So, NaBloPoMo is killing me. Instead of writing about my weekend like I had planned, please enjoy this graphic I found on Pinterest:
Behold: The ugliest shoes you have ever seen:
• I bought a bad-ass pair of fingerless alpaca wool gloves from a local shop:
• For dinner tonight we made bison burgers and covered them in Pioneer Woman’s onion blue cheese sauce, which is basically so good I am considering petitioning for human/cheese marriage rights:
Friday low points:
• Almost returned the alpaca gloves because I thought I had mistakenly bought two left hands. I went over to show my coworker, and she was all, “flip the other one over, bonehead,”* saving me a really embarrassing trip back to the store.
• I tried to do my hair like this picture I found on Pinterest:
It looked fine in my bathroom mirror this morning, but later when I was making tea at work I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw things had gone downhill. I’m not even exaggerating when say it looked like something took a turd on my head, which I then wrapped in a folksy braid. Do these pinners not have layers in their hair, or am I just especially awful at bun-making?
*Not really. She somehow managed to be very tactful while pointing out that I’m an idiot.
Sometimes Dave texts me about the stupid bumper stickers he sees on his way to school. This morning he sent me the old religious standard, “Drive no faster than your guardian angel can fly.”
But like, isn’t it kind of God’s fault if my guardian angel can’t keep up with me, since the dude’s supposedly my co-pilot? And not even a very good one at that – where was he the other day when I caught myself doing 90 in a 65 zone? And also, why is God my co-pilot in this scenario? I feel like an entity with the ability to build planets and light shrubbery on fire with his thoughts would probably be more suited to the captain’s chair than a person who spends her free time watching “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” while covered in Cheez-It dust, but whatever.
I’m not sure I’m the target audience for that bumper sticker.
I am sure that I am the target audience for this one:
I guess technically that statement isn’t true, since clearly SOMEBODY cares enough about stick figure families to make those dumb decals in the first place.
To sum up: GET IT TOGETHER, BUMPER STICKER MANUFACTURERS OF AMERICA.
So, the pheasant we cooked the other night? Totally awesome. And neither of us ate any buckshot, so score.
Seriously, how hillbilly is it that not choking on ammunition = a successful meal? If I ever blog about grilling possum on the hood of my car, promise me you’ll stage an intervention.
Anyway, the pheasant was super lean yet had good flavor, and it was the perfect size for two people. If I wasn’t going to spend Thanksgiving devouring a turkey the size of a VW Beetle with 20 of my relatives, I’d totally cook a pheasant for my holiday meal. Here’s the recipe we used (it’s from a cookbook called “500 All-Time Great Recipes” we got at a yard sale):
1 oven-ready pheasant (as in, de-feathered and de-bulleted)
2 small onions, quartered
3 celery stalks, thickly sliced
2 red apples, thickly slicked (we used Pink Ladies and they were amazing)
1/2 cup stock (we used chicken)
1 tablespoon honey
2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
Pinch of nutmeg
2 tablespoons toasted hazelnuts
Salt and ground black pepper
Pre-heat the oven to 350F. Fry the pheasant without fat in a nonstick frying pan, turning occasionally until golden. Remove and keep warm.
Fry the onions and celery in the pan to brown lightly. Spoon into a casserole dish and place the pheasant on top. Tuck the apple slices around it.
Spoon over the stock, honey, and Worcestershire sauce. Sprinkle with nutmeg, salt and pepper. Cover with a tight-fitting lid and bake for 45-90 minutes (depends on the size of the bird) until tender. Check it often – we let ours go a little too long. Sprinkle with hazelnuts and serve hot.
We omitted the hazelnuts, since our town’s grocery stores have only slightly more variety than the food section of your local gas station. It was still good.
Make sure you load your plate with plenty of apples, onions and celery – they were just as good (maybe even better) than the pheasant.
Election Day is upon us again … to be honest, today feels like every other Tuesday except everyone on Facebook seems to think I care about whether they voted.
Speaking of which … do any other countries hand out “I VOTED!” stickers at polling places, or are we the only nation that expects a reward for doing our civic duty (other than that dumb old feeling of fostering change)? Not that I’m complaining; I know I wouldn’t tolerate five minutes of standing upright in a booth for nothing. All I’m saying is that maybe if you made the process EASIER, America, you wouldn’t HAVE to reward us with sparkly stickers. I can think of several things that would make my 2016 voting experience less difficult:
* Male models feeding me Cinnabons while I fill out my ballot
* Free Hoveround™ ride from car door to voting booth
* Servant to fill in my ballot while I use my phone to tell Facebook “I VOTED!!!”
* One Doritos Locos taco per proposition I vote on
* Complimentary nude photo of Jon Hamm upon exiting polling place
* A poll location that does not smell like old ham and urine (that one I’m actually serious about)
I don’t think that’s too much to ask of a nation that spends money on a Presidential Turkey Pardon event each Thanksgiving.
And speaking of poultry, Operation Cook A Pheasant was a success. Look for the delicious (and easy!) recipe tomorrow.
I’ve learned to live with a lot of quirky stuff since moving to a small town. For example, the radio station’s morning weather report consists of phone calls from residents who go outside and look at the thermometers on their porches. It’s not unusual to see bloody deer, bobcat, or other furry animal carcasses in the backs of trucks. I’ve eaten bear meat on more than one occasion.
I’m telling you this so you won’t think it’s weird that Dave and I spent Sunday evening trying to figure out how the hell to cook a pheasant that had only been dead for an hour.
“Make sure you remove the buckshot before you eat it!” was the only advice we received from our generous hunter friend.
Some people prepare their meat by resting it in a nice marinade; our prep work consists of rooting around the flesh for bullets while making Dick Cheney jokes.
Neither of us had ever cooked pheasant before, so we searched “pheasant” on MarthaStewart.com. This lady can come up with 40 variations of s’mores, but when it comes to pheasant, she only has three options? Serious wtf. One of them involved roasted chestnuts, which I considered for zero seconds because a) there’s no way our local grocery store would carry them, and b) I don’t live in a fucking Norman Rockwell painting. Dave finally found a recipe in one of his old cookbooks for “Autumn Roasted Pheasant” that uses Worcestershire sauce, honey, apple and onions, among other things. We plan to make it tonight … if it’s good, I’ll post photos and the recipe tomorrow. If it’s not, I blame Martha Stewart.