A Recipe for Madness

This is why my life is a mess.

This is the week I decide to start cooking again?  Really?

Sigh . . .

Life got pretty hectic for a while there.  My wife left me, can you believe that?  She quit to run her haunted house full time—the haunt that is supposed to have a character based on me, although they couldn’t find anyone to play her last year.

So I got stuck doing both of our jobs during our busiest time of the year.  I had a headache for two solid weeks after she left.  I sprouted a grey hair over it.  I was more stressed than I’ve ever been in my life.  And we’ve discussed what I do about things that stress me out, yes?  I quit them. 

I didn’t quit my job.  But I thought about it.  I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. 

In July I went out of town every weekend:  the annual Stockton Lake camping trip with Hunter and his family, the float trip I wrote about in my last post, Whiskermania in Louisville where I competed in the Fake Natural Beard category and lost (Ally and Sophie took first and third, respectively), and girls weekend at my aunt and uncle’s property out in Williamsburg. 

Then I had the brilliant idea to start taking secret dance lessons.  In July.  In an un-air conditioned venue.  In St. Louis. 

All the while still playing soccer every Tuesday and Thursday night.

I learned how to dance, all right.  

In August we hired my wife’s replacement (what no one can replace my wife), so on top of doing the work of two people, I took on the added task of training someone to do one of the jobs, so . . . basically nothing got done. 

Outside of work, plenty was done.  My baby brother came for a visit, I went to a “From Dusk Till Dawn”-themed 50th birthday party (Vampire strippers.  Need I say more?); a belated bachelorette party (delayed a year after the wedding due to cancer diagnosis); went on the annual two-day float with half the local REI staff (on the lower Current this time); and hiked and camped Garden of the Gods in Illinois, where I forgot our dinner, got us lost, and we had to break up a live episode of the Jerry Springer Show.  (No joke, I thought these hoosiers were going to kill each other.  It was a guy and girl screaming at each other in their tent; turns out the girl beat the hell out of the guy.)

When I’m not eating camping food (almond butter jelly wraps for days), breakfast is a protein bar and plain Greek yogurt sweetened with honey and cinnamon; lunch and dinner are frozen chicken or fish from a bag, baked in garlic butter, Slap Ya Mama, Frank’s Red Hot, (zero calories for the win!) or Archer Farms Ginger Orange sauce, and a couple bags of frozen veggies boiled on the stovetop or steamed in the microwave.  Mid-day snack is an apple with almond butter; late-night snack is Aldi’s fancy white cheddar cheese; dessert is a Greek yogurt bar or a piece of the chocolate I brought back from Hawaii.  (Yeah, I went to Hawaii for nine days.  What, you were expecting some three-part post about this epic experience that significantly altered my life forever?  Sorry Charlies, I’m keeping that one to myself.)

This is the standard diet for a female who weighs 122 pounds, and wishes to remain 122 pounds while working a mostly sedentary job.

I’ve been doing this “healthy eating” thing for a while now; I’ve gotten to where it’s pretty well ingrained in me.  I know that if I want a burger, I can have one without a bun.  On days when I do my long runs, I can have a couple beers if I want.  I know that after soccer I can either have one beer (Michelob Ultra, Bud Select, or the like) or a protein bar.  I can make fruit compote from memory.  I know what two tablespoons of almond butter looks like.  And I can recite the calorie counts for small, medium, and large apples without looking at my phone. 

Needless to say, my diet has gotten pretty predictable.

I haven’t had a hot breakfast in months.

This week, I want to do something different. 

Monday night, Eli is in town.  I was supposed to go celebrate a friend’s fortieth birthday, but I saw her all day Saturday and already gave her her present.  She lives here and I can see her anytime, so . . .  Eli it is. 

            The brewery they chose is closed on Mondays, so I suggest the new(ish) brewery in Dogtown that (still) no one knows about.  Plus, I can walk there.

            I eat a bag of edamame at home, because I’m starving after my run and no one’s getting to the brewery till 7:45.  Once there, I order the Asian sesame salad with no meat and a pumpkin ale.

