A Good Purchase

Generally speaking, shopping at antique and thrift stores is an exercise in uncertainty. One never knows what stock will be available, and if one leaves something behind, it's not likely one will find it again. I became reacquainted with this universal truth just recently, when I didn't buy a cookbook at a local thrift store.

It wasn't there when I went back. Dammit.

So when I stumbled across this:

I knew I would regret not buying it. Oh, I tried not buying it. I put it back on the shelf. Then picked it up again. Then put it back on the shelf. Then picked it up again. Then put it back on the shelf. Then picked it up again. Then...well, you see where this is going. But eventually, I bought the cookbook and brought it home.

And then Roommate put it tidily away and it took me two weeks to find it.

Anyway. Find it I did and, while skimming through the recipes, I stumbled across a tiny, shining gem of a recipe. It's called "Oat and Sesame Biscuits."

NB: The author, Margaret Briggs, taught school in the UK and Germany for thirty years before publishing this and other books like "Vinegar: 1001 Practical Uses. [I know.] We can safely assume, therefore, that Maggie, bless her heart, means the cookie version of the term biscuits rather than the "and gravy" type.

And! Evidently, Mag-a-rooney, as I just felt like calling her, just had to publish this treatise on all the oat's majesty and wonder. Not only could she not keep the wealth of knowledge of the history of porridge and proper spurtle etiquette to herself, she obviously had way too much time on her hands despite buying and restoring a "dilapidated house in SW France" with her husband, Lol. No, that's his name. Lol. Seriously.

You can't make this crap up.

Anyway. Back to the biscuits.

This recipe has a remarkably brief ingredient list:

Oats,
sesame seeds,
brown sugar and
cooking oil.

The method is as follows:

1. Roast the sesame seeds in a dry pan until golden.
2. Put oats, sesame seeds, brown sugar and cooking oil in a bowl and leave for one hour.
3. Add the beaten egg--


Wait a minute. What beaten egg? Upon closer examination of the four item ingredient list, I see no eggs, beaten or otherwise. Is it one egg that's needed? Is it two eggs? Is it one egg, beaten, but only half used? It is a brown egg? A green egg? An Easter egg?

I really want to call the author of this cookbook and say, "Mags! Babe! What the hell, man???" Sadly, I do not have her phone number. Possibly this is for the best. I'd hate to interrupt critical vinegar use. In a formerly dilapidated French house. With Lol.

You can't make this crap up.

Led Astray. Again.

On Thursday evening, Roommate and I went to visit our personal trainer/sadist again. Did I mention that her name is Sandi? With an i? Possibly a little heart over it?

Yeah.

Anyway, Sandi, PT/S, was particularly gleeful that Roommate and I were in no small amount of pain even before her regularly scheduled torture session. Roommate told her happily that we'd worked out three times that week already. [I have no idea why Roommate is so happy about this. She may actually be broken.]

My lack of blogging becomes understandable, doesn't it? I was far too busy moaning and kvetching to type. Plus, it really, really hurt.

And then--then!!!--Roommate had to go and blab about my promise to Mr. Man. Mr. Man is my ridiculously dreamy-hot Swedish friend. My insanely fit, ridiculously hot, absurdly intelligent, incredibly focused Swedish friend. I promised...

Sigh. I can't believe I did this.

I promised to jog a mile.

I know!!!!! No, I haven't a clue what I was thinking. Okay, maybe I was distracted by the hotness. But come on! A mile. ME!!! Was he deranged to insist upon it? Was I drunk when I caved?

And Sandi, PT/S, was delighted. Delighted. No, more delighted than that. More than that, even. Okay, not that much. But close. And then she stopped and said, "Why did you agree to run when he asked you and not when I did?"

C'mon, Sandi. Really? Think about it. Hotness. I told her, "Because I have no hope of ever sleeping with you."

Not that I'll ever sleep with Mr. Man. But a woman can dream, can't she? Sleeping with Mr. Man is as unrealistic as my pathetic attempt to jog a mile on Sunday. No, I did not succeed. I traveled a mile, in a combination of walking and jogging, but sadly, I did not fulfill my promise. And everything that hurt before really, really, REALLY hurts now.

