Many years later, still puzzling things out.
Still the paramount focal point of any photo.
Still fabulously attired with beautifully coiffed and beribboned hair.
Still unable to fit round pieces into square shapes.
And yet, still, the world revolves around me.
And most importantly, still adorable.
P.S. I sent this post to hub and he emailed back that this has always been his favorite pic of me and it’s because I look so determined.
Hey, that rhymes, doesn’t it? …Al Gore at the Apple Store
Of all the days to run out of the house dressed in ratty Lululemons — constructed from the WORST fabric in the entire world. They’re a powerful magnet for all the lint and dust in Southern California and seem to attract more grime than my vacuum.
I stopped wearing them as workout garments ‘cos they’re not very comfortable and they have a nasty X-rated propensity to outline my reproductive parts for everyone at the gym. NOT a flattering look. At least they weren’t the see-though kind. Click here to read my post about THAT.
Now that you know more TMI that you probably needed to — picture me in those Lululemons and an oversized “I Hiked Angel’s Landing at Zion National Park” t-shirt with a black hoodie wrapped around my waist. Oh, and my hair was tied up in a scrunchie — yes, you heard me. A SCRUNCHIE. Shhh. Don’t. Don’t say anything. I’ve heard it all before, “Ring, ring…1983 is calling.” Heard it a zillion times. In my defense, I have longish, very curly hair and a scrunchie is the best method to tie up my hair, OK?
I had 
a 1:00 p.m. appointment at the Genius Bar of my local Apple Store in La Costa at the Forum because my MacAir was on life support with the dreaded black screen of death — basically flatlining — and it needed a major resuscitation. And in case you’re wondering (and marveling) at my handiwork, I most certainly lovingly applied each and every sparkle to the darling apple with my own little fingers.
Keep reading; this story really is going somewhere, albeit in a meandering kind of way. Stick with me, OK?
Did I mention that I didn’t have on any makeup? I was in a rush to get there because how can you live without a computer — a rhetorical question, ‘cos of course it’s impossible.
I checked in with one of the many blue-shirted Apple employees and was directed to take a seat at the Genius Bar to await my personal technician. There were several available stools and I chose the second one from the end. THIS WILL BE VERY IMPORTANT SOON.
Note how close together the stools are.
I settled in and took my Mac out of its totes adorbs Hello Kitty case (I hear you snickering and I don’t care. I’m proudly 13 going on 60).
My tech, Clinton, came out for a moment to discuss my issues — well, not MY issues exactly, I mean, my MacAir haha — and whisked my laptop off to the mysterious Back Room with the invisible silver doors.
Leaning against the sharp-edged corner of the Genius Bar with the ubiquitous badge around her neck defining her status as “Manager”, I overheard her whisper to another employee, “I’m saving this seat”.
She placed her iPad down on the round stool to emphasize her statement.
“Saving it for whom?” I thought to myself. Is this like junior high where we saved seats for our BFFs? Was that the best seat? Should I have demanded to sit there? Is there anyone more important than Princess Rosebud? All these questions were swirling around in my brain.
A couple of other employees gathered around the manager and exuded nervous anticipation. “He’ll be here soon”.
My radar began to pick up on the buzz. Hmm. Who were they saving a seat for? A celebrity? An Apple bigwig? A VERY IMPORTANT PERSON?
I sniffed the air. I smelled a story. One of my former incarnations was as an investigative reporter wannabe and my curiosity was aroused.
Something was going on.
A man and a woman were ceremoniously escorted to THE SAVED SEAT.
The man sat down next to me.
His stool was so close to my stool that I could feel body heat emanating from his softly worn jeans-clad thigh.
The woman stood next to him at the end of the Genius Bar. They were both casually dressed, nothing too remarkable about jewelry — no huge diamonds or Rolex watches — just a couple of regular people.
They both shook hands with the manager. She thanked them for coming into the store. WTF was THAT all about? This was certainly different than my experience. Not that I wasn’t treated courteously, but this was a bit overly polite and way more attentive.
Now there were three employees plus the hovering manager. The woman took her iPhone out of her handbag and handed it to the manager. I noted (with my laser focused investigative powers) that her phone was encased in a J.Crew leopard print cell phone cover. Nice, but not Chanel or anything. I could see that because another employee appeared from the mysterious back room and snapped off the case, enabling me to sneak a peek of “J.Crew” printed on the inside.
Too much detail? I’m building up to the good part. Don’t leave me now!
