very rare in the center, but mostly there is a gigantic vein running through it."
"I'm so sorry about that." He answers horrified, "we can cook it more and de-vein it for you if you'd like."

Pause. Ok, waiter's tip: If you have to use the word de-vein in any speech to a table in the course of an evening than something is very wrong. NEVER say the word de-vein in a restaurant, that is just nasty.

Un-pause. His helpful suggestion is just too much for me and I lean my head on Jarom and take a few deep breaths. When I finally regain composure I ask him to just remove it from the bill. He takes my steak to show the kitchen crew and gags when I show him my not-so-little vein buddy first.
Meanwhile everyone feels bad for me that I'm only eating the baked potato he leaves and offers me bites of their steak which is about the last thing on earth I'm wanting at the moment.

As we're leaving Craig says "You should have asked him for a body bag, I mean a doggy bag."

A body bag would have been the right thing to request. I guess I'll put the breaks on eating steaks for a while but that experience was close to making me a vegetarian again. That was a near miss for Jarom, because me as a vegetarian would make him a very sad man.

Dead locked

I have nothing to write about. The things that I could write about I'm just not feeling funny enough to do justice. I need some kids to post pictures about, a job where I am talking to random humorous people, chance encounters with interesting characters who give me blog fodder. The problem is that I sit in this room as useless as a human log. I don't feel like taking pictures of myself seeing that I feel as big as a house but a blog with no pictures is not really a blog.

Do you have any suggestions? I'm all out.

Seeing Red

A typical checklist for a big event goes something like this:
Pretty new clothes
Fabulous hair cut
Flattering makeup
Sexy shoes
Bloody zombie-esque eye
New jewelry

Now I gather that most people don't stock up on each of these items before a big day; some people already have the great hair, or the perfect makeup, but it's hard to find the bloody eye. Thankfully I acquired one before both of my events that required good looks; my wedding and my one humorous attempt at American Idol (a blog to follow this confession that I swore I would take to my grave to come shortly). It went down like so:

Five days before the wedding:
Jarom and I are sitting in our Italian Language class joking around. Something strikes me as extremely funny, in fact so funny that I bang my head with excessive gusto against the wall behind me when I throw back my head to get out a really good laugh. After seeing stars for a second I groan an "owww" which of course Jarom finds hilarious.

Four days before the wedding:
In Nordstom's I am viewing the jewelry counter, looking for a gorgeous bracelet or earrings to wear with my wedding dress. As I look down Jarom gasps loudly and says, "What is on your eye!?"
"What do you mean, what is on my eye?" I ask panicked
"There's...like...blood, on your eye..." Jarom answers, his face contorted in fear and intrigue. I can tell that even though this freaks him out, he also thinks it's kinda cool.
I look in the mirror but don't see anything, although I now notice that my eye feels like there is a small grain of sand when I close it. Jarom gently pulls up on my eyelid and reveals what he's just discovered. A bloody massive hemorrhage on my eyeball that looks like my eye has exploded from the inside out. Shoot!
"What is that?" I ask in a heightened whisper, then draw attention by crying. "Get it off!"

When I arrive home I quickly call the doctors and set up an appointment. The next day is the earliest I can get in and I'm sure I am dying slowly while I wait to see someone. The rest of the day is spent staring into the mirror while mentally composing my will. Mozart's "requiem for a dream" is playing hauntingly in the background for my tragic demise.

Three days before the wedding:
In the doctor's office Dr. so and so informs me that I am not in fact dying, but rather I have sustained my gory eye from a head injury.
"Have you been hit in the head?" He asks, while eying Jarom who is looking baffled.
"No." I answer.
"You haven't had any blunt trauma to the head?" He coaxes again.
Ah, now I remember. I guess slamming my head into the wall would count, but I'm certainly not going to admit that. How does one admit that after laughing like a wild hyena they slammed their head into the wall with enough force that it broke a blood vessel, without looking like an idiot? Better to remain silent.
"Nope." I respond.
Jarom moves to interrupt and offer my embarrassing moment as an explanation for my crazy eye that is now becoming more visible by the hour. I reward him with an icy bloody stare that would send chills to the most stout hearted, since it now is the epitome of the evil eye in it's finest. A baby cries on the next room.
I then ask in order to change the subject, "How long will it take to go away?"
"Well," he answers, "it should start moving down the eye and eventually be absorbed back into the body. It will be totally gone in about five days"
Excuse me, I'm getting married in three...