NB: When a military guy tries to tell you that pain is just weakness leaving the body, he's full of crap. In case you needed to know this.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Ow. Even sighing hurts now. Gah!

I blame the hotness.

The patient giggled.

A patient asked me this morning, "Do you know why a chicken coop has only two doors?"

I thought for a moment and said, "No. Why?"

"Because if it had four doors, it'd be a sedan."

Weekend with Ted

Big Head Ted came to visit this weekend. It was super. He's such a good boy, despite being 144 pounds, at last weigh in, and having toenails made of titanium. Not that he knows that he weighs 144 pounds and has toenails made of titanium. As far as he's concerned, he's the smallest dog in the house.

He and Beagle Bailey did their twin boys impression on the couch. See how small they are?
Can you blame them for getting whatever small snatches of sleep they could? They were exhausted. Bailey bow-OOOOOO-ed Ted until Ted galumphed after him, chasing each other around the living room. The seriously overcrowded and relatively small living room.

Hmm? Bow-ooo? Galumph? These are technical terms. Do feel free to ask if they confuse you, dearest.

Anyway, Bailey did not play fair, as he scuttled under furniture and through spaces far too small for Ted to fit. Ted had his revenge, of course, by bounding up and completely over armchairs and the settee to catch that sneaky beagle as he appeared on the other side. They had a marvelous time.

It is no small miracle that the house is still standing.

Ted is very likely part German Shepherd Dog, possibly mixed with mastodon. He, however, has no clue that he may well be a descendant of one the toughest breeds in the world.

Unless it's that last picture. He can handle that.

Ted. Small dog in a really big package.

In case anyone wondered:

Daytime. Daytime Theraflu.

Ahem.

LIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We have a winner!

Champion Palacegarden Malachy. Pekingese. Winner, Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, 2012. See, I don't mind the pekingese winning. I don't. But then, I was delighted with the footstool from Disney's "Beauty and the Beast," so maybe I'm not the person to ask.
A lovely group of pet owners have an email circle, to with I was invited fairly recently. While there wasn't an actual hue and cry that went up over the best-in-show decision, there were a few mutters. And this was posted:
Okay, so there's a slight resemblance. But come on! How can you not love that little face??? That ridiculous, goateed, old-eastern-European-man-eyebrowed face?

You just laughed, didn't you? You just thought of someone who looks just like this dog. I know. It slays me, too.

But still, there was a general air of disgruntlement from a few quarters. I did try to offer my support by saying this:

I do like the walking footstool, but I understand your disappointment. I'm
disappointed every time a terrier doesn't win best in show. I think a terrier
should ALWAYS win best in show. And if a terrier doesn't win best in show, the
winner should have some terrier in its background. And if the winner doesn't
have some terrier in its background, it should have some terrier-like traits or
behaviors. And if it doesn't have terrier-like traits or behaviors, it should be
friends with a terrier and hang out with a terrier as often as possible.

'Cause I like terriers. You know. A little.

Shrug. I think I have to view this as I did the 2011 Stanley Cup finals.

Next year!!! We'll take it next year!!!

Valentine's Day

This is not my wee beastie, but oh! Does this dog have it right! HRHTM would totally love these candy hearts.

In regards to my Valentine's Day, I spent some quality time this morning with my valentines, AKA the dogs. Yes, yes, I did. Because last night, around midnight, my Fabulous Neighbor called. FN had gone to the walk-in clinic with Roommate for several hours earlier that evening; she was very unwell.

"I have something to tell you," she said, "but you can't freak out."

I clamped down the lock on the freak-out button in my brain and said, "Okay."

"You won't freak out?"

"I won't freak out. What's going on?"

FN took a deep breath. "I'm having chest pain and heaviness in my chest."

"Okay," I said calmly. "Then we're going to the ER."

It was the best Valentine's Day ever. Hearts. Okay, cardiac testing, but close enough. Flowers. Sent by FN's daughter. And, considering that the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show was on last night and is finishing up tonight, none of which I will see due to our time in the ER, tremendous acts of love. The four hours of sleep I got with the dogs was merely the ribbon on the package.

Ah, love. What a beautiful thing. Happy Valentine's Day.