The man was doing a lot of talking and I was only half paying attention to WHAT he was saying because I was trying to place the voice. It was a very distinctive voice, something that I KNOW I’ve heard before — a bit of an elegant and classy Southern kind of drawl, a deeply resonant sound that I found to be VERY SEXY.
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out who it was. I ran through all the names and faces of celebrities in my head – nope, nope, nope.
At this point, I was openly staring at him. He has beautiful eyes. I think they were blue, but I’m not sure even though, I swear, I was inches away. Poor guy, he prolly thought he had a stalker next to him. He could prolly smell my bad breath as I thought to myself, did I even brush my teeth that day? and surreptitiously opened my handbag and slipped a cinnamon Altoids between my lips.
I totally blanked (senior moment, perhaps?) and decided it must be someone who worked at Apple, maybe someone from San Francisco or something. Whatev. No biggie. I looked around. No one else seemed to be staring in our direction, no one was taking pics or coming up for an autograph.
Except for the voice. I KNEW that voice. Was it driving me crazy? You bet it was. I told you how close we were. I could have reached out and caressed his unshaven cheek and stroked his dark blonde/silvery hair. Nice hair.
Do you wonder who it was? Can you guess?
Finally, my tech came back with the good news/bad news that my laptop needed to be purged and the OS reinstalled and all would be better, but it would take a few days. Best news of all, the repair was free.
Mostly though, I wasn’t paying attention to anything he said ‘cos I was going nuts trying to figure out who was practically sitting in my lap, but I gathered up my stuff and prepared to walk away, still puzzled.
I hopped off the stool, turned, and walked a few steps away. I really did.
But the story doesn’t end there.
Another Apple employee walked up to me, laughing. She said I should see the look on my face. Huh? Oh, I guess I looked perplexed.
She said, “Don’t you know who that is?”
I replied, “I know the voice, but my brain won’t come up with the name to match it.”
She whispered, “Al Gore.”
Damn. OF COURSE. Stupid me.
AL GORE. Vice President and almost President but for a few hanging chads; Nobel Prize winner, author, and filmmaker.
What would you have done? Kept walking out the door? Missed an opportunity?
Not THIS girl. No way.
I turned and walked back to the stool where AL GORE and his girlfriend were still chatting with the manager.
I interrupted their conversation as I stuck out my hand to shake his, and told him I couldn’t believe I was sitting there all that time and I hadn’t said anything and it must have been because I didn’t think I was seeing correctly and that he was who he was (brilliant conversationalist, right?) because I just had laser surgery to repair a torn retina and he was like (I said “like” a LOT). Don’t you like like how speedily I turned the conversation to my favorite subject, ALL ABOUT ME?)
His GF was really nice and asked me all sorts of questions about the surgery and seemed to know quite a bit about it, and how painful it was. Finally, we talked about my broken computer, and Al (see how I call him Al now that we’re besties?) asked me if I was being treated right at the Apple Store and duh of course I said yes, but secretly I was thinking to myself, “not half as good as you were treated”, and there wasn’t much else to say after that, so we shook hands again. My parting words were something stupid like, “I hope you’re enjoying my little town of Carlsbad”.
So lame.
And so lame that I didn’t snap an Al Gore-Princess Rosebud selfie, but I thought it wasn’t appropriate — so alas, no photo.
But I swear it’s true.
He’s lost a lot of weight and I think that’s why I had a hard time identifying his voice.
Wow. Now I’m thinking if I had actually touched him, the Secret Service would have had me down on the floor and I’d be writing this from a federal prison OR you’d never hear from me again.
Did I ask him about climate change? Nope. Did I thank him for inventing the internet? Nope. Did I mention that my Yale professor son would really like a tenure-track position at Stanford and could he help make that happen? Nope. Did I mention that I voted for him (which I had)? Nope. I talked about ME. ME. ME. ME.
Me in my ratty camel-toed Lululemons with zero makeup and my hair in a curly scrunchie ponytail. Good one, Princess. Good one.
Whatever anyone might think of his politics and/or personal life, I can verify that he is VERY SEXY up close and that’s really all I cared about at that moment. And he smells good, too! Yum.
His girlfriend is Liz Keadle and in an interesting it’s-a-small-world-six-degrees kind of thing, Liz Keadle was formerly married to Lyle Turner, founder of Invitrogen, a huge biotech company in Carlsbad, famous for their vertical integration. My son used to intern at Invitrogen (when he went to UCSD and initially majored in Molecular Biology) and met Lyle Turner on several occasions.
