Sorry to say, I didn’t care for them much. Maybe mine weren’t crispy enough. I had a hard time rolling out the dough. So they’re kind of cakey. And the crème de cassis has an odd taste. It reminded me why I have a bottle of black currant liqueur in the first place: Two years ago I used it to make cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving. I didn’t like it much, either. I should have taken that into consideration when I chose the Crisps recipe.
Shortly after I put the dough in the fridge to chill, James came into the kitchen looking for his usual sample. But I had already washed the bowl (I was trying to remove temptation out of respect for the diet). Never underestimate James. He just pulled a slab of chilling dough out the fridge, unwrapped it and took a little bite.
I watched him silently thinking to myself, “Well, that’s rude.” Then he screwed up his face and said, “Blech. Tastes like alcohol!” It was only then that it occurred to me, “Oh, shit. That’s right! He’s a recovering alcoholic! I wonder how this is going to turn out.”
I’m glad to say that the Cassis Crisps dough did not result in a relapse on Superbowl Sunday.
I realized earlier in the day that the Superbowl really is just a big Celebration of Being a Man. All across the country, men sit around eating meat, whooping and hollering, talking trash and probably thinking about how big their ding-dings are. Frankly, maintaining some degree of civility on Superbowl Sunday is a lost cause at my house since I’m surrounded by males in various stages of development.
So in self-defense, I invited my girlfriend Cindy down to spend the day with me. We were an Island of Chickness in a Superbowl Sea, from kick-off to post-game show. We had lunch and talked cooking, cookbooks, family, writing, cosmetics (I swear I’m not making this up) and kids. We did watch the half-time show, but quickly retreated back to the relative quiet of the dining room. James has a big-screen TV and surround sound. Three days later, my head still hurts from football noise.
It was wonderful to spend time with Cindy. We’ve known each other since we were four years old. We lived next door to each other and started kindergarten together. Her parents and my mom are still neighbors; I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t my friend. What a treat to have her all to myself for an afternoon!
I have to say, my kids behaved beautifully up until she arrived. They played Legos together for hours. I kept pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. I thought, “no way this will last.”
I’m glad to say that the Cassis Crisps dough did not result in a relapse on Superbowl Sunday.
I realized earlier in the day that the Superbowl really is just a big Celebration of Being a Man. All across the country, men sit around eating meat, whooping and hollering, talking trash and probably thinking about how big their ding-dings are. Frankly, maintaining some degree of civility on Superbowl Sunday is a lost cause at my house since I’m surrounded by males in various stages of development.
So in self-defense, I invited my girlfriend Cindy down to spend the day with me. We were an Island of Chickness in a Superbowl Sea, from kick-off to post-game show. We had lunch and talked cooking, cookbooks, family, writing, cosmetics (I swear I’m not making this up) and kids. We did watch the half-time show, but quickly retreated back to the relative quiet of the dining room. James has a big-screen TV and surround sound. Three days later, my head still hurts from football noise.
It was wonderful to spend time with Cindy. We’ve known each other since we were four years old. We lived next door to each other and started kindergarten together. Her parents and my mom are still neighbors; I can’t remember a time when she wasn’t my friend. What a treat to have her all to myself for an afternoon!
I have to say, my kids behaved beautifully up until she arrived. They played Legos together for hours. I kept pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. I thought, “no way this will last.”
And it didn’t. They’d saved up all the fighting and cussedness for her visit. Lovely. Fortunately, Cindy has two of her own, so I have no illusions about how my kids should behave around her. I’m just glad no one said a swear word. At least none that I heard.
The funniest part about Cindy’s visit was that she gave James an opportunity to show what a he-man he is on Superbowl Sunday: He got to rescue her when she ran out of gas on the way to our house. In her husband’s electric car. Which we, of course, thought was hilarious.
The funniest part about Cindy’s visit was that she gave James an opportunity to show what a he-man he is on Superbowl Sunday: He got to rescue her when she ran out of gas on the way to our house. In her husband’s electric car. Which we, of course, thought was hilarious.
Fittingly, I need to close this blog entry today with a request from Man #2 in my house, 10-year-old Christian. He's so excited about his new bedroom furniture that he asked me to write about it.
It does look really nice (thanks to James' superb painting and my fabulous picks of furniture and décor). Christian, however, gets credit for choosing the wall color and not objecting to my good taste in furnishings.
Granted, he's not moved in yet, so it will never be this clean again. But for now it looks like a grown-up's bedroom, which makes me 
kind of sad. James said he wanted decent stuff so Christian can take it with him some day, when he's a man headed off to college. That's only eight years away! I guess I should make a point of enjoying those little men in my house while they're still here.
kind of sad. James said he wanted decent stuff so Christian can take it with him some day, when he's a man headed off to college. That's only eight years away! I guess I should make a point of enjoying those little men in my house while they're still here.
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