            Vegas didn’t work out the way that Eli hoped it would, so he’s been living in Jackson Hole, WY, as a cook for a white water rafting place on the Snake River.  He’s in St. Louis for the night, then heads south to his family in Ste. Genevieve, then Georgia for a wedding, then Florida to help get a summer camp started (what it’s September), then right back to Jackson Hole to work at a ski resort for the winter. 

            The butcher shop is closed; it’s still for sale.  I wonder who’s slaughtering all the livestock down that way now.

           

            Tuesday I don’t have to worry about bringing lunch to work, because I’m meeting my wife for sushi at 11:30.  I settle in at the bar, and at 11:40 she calls me to say that she is still half an hour away. 

I order for her (I know what my wife likes), and finish my plate before she gets to the restaurant.

            That night my game isn’t until 9:50, so I have tons of time to get stuff done . . . right? 

            That’s what I always think. 

            I get home between 5 and 5:30, depending on whether or not there’s a Cardinals game.  (The only attention I give to the sport these days is when it’s affecting my commute.)  I have to leave for my game at 9, because it’s out in St. Charles.  So that leaves me four hours, tops.  I have to eat—whatever’s left in the fridge—wash the dishes, clean out my gym/work bag and re-pack it for the next day, change out of my sweaty gym clothes into my soon-to-be-sweaty soccer clothes, and then I can go to the store.

            Shopping with me is a singularly unique experience that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.  Like that one time when I came home with three different kinds of nut butter.  (I wanted to try out this PB2 stuff.  AND there is a thing that I didn’t know existed called coconut almond butter.  Shut.  Up.) 

            I manage to hit Aldi’s and Shop n’ Save (I can no longer afford my beloved Green Bean Delivery or the local fresh market prices), because I can never, EVER, find everything I need at one store.  The only fresh produce that I have remained faithful to are my Pink Lady apples.  All other apples are inferior; no other apple will do. 

I make it home with just enough time to put everything away before I have to turn around and leave again. 

Story of my life.

Wednesday, there is a Game of Thrones burlesque show that I’ve been looking forward to for weeks.  The event page says doors at 7, show at 8, but nothing ever starts on time, so I should have plenty of time to make this cauliflower pizza crust.

First I need to butcher this head of cauliflower and throw it in a food processor till it looks like rice.  Why I bought the biggest head of cauliflower in the store, I’ll never know.  (Yes I do.)  What was I thinking?  (MOAR PIZZA, that’s what I was thinking.) 

Then I need to boil it.  While that’s going on, I fry up a pound of bacon, grate the mozzarella, and chop up a green pepper and an onion.   

When the cauliflower is done cooking, it needs to be strained through cheesecloth. 

I have cheesecloth. 

I think. 

I rummage through my hallway closet.

I have cheesecloth!

I have . . . not enough cheesecloth.

Fuck it, it’ll have to work because I’m not running to a store right now.

The cauliflower is too hot to handle right now, so I throw it in the fridge while I take a shower.

Post shower, I make a fair imitation of wringing all the water out of the cooled cauliflower, using my strainer and the cheesecloth. 

The cauliflower goes into a bowl with almond meal, 2 large eggs (or 6 tablespoons of fake eggs, because if you’re like me, real eggs never keep in your house), Italian seasoning, garlic powder, salt, pepper, and chili powder. 

Now it gets flattened onto a parchment paper-lined baking sheet, and baked for . . . 40 minutes??

Crap, I should’ve read ahead.

It’s 7:20 right now, and I don’t even have makeup on.  I’ll have to ride down there, park (parking is a bitch that area of town), and pay.  And I’m on the bike so I’ll have to stop and fill up on gas. 

Okay.  It’s not a big deal if I miss the first 20 minutes; I’m already committed to this recipe, so I have to see this through.

Pop the crust in the oven, and finish getting ready.