Day of wedding:
My eye has absorbed most of the blood, but just like the good doctor said I have specks of blood that have moseyed on down to visible level, and my eye is now pink with yellow and red spots. Classy. Thankfully you can't tell in my pictures except that one of my eyes looks a bit dark. I prefer to think that I'm brooding in those pictures... in one eye...

Dealing with guests is a bit different. Most people expect a bright eyed bride, not a bright red eyed bride. Most of the day is spent talking to people who don't know me but look cross-eyed at my frightening eye as we converse than back away slowly as they leave. I'm sure they fear that I have picked up a new form of rabies and don't want to turn their back on me. For the first time in my life I wish I had a gigantic chest so there was something else for them to look at while we talk. Unfortunately I don't and I must resist the urge to bite people.

Since this blog is getting long I will cut to the chase on the American Idol story:

First- you know that myth about closing your eyes when you sneeze and how your eyeballs will pop out if you keep them open? It's true. I am proof.

Five days before Jarom and I drove down to San Francisco for American Idol, I made the mistake of driving on a windy freeway when I had to sneeze. I was afraid that in the four seconds it took to sneeze someone would slam on their breaks and I would ultimately die in a car wreck. So instead of closing my eyes like a proper person, I kept them a crack open and went to town with my sneeze. Disaster averted I arrived to work safely only to discover in the bathroom at work that my eye had exploded this time in a very visible spot. Oh fabulous!



Needless to say, the lady who judged me was frightened, I did not make American Idol and I received stares for 2 weeks until this stubborn explosion disappeared. So as a friendly reminder I leave with you two words of advice:
Don't sneeze with your eyes open
If you must throw your head back when you laugh please make sure that you are in an open area where head banging will not occur.

Good luck.

Writing/ Indian Dishes

I have had the hardest time writing a blog lately. Most of my blogs are written about humor but what do you write about when you are not feeling so funny? In fact, more frustrated than funny. Sorry for the delay in writing, I'm sure I'll think of funny things to write about, I've experienced a few lately but I'm just not in the mood. So instead I will write about something I am very passionate about. Food!

This is a fabulous Indian food recipe that I made Jarom for Valentine's Day. Tikka Masala is our absolute favorite indian dish, along with hot chewy naan bread. When we found this recipe with a little tweaking it was exactly like the restaurant we use to visit at BYU and we were so excited it turned out the same. Please excuse the bad photography skills, the pictures look like a cheap restaurant, but since that was what I was attempting to do, it almost works. Almost.

Chicken Tikka Masala

1 cup yogurt
1 tablespoon lemon juice
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 teaspoons cayenne pepper
2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
1 tablespoon minced fresh ginger
1 teaspoon salt, or to taste
3 boneless skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite-size pieces
4 long skewers

2 tablespoons butter
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 jalapeno peppers, finely chopped
4 teaspoons ground cumin
4 teaspoons paprika
2 teaspoons tikka masala spice mix
½ teaspoon salt
1 (15 ounce) can tomato sauce
2 cups heavy cream
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro


In a large bowl, combine yogurt, lemon juice, 2 teaspoons cumin, cinnamon, cayenne, black pepper, ginger, and 1 teaspoon salt. Stir in chicken, cover, and refrigerate for at least 1 hour.

Preheat a grill for high heat or an oven to 450 degrees.

Lightly oil the grill grate. Thread chicken onto skewers, and discard marinade. Grill until juices run clear, about 5 minutes on each side. Or put chicken on skewers propped over a casserole dish in a 450 degree oven.

Melt butter in a large heavy skillet over medium heat. Saute garlic and jalapenos for 1 minute. Season with 4 teaspoons cumin, paprika, and ½ tsp salt. Stir in tomato sauce, cream and cilantro. Simmer on low heat until sauce thickens, about 20 minutes. Add grilled chicken, and simmer for 10 minutes. Transfer to a serving platter.




