I'm Gonna Put a Melting On You

This heat we have been having is beyond unbearable. About as unbearable as business being slow the week before Father's Day. I suppose Daddy's are slated for golf balls and ugly ties, not sweets. Poor daddy's. I suppose the silver lining to business dragging is that I don't have to bake very much in this weather, which gives me plenty of time for silly melty face pics with my girl!


















Got a great piece of news today however. My brownies, which have been selling at Dylans's Candy Bar since January are now going to be sold home-style, cut from a pan at purchase, and not the typical celo bag. I am so in love with this idea, they'll look fresher, will move faster, and best of all, I'll no longer have to print out and individually cut out each sticker (no, there were no stickers in this particular dimension, believe me, I looked). Thank you Brownie Gods.
Back to melting. . .

I'll Be Loving You. . .

In Loving Memory of
MKS
1/7/1917 - 6/9/2003

I am raising my glass of chilled pink wine: here's to Yugoslavia, and your beautiful smile and laugh; here's to long weekend visits with you, and your belief in me; here's to your generosity, Yugoslavia, and your grace; here is to your strength, and your wisdom; here is to your flamingo pink lipstick worn to an itsy nub and your t-strap Ferragamo shoes; here is to the manicures you gave me as a little girl, and to attempting to teach G. and me 'The Lords Prayer' (forgive us 'snot' our trespasses); here is to your hidden stashes of candy, your flimsy nighties, your sneaking off for a smoke, and Yugoslavia; here is to everything I haven't mentioned, or have forgotten to mention. Here is to the wonder that was you.
I'll love you. . .always.

Drinks Are On Me

When the mercury is about to pop its cherry, and my small white-girl butt feels as if it stuck to the backs of my ankles, about all I want to do is drink. While water is the staff of life, my body and brain don't function very well on H2O alone. I have two drinks that I love to make. One helps me to get me thru these sultry days; the other to calm me during the nights.

I first tasted the Morir Soñando ( translates to 'to die in a dream') when I was little girl. It was one of those flavors that I recalled throughout much of my life but never came close to tasting again until I worked in the kitchen of Le Bernardin. It was often made up by one of the Dominican cooks who worked the morning shift. On the days that I was able to work a morning shift, and get there early enough after dropping my kids at school, I would be able to enjoy this gorgeous concoction of milk, sugar and OJ over ice, served in a tall acrylic tumbler a la 70's diner, it really is unsurpassed by most.


Morir Soñando: serves 2
* 2 cups orange juice
* 1/4 -1/2 cup of sugar (to taste)
* 2 cups whole milk
* 2 1/2 cup of ice cubes

While very simple to make, there are a few tricks that must be adhered to. The milk must be very cold, and you have to allow for some time for the sugar to the milk to dissolve before mixing in the juice. After the milk/sugar mixture has chilled, add the ice. In a slow stream, add the OJ while mixing all the while. Pour into two tall glasses (along with the ice), take a seat, put your feet up and enjoy.


This next drink, La Paloma, is a cocktail, which on a day like today, I should have made hours ago.
I like to eyeball this one when I make it.

Fill an old fashioned with ice. Squeeze the juice of one lime and drop lime half in glass. Add about 2-3 fingers of Herradura Tequila--I have used the gutter wash brands with this drink as well, and it's still pretty damned good. Top off with Jarritos brand Taronja (grapefruit) soda ( I would have linked ya, but in this age of Mercury Retrograde, I am lucky if I can still put my pants on). Add straw, stir lightly, dab a bit on your pulse points, and you are good to go.

Now chillll. . .

Lions and Tigers and Mercury is in Retrograde, Oh My!

I don't usually give much credance to the juxtaposition of the moons and the stars above, but after the oddities and mishaps of the past week and a half or so, I think that there might just be something to it. Mercury in Retrograde, for those of you who don't know what it means, means simply this: Murphy's Law on Crack--if it can go wrong, it will go wrong. For starters and most relevant here, is that I have not been able to post. Everything I write turns to jibberish. I am using a less superior browser now, but at least I can get my thoughts down now and not have them turned into a series of irritating question marks. Here is a short list of what has transpired.