With about 8 minutes left on the timer, I shut the oven off and head out the door.  It’ll continue to cook while I’m gone, and be ready when I get home.  It’ll be safe in the oven.

. . . And I’m so glad that I rushed out here, because they’re running behind.  The house lights are still up.  The cover jumped $6 from what it said online.  I could’ve stayed home another half hour, but then I wouldn’t have gotten that sweet parking spot right out front. 

The crust is a little soft when I extract it from the oven later that night; I knew I should’ve gotten the smaller cauliflower.  Or upped the measurements of the binding elements—it’s crumbling in places, particularly the middle. 

Sometimes I try to be productive and run errands on my lunch hour at work.  That’s not going to fly this particular Thursday, because my department is shopping for giveaways for our company’s golf tournament Monday. 

So that night when I get home from work, the crust goes back in the oven for another 10 minutes.  It’s starting to brown on the edges, but still soft in the center, so I give it another 10.  Now the edges are on the verge of burning, so it gets topped with sauce, cheese, meat, veggies, more cheese, and baked until the cheese melts. 

Obviously it doesn’t have the taste or texture of a bread crust, but really . . . anything smothered in pizza toppings is amazing.  Definitely reheat the leftovers in the oven, though, they get a little soggy. 

Now that’s finished, I can give this breakfast recipe a try.  It’s called Carrot Cake Breakfast Bites.  I want to see if this will travel well, for when I go to the Road Kill Cook-Off (again) next weekend. 

Tonight’s game is at 8:10 in south county, so normally I’d leave at 7:40, but I promised a friend that I would loan her some motorcycle gear to wear down to Bike Fest at the Lake of the Ozarks.  She’s dating my friend Emmett, who doesn’t have a passenger seat on his bike, so she’ll be riding with our friend Logan—the guy who introduced me to Ally a million years ago. 

“Oh honey I’m so sorry,” I say, patting her shoulder sympathetically, “I thought that Emmett liked you.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“Have you seen Logan’s passenger seat?”

She hesitates.  “No . . .”

“It’s about . . . yay big, by yay big, by yay big.”  I demonstrate the measurements with my fingers:  it’s around four by eight inches, and an inch thick.  “I’ll give you my chaps, but they won’t help for that part; you better find yourself some jeans with butt padding.”

“I was not informed of this passenger seat situation.  I need to talk to Emmett.”

So I’m leaving around 7:30 tonight to drop off this leather for her, since she’s on my route.  She will have my heavy armored jacket and my chaps, because I want her to be safe.  The boots I’d planned to take her have a huge hole in a non-repairable spot, so they’re going in the garbage instead.  (I’ve had them for well over a decade, and had them repaired by a cobbler twice.  They cost me $40; I think I got my money’s worth.) 

I also need to pack an overnight bag, because I’m not staying at my place tonight. 

Time to come clean I guess.  The day that I quit Burt’s shop, I met the guide from my float trip post.  Been seeing him ever since.

To recap, I must now stuff my car with 1) my purse, 2) my soccer bag, 3) the bag of leathers, 4) my overnight bag, 5) my laptop/gym bag because I’m going straight to work in the morning, and 6) my soft-sided cooler bag with the leftover cauliflower pizza for lunch tomorrow.  This is why I never ride my bike anywhere anymore.

That’s not entirely true.  I don’t ride my motorcycle to games since the time I jammed a couple fingers on my throttle hand on a cold night.  That was a long, painful ride home.  But it would’ve been a lot worse if it had been my shifting ankle (the glass one). 

By the time I get everything loaded up, I have just enough time to skin the carrots for the Carrot Cake Breakfast Bites, and then I have to go. 

I’ll have another chance tomorrow, right?

Wrong.

Because Friday I’m taking lunch to a friend with whom I have a standing monthly lunch date.  She’s 72; we used to work together.  I call her my ladyfriend Lynette.  She can’t meet me out because her husband fell, and she can’t be gone from the house too long or he gets scared and calls the cops.  (No joke.  She was on her own front lawn and the cops showed up because she’d left her cell phone inside and hubs couldn’t get hold of her.  Guess why he needed to talk to her?  She forgot to fill the bird feeder in the backyard.) 