Naan

1 (.25 ounce) package active dry yeast
1 cup warm water
¼ cup white sugar
3 tablespoons milk
1 egg, beaten
2 teaspoons salt
½ tsp baking soda
3- 3 1/2 cups bread flour
¼ cup butter, melted

In a large bowl, dissolve yeast in warm water, with one tbsp. of the sugar. Let stand about 10 minutes, until frothy.

Stir in remaining sugar, milk, egg, salt, and enough flour to make a soft dough. Knead for 6 to 8 minutes on a lightly floured surface, or until smooth.

Place dough in a well oiled bowl, cover with a damp cloth, and set aside to rise. Let it rise 1 hour, until the dough has doubled in volume.

Punch down dough. Pinch off small handfuls of dough about the size of a golf ball. Roll into balls, and place on a tray. Cover with a towel, and allow to rise until doubled in size, about 30 minutes.

During the second rising, preheat grill to high heat.

At grill side, roll one ball of dough out into a thin circle. Lightly oil grill or skillet. Place dough on grill, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, or until puffy and lightly browned.

Brush uncooked side with butter, and turn over. Brush cooked side with butter, and cook until browned, another 2 to 4 minutes. Remove from grill, and continue the process until all the naan has been prepared.

Quick Change Artists

Have you ever been deceived by a purchase, whereupon further examination the product was woefully misrepresented itself? For instance, you go into a store and the shirt that looks amazing in their mirror, at home makes you resemble the donut you had for breakfast. Or perhaps the sample at Costco that tasted divine at the sample table tastes like a school lunch on your own. It is always very confusing when these things happen. You can't help but wonder where the exchange took place and how you didn't see it coming.

The other morning as I got out of the shower I decided to use a lotion sample that had been removed from the Treasure Island Hotel in Las Vegas. When I first opened the bottle the scent that came forth was delicious. It smelled like India; the scent of foreign spices and exotic flowers mingled into a white lotion (at least thats what I imagine India would smell like if it were infused into a bottle). I sniffed it a few times to make sure that I wouldn't mind the smell for the rest of the day. I didn't imagine that the lotion would soon resemble a less enthusiastic scent.

Within moments of lathering my arms and legs entirely with the lotion, I soon discovered a different smell. Instead of smelling like Treasure Island lotion it smelled like Treasure Island Pirate. Yes pirate and not the glorified Jack Sparrow variety with fabulous eyeliner. The smell of salt and sweat wafted up from my arms to my nose making it wrinkle up in disgust.

"What smells like armpit?" I wondered, sniffing around. But it wasn't authentic armpit, instead it was the rank lotion that somehow went rancid within minutes of leaving the bottle. It was like the equivalently of smelling what someone had for dinner last night on their skin. I felt dirty and Piratey and I worried that for the rest of the day I would attract Pirate moments. It wouldn't have surprised me if promptly leaving my house a parrot alighted on my shoulder and said, "Ahoy thar matey!" Or if I somehow got into a bar fight when I stopped at 7-eleven for a diet Pepsi.

What most baffled me was how the lotion went from divine to disgusting in 2 minutes flat. Even more so was the strange inclination I had to don a patch and roll my R's when they fell into my sentence, how did a smell evoke such strong emotions. And I even thought of a pirate joke I'd recently head that this lotion reminded me of:

A pirate walks into a bar. Promptly the bartender notices that inside the pirates pants is a steering wheel. Concerned the bartender cautiously asks "Excuse me, but did you know that there is a steering wheel in your pants?" The pirate eyes the bartender, looks down and states, "Aye, and it's drivin' me nuts!"

So as a gesture of good will I warn you. BewarRRR the Treasure Island Lotion!

Unauthentic Baby Blues..