~ a class trip to the Bronx Zoo with my girl, S. and all that we saw were lumps of fur resting in the shady brush. Check the pic, seems my camera was on the blitz too.
~ a cancelled second date (because of 'dinner with a client') and no rain-check (ouch) with someone I thought very promising. what I do I know? nothing. clearly. I'll take some small small comfort in what my friends Z and J always say (or would say if they shared one brain) 'oh, he must be gay!! you're hot milk, mommy!'
~ a big and complicated snafu invovling sample boxes that arrived too late, and a request for brownies in said sample boxes for a product/pr trade also came too late.
~ an insane rush to get 300 brownies to Rachael Ray to film a 'Snack of the Day' segment, only to find that it won't be aired in the Fall. c'mon people, mama needs income now. make that yesterday.
~ half a day with my cell phone in a 'black-hole'--missed a total of almost a dozen texts and phone calls.
~ my trusty printer has taken a vacation, light are on but nobody is home!


well, this is completely unfinished, but at the risk of not beign able to post this later, I am putting it out there now, and will finish it off later gator. or not. I'll just blame it on that big bully in the sky--Murphy McMercury

Ramen Love With You

I don't know about you, but I am feeling a chill today. Blue skies with a few wisps of clouds, a soft breeze, 63degrees--a perfect day. But I am cold down to my bones. Fortunately, I have my secret weapon, and it's not my nappy-ass sweater or my stripey socks, it's a hot steamy bowl of Ramen Noodles. I have found very few things, save for submerging myself into a hot bath, that help with a chill. Beyond the warmth of the spicy and tongue preserving saltiness of the broth, it must have something to do with the msg. I bet that could help with the energy crisis and global warming and fuel costs. We can all go back to the days of cold-water flats and keep ourselves warm with ramen fuel. Well, I'll leave you to ponder that, as my Ramen awaits.

A Stache Grows in Brooklyn

Lately I have noticed a ridiculous number of men sporting thick furry strips on their upper lips. Gone is the hirsute uber hipster full on beard (praise be to Allah, Buddha and Ganesha on that one). Seems they have been shunned for a trimmer sleeker slip of the fuzz. I am not sure how I feel about this. It's also curious how I have seen most of these men at McCarren Park, running about the track in black socks. Really. Feels kinda dirty to me. Really (yes, I meant to say it twice). Hence, the stache is dirty. Maybe these crumb-catchers are being grown for humanitarian purposes? One can only hope.

Thou Shalt Not Covet

OK, for the record, I was raised by Hippie-Freak-Heathens, very well educated, highly evolved artist/intellectuals, but HFH's none the less, I mean c'mon, my father wanted to name me Lotus Blossom for *uck sake...but I am digressing. My point, if I have one here, is that we never went to church, save for the three times we went with Baba and Gogo during our rare Christmas visits. So for me, to feel that I have done something wrong, to know that I am feeling something wrong, well that comes from the moral fiber within myself. I am having feelings for an inanimate object, a material thing. While I may not be 'sinning', I can tell you my obsession with this frilly vermilion postage stamp of a trench coat (3/4 sleeves? are you kidding me?!) feels pretty dirty, OK, not 'dirty' per se, but there are certainly other things more deserving of my thoughts and click thru time than of fantasizing about wrapping myself in a silly trench of cotton with a bit of nylon for sheen, the ruffle trim accentuating my decollete, those three-quarter raglan sleeves allowing admirers to, well, admire my slender wrists, and that smart self-belt which tucks into a bow a the waist, its length falling to my knees. I want this coat. I must have this coat. Oh, the things that might happen if I had this coat. Thankfully, my moral fiber (yes, it's probably more of a mores thing, but who really cares), that 'single mommy with just enough scratch for the essentials' fiber, keeps me from slappin' down the plastic। Sighhh; I suppose I'll go flagellate myself now.