And that night I have a wedding.  In truth, I only have the reception, because the wedding is at 5pm, and there’s no physical way that I could get there on time.  So I’m shooting for the 7pm reception, and . . . I’m still late.  Why wasn’t an hour and a half enough time for me to shower, dry and style my hair, put on makeup, and drive to Lafayette Square?  Because I also had to make the wedding gift (massage oil, salt scrub, and beard oil), and get a card from the store. 

The reception comes to an abrupt halt when the DJ complains that her laptop doesn’t work properly, and my date offers her some helpful suggestions.  She breaks down into tears and bolts for the bathroom.

So we head to Cherokee Street for a wizard-themed birthday party.  I wore a long-sleeved black dress and crazy patterned tights to the wedding; I simply throw on my witch hat and the outfit is complete. 

Saturday.  Also known as:  my day off, right?

If you answered yes to that question . . . again, you’d be wrong.

Saturday Manfriend and I are playing in a volleyball tournament.  (Yes I call him Manfriend.  I am 31 years old; I don’t date boys anymore.)

At least that’s what we intend to do.

In the first game, however, Manfriend falls and hears a crunch in his left knee like the sound of Rice Krispies, so he’s on the DL. 

I play out the tournament (we lose every single game), then go to Manfriend’s house to make sure he’s not doing anything stupid like standing or walking, and then yell at him every time he does.  (“What are you doing?”  “What do you need?”  “Go sit down.”) 

Sunday my folks take us out to lunch.

Can you recall when I did my grocery shopping?

Tuesday.  It was Tuesday.  And it’s now Sunday, so the ingredients for the Carrot Cake Breakfast Bites have been sitting in my fridge for five days.  If I don’t use them today, I will have wasted the time and money that got them there. 

So after lunch, I run home and pack all the ingredients in a bag and bring them back to Manfriend’s house (along with bags 1, 4, 5, and 6 listed earlier).  Manfriend proceeds to help me unpack the ingredients (despite my protests) and informs me that he already has most of those things in the house.

“Yes, but now I have them, for my house.”

He insists on helping, so I let him preheat the oven to 350° and then yell at him to go ice his knee. 

Whisk together whole wheat flour, baking soda, cinnamon, and nutmeg in one bowl.

Combine coconut oil, brown sugar, egg substitute, and vanilla extract in another.  Add shredded carrots to that one.  Then stir in the dry flour mixture from the first bowl, and some rolled oats. 

Drop the batter by the tablespoonful on a greased baking sheet and bake for 8-10 minutes.

And finally, finally, you have Carrot Cake Breakfast Bites.  (For full recipe, go to https://blog.myfitnesspal.com/carrot-cake-breakfast-bites/)

            As soon as they come out of the oven, I can tell that they won’t travel well.  They’re a little crumbly; these things would be dust by the time we got to our first campsite.  That’s fine, I don’t mind eating protein bars for breakfast; plus I still need something to eat at work all week.  The Bites also get soggy, so I recommend reheating them in an oven, which has the added benefit of making the office smell like I’m baking autumn cookies. 

They do smell wonderful . . . but they’re a little bland.  You don’t taste the carrot at all; it mostly just tastes like you’re eating a cinnamon granola bar.  Four Bites is equivalent to two protein bars . . . personally, I prefer my protein bars, but it’s nice to have a warm breakfast for a few days. 

So there you have it:  “a week in the life of.”  Next week promises to be much the same.  Explains everything.  Clear as mud, right? 

At what point in all of this am I supposed to be working a second job, let alone hunting for one? 

I’m working on a solution to that one, and it might not be the solution that you, dear readers, expect or desire.  But either way, I’ll let you know when it pans out.  For now, I’ve got to get back over to Manfriend’s house to tend to his “wound” (i.e.:  yell at him every time he gets up from the couch).