We have all seen commercials or movies where someone is unwittingly asked if they are pregnant when they are not. The initial responses from the audience are cries of disbelief or the covering of the mouth. "Oh no you didn't!" someone shouts. How can someone be so tactless, we ask ourselves? Certainly I would never do that, or no one I know has had that happen, we cry reassuringly. If the person is dressed in baggy clothes, or somewhat frumpy with a little extra junk in Le Old Trunk then we give allowances for the misunderstanding. However, what if you are dressed to the nines, wearing high heels, makeup, and a slimming black dress? Then what?

Saturday night Jarom and I decided we would attend the stake dinner/dance in honor of St. Valentines day. I dolled up. For once I shaved my legs, donned my favorite black dress from Banana Republic that screams "yes, I can look good once in a while!", I applied makeup in all the right places, and traded in my flip-flops for a pair of black sling back 4 inch heels. All at the same time.

And I was feelin' good.

That night Jarom and I learned a few waltz steps from an instructor and attempted to waltz around the cultural hall with stuffy affected looks on our faces until we broke down into giggles. After we got a little better, Jarom upped the pace and eventually I was being dragged around, literally, my feet sliding along the floor, my body limp from laughing, as a table of older couples laughed approvingly at us. It was perfect and all was right with the world. Until about 9:30 when we decided to drive to Walmart to buy a few things for sunday. All "good" things happen at Walmart it seems.

After 2 plus hours of dancing, standing and walking in my heels, naturally my feet hurt. I had followed Jarom around Walmart, gotten bored and decided to check out the food section to see what they had in their limited resources. It's really rather ironic that the most shocking moment of my life should happen there in the food aisle. And happen there it did.

"You look like your feet hurt." A woman said knowingly as she observed me holding onto a shelf for support.
"yeah." I answered, "I'm not used to wearing heels." I wondered what gave me away- the grimace of pain or the way my ankles bent every time I took a step. Ok, honestly not sexy, but the next line was unexpected.
"Oh, and you're pregn---" she stopped mid-sentence as she realized that I was not in fact pregnant, just fat in the stomach.

Her eyes shifted up to mine.

In that exact moment Walmart went completely silent, in the distance a cash register whirred. Passing customers dove behind carts of gatorade and rows of half priced Valentine's Candy, eyes peaking over in fear. Suddenly the loudspeaker blared the theme song from "The Good, the Bad and The Ugly." A faint breeze that smelled of gun powder ruffled my hair and my eyes squinted. I dared her to finish, to give me the chance to bunt kick the box of lucky charms I was holding at her head.
"Go ahead," I said menacingly, "Make my day..."

But instead it went like this:

"Oh, and you're preg-nevermind." She squirmed to a finish.
"Well what in the heck was preg-nevermind?" I wondered silently. I small village in Germany, a new word for fabulous, or flabulous?
"Have a good night." she said lamely and wandered away.

I, however, was left wondering what just happened. Did I really look pregnant? How come nobody told me that the spare tire I was sporting that evening was so passe? Next I suppose someone will tell me that love handles and cellulite are not exactly bragging rights at a party. I wanted to shout out at her, "I've had a hard year! I've been taking 18 credits a semester and not sleeping. Did you know stress and sleep deficiency lead to stomach fat??!"

Slowly I placed the lucky charms back on the shelf. And trudged over to Jarom in defeat.
"What's wrong?" He asked, instantly picking up on my bad vibe.
"We're having a baby." I mutter.
"What are you talking about?" He asks.
"Just ask that lady in the black." I answer bothered. "She can tell you everything."

I guess the baby blues can happen to non-mothers too.

Rolo-ver

(Side Note: I actually started writing this a few days before Valentine's Day, but I was forced into migrant working conditions which is a blog just waiting to be written to... Anyhow, it's a bit late, but this is my absolute FAVORITE Valentine's Day memory)

One of the simple joys of childhood was the one day a year that you could put 30 tiny cards into 30 tiny envelopes with a candy heart or two. At the store you would pick out the cards that represented you. Lisa Frank for the girls who wore make-up at 8, My Little Pony for the girls who would continue to play with dolls until they were 15 (or was that just me?), Barbie for the future fashion designers, stylists or gay boys, He-man for the tough guys, G. I. Joes for the chronic fighters and Tranformers for the future .com generation. But what a thrill it was when inside your construction paper mail box you found 30 notes from kids in your class, kids who didn't particularly like you/know you/sit by you during lunch but still spent the time to scrawl your name on a card that said something brilliantly akin to "You're the cutest," or some such fib. But imagine even more interesting to find your treat in the middle of the night and card in the morning in that order, as I did back in 1989...

