ladycaviar

It's so much more rewarding cleaning other people's kitchens than my own. Other people are grateful and most times, they pay you. Nobody does that here. Shit. And there are so many damn more dishes to wash when I'm in the throes of a cooking streak.

I've made chili, countless soups, cream pies, chicken pot pie, biscuits, casseroles, pastas with nine million sauce variations, bread, and tonight, mint chocolate chip ice cream with my fun appliances and fresh ingredients. [Shh! don't tell anybody she can cook or sew -- metal Laurels are supposed to be handicapped in the traditional Laurel arts]. You'd think that would make me happy, but there's this crazy Laurel voice in my head that says "you didn't grow your own tomatoes..." or "you didn't make your own stock" or the latest one, "you didn't butcher your own hog." What the hell is wrong with me? I'm not gonna butcher a fucking hog.

But there's this line of thinking that I'm obsessed with now -- where did this come from? And can I make it? Bread, ok, I made bread. Now can I make the things that make bread? Can I make flour? Well, technically, I can -- there's an attachment to a Kitchenaid mixer where you can grind flour if you are so in the mood, but I don't have one, and I don't think I want one. Can I make yeast? Oh, for the love of all that's holy, I can't think of a more disgusting project unless it's raising and butchering the aforementioned hog. So much for bread.

Chicken soup? Ruling out raising livestock, I've made chicken stock. Growing onions is a pain in the ass, but I could do that. I wonder how hard it is to grow celery. Carrots grow easy, but they never look like they do in the grocery store when they come from the back yard. Then again, who cares when it's soup. Can't grow rice in the back yard, but I could make pasta noodles. Starhelm thought making pasta was Playdoh for grownups...

The last batch of chili was made with some weird old salisbury steaks I found in The Man's freezer. Nice use of leftovers, but let's see. I prefer to make chili with venision, but I don't like to dress my own deer. I don't really want to grow chili peppers in the backyard, and I don't even know what the hell cumin is or how you grow it. Hell, it might even be mined for all I know. Onions again, and tomatoes, and beans aren't that hard to grow.

Thinking of all that gardening is tiring, as is all the damn dishwashing that goes with the cooking. I so want a working damn dishwasher. I can see how modern life is totally different because we have dishwashers and don't have to bake bread every damn day. I don't think people take that into account enough when they fantasize about the past. Every day is pretty fucking boring when all you do is bake bread and wash dishes. Not a shitload of glory there.

Obessing about where food comes from is distracting me from the several projects with deadlines that I don't want to do. One project is for a total asshole, and as for the rest it's either too cold, or I don't have enough room to set up right to properly finish the damn things. Insert tired whining here, I suppose. I got a houseful of broken individuals who don't feel well -- Trevor's injured from painting someone else's house, the cat's more arthritic than usual, and I need a new neck but the factory doesn't make replacement parts. This hot-one-day frozen-the-next weather has got to quit.

On the other hand, I got some kickass ice cream, rich and creamy with no artificial ingredients, guaranteed to clog your arteries on your way to heaven. Guess I came out ahead. :)