Vegetable Curry In A Crockpot. (You heard me--CROCKPOT.)

Yeah, I'm crockpotting today. Soaking some veggies for 7 hours and hoping it turns out edible.

There were crockpot incidents along the way. The first being that my crockpot (which is my mom's orange crockpot from many, many years ago. The handle is broken off so I have to use pliers to turn the settings from low to high to off, but great sentimental value) wasn't big enough for the recipe. But I was dumping veggies in as I went - chopped onion, chick peas, 4 cups butternut squash, red pepper, etc. and it wasn't until I got to the second to last ingredient that I realized it wasn't going to all fit. So I dumped everything into a big bowl and tried to take out even proportions of each veggie so it would all still balance in the end.

This never happens on Rachel Ray's show. (Then again, Rachel probably also doesn't hack a butternut squash to pieces like it's the golden girl in some horror flick.)

So now... we wait. I'm resisting the urge to stir the crockpot. That's the whole point of crockpotting--you put it in and walk away. But maybe just one stir. Just to make sure things are cooking evenly.

If this doesn't work out, no worries. I made a chilled mango noodle salad last night that was supposed to serve 4, but the Asian rice expanded when cooked and I could feed half of Asia with the leftovers I've got in my fridge.

I'll probably get offered my own cooking show in the near future. "Dena's Kitchen Disasters and How to Fix Them." Stay tuned.

Lucy's Favorite Game

When I came home yesterday from my run in Greensboro, I asked Blair what he'd done with his morning.

"Oh, little of this, little of that," he said. "I straightened the house, got on the computer, read the paper and--oh yeah--played with Lucy."

This was news. Lucy is not really a playful cat. She's more of a "feed me now" type critter.

"What did you play?" I asked.

"We played her favorite game of "Just try to pet me, you rat bastard," said Blair.

I cracked up. That in fact is Lucy's favorite game. She meows and meows at us to pet her, but when we sit on the floor with the brush, she inches just out of our reach, so we end up chasing her around the room an inch at a time, trying to comb her.

Lucy wandered into the room. "Did you play with Daddy?" I asked her. "Did you win?"

She threw me a bored look. I always win, it said. Now how about a little mid-morning snack?

That's our girl.

Back When I Was A Kid...

Lazing around the house this morning, overcast sky, Blair and I decided to drive into town (C'mon Ma--round up the young'uns. We'e a headin' to the big city!) and see Hancock.

Having decided this, Blair hopped online and called out the five theatres where the movie was playing, along with times. He also read some posted reviews out loud to me.

"What did we do before the Internet?" I asked. It seems so long ago when one had to--gasp!-call the theatre to hear the movies and their times. And you would sit on the phone for five minutes while happy pre-recorded movie man listed the times for every other movie on the planet. That's if you were lucky enough to get through. Often you were put on hold because everyone else was also calling in to see what movies were playing.

As far as early reviews, your only options were the critics (and you can't believe a word they say), or friends who had already seen the movie.

The matinee price today was $6.25. I'm going to age myself but I can remember being young and my cousin and I freaking out because movie prices had finally hit a dollar. That's back in the day when I'd go to see a movie I liked several times. I saw the original Star Wars seven times in the theatre in 1977, which was nothing compared to my cousin Andy who I think saw it something like 18 times in two weeks. These days it would be cheaper to fly the producer in for a private in-home screening versus paying to see it 18 times in the theatre.

That's supposing a movie is ever made I'd care to see 18 times. I'm tired of my summer movie options being limited by the viewing demographics of 13-year-old boys who apparently grow bored if a car or building isn't blown up every five seconds.

Crotchety? You betcha. Cause in MY day, young 'uns, they knew how to make a movie...

Leaving the Bed is Overrated

With the exception of trundling to the kitchen to forage for food, the briefest of potty breaks, and a one-hour dash to yoga, I have not left the bed since 7:30 this morning. How cool is that?

I've discovered I don't need to leave the bed to work.I've got my laptop propped on my legs, projects spread across the space beside me, cell phone by the beside table, and the cats take turns jumping up onto the bed to sleep at my feet. I don't know why I didn't think of this years ago...

Lest you think I'm some sort of loser, I'll point out that the bed is made, and I am showered, dressed, with teeth brushed and hair combed. (Kinda. I'm still growing it out. Big hair. Big, big hair.)  I've simply chosen to recline on a Sterns & Foster double-padded mattress versus sitting stiffly upright in a squeaky office chair. I've got three pillows stacked behind my back, a comforter spread across my feet, and a stunning view of the vines that threaten to overtake the grape arbor outside our bedroom window.

Oh sure, I might feel the beginning of bed sores developing across my a--, but this is a small price to pay for the luxury of being able to close my eyes, roll my head back, and snore for 15 minutes on demand. Again--so cool. 

Every two to three months, our cat Lucy picks a new place in the house to call "hers." Be it a corner of the good sofa, the rug in the kitchen, or spread-eagle at the bottom of the stairs, once she picks a spot, she can't be moved from it. I suspect something similar happening here.  I might need an intervention at some point to get me to leave the bedroom.

In the meantime, if you need me, call my cell.

The main phone is in the living room and I can't reach it from bed.