It was the eve of Valentine's Day and Julie had decided to be a good older sister and give me a present to find when I awoke in the morning. Quietly she had laid a Valentine's card (probably a My Little Pony or Strawberry Shortcake) next to my pillow along with an unwrapped Rolo, you know, one of those delicious caramel chocolate sweets. During the night and being the fitful sleeper I am, I shook the bed until the Rolo made its way down under my covers and to the lowest heaviest area right around my bumm. Efficiently I rolled over it until it resembled a smooth flat disc that covered a sizable area (for a Rolo) right in the center of my bed. And there it rested until about 2 am when I awoke and somehow discovered that something was amiss under the sheets.

I'm not sure what alerted me to my new bed fellow but I quickly noticed that I was not alone. I guess if a princess could feel a pea under 7 or 8 mattresses than why shouldn't I feel a steamrollered rolo under a thin flannel nightgown? Anyhow, in the dark it resembled something else. Something very sinister that a 7 year old should have control over.

Shoot, I thought to myself, I really am too old for this. But the thought of going back to bed in that, or sleeping on the floor was not something I wanted to do, so instead I woke up my mom.

"Mom." I said in confusion, " I think I poopied in my bed. Except that it's only on the outside of my p.j.'s."
"It's on the outside of your p.j.'s?" She asked in a sleepy voice.
"Yes, I don't know how it happened..." I answered
By this point I'm sure the wheels were turning in her head. How in the world could a kid pooh outside her pajamas? It just didn't make sense. Even the allure of a warm bed couldn't stave her curiosity and a moment later she was following me to Julie (who was sleeping soundly) and my room.

In the dark she stood there bracing herself for what she knew she had to do. Slowly she poked it with the tiniest tip of her finger. "It doesn't feel like pooh." She said perplexed.
Even in the dark I could see her confusion. Then leaning ever so carefully over, she lowered her head and took a quick sniff.
"It doesn't even smell like pooh." she said, her head cocking to the side. "I don't know. Why don't you come sleep in my room for the rest of the night?"

Within a few minutes we had made a bed of blankets in her floor and while I stared at boxes of wrapping paper and other ominous objects to a 7 year old under a dark bed- I mused. What could possibly be that dark orb on my sheet? How did I manage to pull a stunt like that? Should I be proud of my unique capabilities or worried it would happen again, in public, where people would point their fingers and rank me with the bearded lady or the half-man-half-woman guy? It was all very baffling and I worried until morning.

However, when I awoke I discovered something else. Upon entering my room and staring into my covers I realized that my company had in fact been of the chocolate constitution, with tones of caramel. Where in the world did that come from I wondered...

Minutes later Julie came in and asked, "Did you find your card and treat?"
"What card and treat?" I asked her confused.
"I left you are card and a rolo." She answered.

Thankfully I found the card and realized that my special powers were not so special. I am happy to say I haven't had an accident sense.

My Sister

When I was a kid I idealized my sister. Wherever she went, I wanted to go. Whatever she wore, I wanted to wear. She was cool. She was always doing exciting things like moving the furniture in our room so it looked different. I remember coming home from school and her announcing that it was time for a change. We would run upstairs and move our beds and our dressers and laugh and listen to music. She was 14, I was 7, but I didn't really notice.

Over the years we had our spats. At 8 I was sure that she was trying to steal my best-friend Whitney when she spent the night. Julie had offered to do our hair and makeup and we were feeling pretty grown up in aqua eyeliner and mint green shadow. Julie had curled my bangs and was going to seal them into place with copious amounts of hair spray (remember the world was still reeling with the 80's influence) when instead she sprayed me directly in the eyes. I screamed, eyes watering while blue and green makeup streamed down my face, that she was trying to steal my best friend. Julie and I laugh now that I would have thought that, but at the time I wondered...

When I was 9 Julie would play Chicago songs while we laid in bed in the thick sweltering summer heat. The fan would hum softly in the background and the headlights of cars would shine through the blinds and onto our ceiling making lines that moved across the ceiling and down the walls. I remember thinking this was the life. Sometimes she would even tell me stories, or about boys she liked or we would tell jokes and laugh until she stopped answering me and I knew she was pretending to be asleep.

At ten (for me) Julie had gotten her own room and I moved across the hall. My room was scary, and I hated being alone. I wanted to share the room with her forever and sometimes I would sneak into the room and sleep on her floor. By this time Julie (I'm sure) was ready for her own room, but I wasn't. I would sneak slowly into the room and she would tell me "Holly, I can see you. Go back to bed." I would ignore her like a dog who thinks he is being sneaky, and nestle myself on the floor next to her just glad to be there again.

When I turned 11 Julie left for college. When we dropped her off I didn't know what to do with myself. My very best friend, the one who I could confide in, who let me tag along, who told me I was beautiful (even when I was VERY much not and looked more like Charlie Brown than little girl) and got mad at people for hurting my feelings, was moving on. And it killed me. I wrote in my school journal (very dramatically of course):

"words can't describe how I felt when my sister left for college. I felt as though I was trapped and all alone in a mall because malls are always crowded and when Julie left it seemed as though everybody left. This is a moment there are no words to comfort, it's a time when words run dry. "

14 years later I still love and miss my sister. It kills me that she lives so far away and that I have to hop a plane instead of into my car, or a fence to visit her. Since it's Valentines Day month, I just wanted to write this blog to tell her how much I love her and how glad I am she's my sister.

Jack Handy's daughter

So upon finding my 6th grade school journals (I was 11) I noticed that there was an underlying theme in many of my entries. Besides the comments about how if I was a certain way everyone would (finally) like me and I'd have some friends at school for once, is the fact that I write a strange entry and then sum it up with a final classic line. Like this:

On what makes me happy:
I'm the happiesed when I get comploments. It makes you feel really good. Also it makes me fell really good and specail. Aspecly when it is somebody you want to make friends with.

Or an animey.

An Enemy? What the heck? And I wonder why I played mostly by myself for those 3 years of middle school. Man, I was deep.

My ideal life...

In the mind of an 11 year old.



9/30/1993 (6th grade, unchanged in punctuation and spelling, minus the spellings "tips")

My ideal life would be if everybody had peace but I would love to live in an manshin (mansion) and have a swimming pool shing (shining) silvery in the night and be able to have balls and see the beutiful dresses swirl around and when they are don (done) all the girls would walk out to see me and my dress would sway in the wind. and I would dress in fine silks and eat fine dinners and desserts and when the day would end I would go to my hugh (huge) room and lay on my bed all covered with silked sheets then I would get up walk to my window and the breeze would blow in my face and my hair would sway and the white soft kertins (curtains) would fly around me in the wind I would walk back to my bed lay on my goose feather pillows and fall asleep.

This post is actually fairly sad (even though I laughed like crazy because I was SUCH a weird-o) since I really did feel this way. This journal entry smacks of a girl who read a bit too much and socialized a great deal too little. The entries get better and better (meaning stranger and more dramatic) in this journal and I'll add them here and there, I just can't believe I wrote this comment to be graded. My teacher probably worried, or read them to her spouse for a laugh... Notice, I add in the comment about peace in order to cover my bases so I don't seem selfish, but within the same sentence I get to what I really want; to be popular, pretty and surrounded by mysterious wind and silk? (= Poor kid, the braces, fatness (which I address more often as the journal progresses) and general oddness sure didn't help. And why in the heck am I eating and standing alone while the other girls are dancing? I guess some things will remain a mystery.

Job Hunting

If you are a company that relies on forms of pyramid scheming, commission only pay, or are willing to pay no more than 10 bucks an hour please do not apply. That being said, anyone else who desires a hard working, creative, eager young graduate please sign up here.

Job searching is one of the hardest things I have ever done. My day went like this...

Woke up, searched monster, revised resume, applied for random jobs on the internet and eventually drove out to Riverside Unified School District to try my luck at a job substitute teaching.

More or less actual conversation: (More less than anything, because they skipped straight to shooting me down)
Me: Hi, I am a bright eyed recent graduate who still believes that her University education amounts to something other than a two dollar increase at Target, or a fast track to assistant manager at Del Taco.
Her: (A chuckle that I assume means, this must be your first day looking for a job)
Me: So, I'd like to apply to become a substitute teacher. How would I go about doing that?
Her: Have you taken the CBEST? (she says with a half interested tone)
Me: No.
Her: You have the take the CBEST.
Me: Umm, is there any way around that, I'd like to start paying off my student debt before the ten year deadline...
Her: No.

Exit Unified School District. Strike One.

Enter Press Enterprise Newspaper, veritable wealth of writing opportunity? possible advertising educational job? please sweet merciful anything...?

Me and a 13 year old boy who has brought his huffy ten-speed and dog skip fill out applications in tandem. I want to peek over his shoulder to see what advantages he has on me, but he is blocking me from seeing it with his hand. He'll probably get the job anyhow because I can't aim worth beans and he didn't waste the best years of his life on a worthless degree, In English Literature.

As I'm listening to job options on my phone I discover that there are no writing opportunities (dash that dream on the rocks), the marketing/advertising job is also filled (come one, come on), but then a sales job shows up, one that I can actually live with, one that offers a chance to learn a bit about marketing and working with websites and a chance to finally have something to add to a resume. Suddenly the pleasant female voice changes to one of a scorned woman, one who has smoked and drank too much, has drooping eyebrows, has not had a date in 26 years and is frankly done with society. This voice informs me that "There are no openings." Conceding, I wish the boy luck and exit bitterly to my car. Strike two.

Strike three occurs a few hours later. I am peering over a pot of lentil soup when my phone goes off. A 714 number? Who could it be? Quickly I discover my earlier work on monster has paid off and my first job offer has come through (well my second, but I'll explain that soon). Excitedly we set up an interview for 3:15 at a "marketing company", a company who I later discover will take anyone, and won't tell you that you get paid on commission until you have the interview. No thanks. Of course they hire anyone, they don't have to pay you if you're awful. So this tragic moment turns into strike three.

So, employers, if you want someone who is willing to work hard, won't work for commission, wants to learn and doesn't buy lines like, "The path to greatness isn't for everyone," (yes, I actually had a pyramid scheme guy try that on me once, at which I didn't hold back at laughing my head off at him) than I'm your girl. For the time being I think I'll see if that paperboy will hire me as an apprentice. Looking for work sucks.

Reason # 5472 why I LOVE California

Fresh from the backyard in January. Need I say more?

Have you ever...

Taken a picture of yourself and you know it looks awful or embarrassing or whatever, but it captures you at that moment perfectly? I was playing on my mac tonight while I was waiting for Jarom and I came up with this. I'm not wearing any makeup (for 2 days now) and my hair is a mess but it's me. And I like it. And I think that my eyes say something about me. Anyhow, since I hardly post pictures of myself I thought I'd put it on. I look awful, but like me all at the same time. Is that saying something?

Yeay!

As far as I can tell I am a graduate (Just waiting on the grade to come through)!! Yeay!!

Tomorrow...

I am taking my American Heritage test and I am so freaked out. I have been studying for a week and feel no more prepared than I did when I started. Wish me luck that I pass, this is my last college final I will ever take (I hope). For now my stomach hurts, I feel so nervous that I feel like I'm going to be sick and my head is aching. I definitely think it would have been easier to take this through BYU. Yuck.

Hey there sucker!

Ahh, the holidays. The time for presents, home baked goods, parties, and girdles? Yes, girdles. Well, at least for me. This year I was forced to stuff myself into the horror of all things spandex and cotton, the contraption which makes young girls the world over shutter in terror but gives grandma a little sass in her step.

It all started out so simple. We drove to Walmart to buy some last minute things for my sister-in-law Ashley's wedding. All I wanted to buy were a few hair clips, maybe a bag of sour patch kids, and some index cards to study with when Mindy came over holding a black slip that claimed to slim and smooth. I realized that this was what I really needed to help me look good for the wedding, it was providential.

In an attempt to improve my looks, I'd already spent the better part of the week smelling like a peanut from my tanning lotion. Throughout the week people would enter the room I would be sitting in, sniff the air and ask who'd been eating peanuts. It was quite exhausting to explain that it wasn't a sandwich, but my skin that smelled like en elementary school lunch room. I knew that I could fix my hair, shave my legs, and paint my toes but the only thing that would help me to resemble the dancing girl on the hanger was if I bought that slip.

However, when I followed Mindy down to the aisle that sold the fat containing contraptions I saw something else that interested me. On the other side, the side that looked to be ransacked by desperate women who were returning home to family members who felt it their duty to comment on recent weight gain, or making one last attempt at finding love in 2007. On that shelf there were footless pantyhose that rested just below the bra line and came down slightly above the knees, or in other words there were girdles.

I had a dilemma. On the one hand I could stuff myself into a slip that was 14.88, or for half the price I could suck it up and buy myself a girdle, which would probably do the job better even though my pride would also be stuffed into it as well. Of course, in a fit of cosmic irony the sizes that remained were about a hundred smalls and two extra large, even though the box claimed I needed a Large. Grabbing the XL and the sexy black slip I trudged to the Walmart dressing room.

Removing my corduroys and sweatshirt I attempted to stretch the little black slip onto my body. The material stretched so slightly that I wondered if they had recycled used exercise bands. Catching, the material snapped back and nearly took out my eye. I must have been making a lot of noise because the attendant lady politely asked how I was doing. I wasn't sure what I should say.

I don't know if anyone else has had this happen when you are trying to put on a too small dress or shirt which requires contortionist skills, but I get cramps in my back or neck. So there I was half naked in a Walmart stall, partially paralyzed from a cramp, muttering under my breath and totally stuck with my arms above my head, pinned by my new black slip that would be coming home with me because it surely wasn't coming off. Would it be inappropriate, I wondered, to explain that I was suffering a neck cramp from trying to stretch it too much? Should I scream out, "Please, in here, climb under the door, bring the jaws of life and a slimfast!"

Instead, I replied, "Doing fine, thanks."

When I finally got it on I realized that what I really needed was not the "sexy" black slip which would have covered all my clubbing needs (if I clubbed), but instead the girdle. The tan, sheer, gut supporting, leg smoothing girdle. So I bought both, avoided eye contact with the cashier, controlled the urge to blame some fictional mother for the purchase and silently berated myself on the drive home.

Once at home I tried on my new piece of "lingerie", making the mistake of doing it in front of Jarom who was most likely scarred for life. The leg holes fit my calves comfortably, but after my knees things start looking bad. They continued to grow worse as I struggled to wrestle the stomach band over by butt and up to my bra, a task that should require an iron grip and a stick of butter. I can't even imagine what it would have been like if I'd bought the right size.

The box said tan spandex/cotton blend, but what was really inside was sausage casing. You know, the slightly opaque, slightly brown stuff where they force lumpy sausage chunks into a narrow confining tube. So yes, it smoothes the meat out, but it's sheer enough that no one is fooled about what is inside. In my case about 300 too many treats.

"I look like a salami." I say to Jarom, who's eyes are wide in what I am assuming is horror, but are carefully trying to adjust themselves to a smaller size.
"No you don't." He answers.
"Well, a sausage than." I mutter, thinking that at least that's a little smaller.
Jarom shakes his head but has the sense to remain silent, knowing that the conversation will continue like that for as long as he will answer me.

However, I must say that girdles do have their charms. Not only are they super sexy (this is said with sarcasm) but they do actually keep you sucked in if your in a jamb for a last minute fix. So much so that I was able to eat an extra piece of cake. Move over grandmas of the world, you got some new competition in the girdle aisle. At least for the moment. Tragically.