Crazy random connection right?
P.S. I learned my lesson. When I went back to pick up my now functioning MacAir, I wore white skinny jeans and a tunic top with just a hint of cleavage and four-inch wedges. Makeup perfect, hair blown straight. Didn’t see anyone at all. I was in and out of the Apple Store in less than five minutes. A total waste of time.
*Sighs*
Let me introduce my new best friends, Liz Keadle and Al Gore.
#AppleStore #AlGore #Famouspeople
BLOG WARNING: If spiders freak you out, pour your favorite adult beverage and take a sip or two before you continue. Keep refilling as needed.
Last night in the middle of the night; was it a dream or was it real?
I don’t know what sleep state I was in, but I FELT something crawly on my arm.
You know how sometimes dreams can be SO real?
Like when you have to pee but you’re not sure if it’s just a dream or for reals and your subconscious says if you don’t wake up RIGHT NOW YOU ARE GOING TO PEE THE BED and then you’ll remember next time that you should have listened?
No? Just me?
Too much?
Well, this time I dragged myself out of whatever level I was in and woke all the way up and saw that I was holding my left arm with my right hand, which was pretty amazing in its own right, right?
I ever so carefully turned over and flipped on my bedside lamp with my left hand all the while holding firm with my right hand to my left arm. Get the picture?
Can we say awkward?
Slowly, ever so slowly, I cautiously spread apart my fingers — which by now had a major death grip on my left bicep.
OH HELL NO.
YUP, IT WAS A SPIDER.
IT WAS A MOTHERF***ING SPIDER.
BIG AND BLACK WITH EIGHT NASTY HAIRY BLACK LEGS.
http://www.outback-australia-travel-secrets.com It wasn’t this big, but that’s how big it SEEMED.
(Thank goodness it wasn’t a black widow, but I wasn’t thinking about that at that moment.)
ALL HELL WAS BREAKING LOOSE IN MY HEAD.
A SPIDER WAS ON ME.
How did he get there?
What would have happened if I hadn’t awakened?
What if it bit me? OMG.
What do I do? What would YOU do? I didn’t know what to do.
My heart was beating so hard that I thought it was gonna pop out of my ribcage and I simultaneously started swearing and hyperventilating.
I only had two arms and two hands and they were still clenching each other and trying to contain the dinner plate-sized SPIDER from moving anywhere. (It wasn’t that big, but you know, that’s how it FELT.)
I mean, what the hell do you do in that situation?
If I took my hand away, he would continue on his merry way up my arm to who knows where, and if I smashed it ON my arm, I’d have a dead spider with spider juices all over my arm.
Quite the dilemma I was in, don’t you agree?
With my agile toes, I grabbed the tissue box that was on the floor conveniently nearby ‘cos I’d been having allergies and was sniffly.
With my right hand still virtually superglued to my left arm, all those years of ballet training came into play as I plucked a tissue from the box with the toes of my right foot and very gracefully (NOT) brought my toes and my mouth to meet, kind of contorting in a forward fold OVER my arms.
Envision a human quesadilla.
Good to know I’m still as flexible as a twenty-year-old, I noted to myself with pride…
With the tissue secured in my mouth, in the blink of an eye, I lifted my right hand, grabbed the tissue, and scooped up the probably by now brain damaged spider where I believe he’d been paralyzed in terror, ran to the bathroom, threw the spider-filled tissue in the toilet, and flushed.
Bye-bye spider. On to the afterlife for you.
Who could get back to sleep, right? I was traumatized. I grabbed my laptop, Tweeted about the incident and composed a list of things to do the next day, which always calms me down. List making is like that.
Which brings us to retail therapy.
I’m gearing up for a daylong shopping excursion to South Coast Plaza (OMM) and thought it’d be good idea to start with a little local therapy.
I mean you wouldn’t run a full marathon without first trying out a half marathon, right?
After Boot Camp, I hit all of the local spots in an impromptu training sesh – Target, Michaels, World Market, Tuesday Morning, Marshalls — flexing my shopping muscles and getting my groove back.
I was pleased not to have lost my quick reflexes; whipping out the plastic in 2.5 seconds, tying my former record.
A couple of necessities, a tray adorned with roses (how could I resist), pink push up bra, cutest ever flip-flops, not too bad, nothing spectacular, nothing major, even a couple of one dollar books from the library.
No Chanel, no Louby heels, no jewelry…baby steps, baby steps.
It felt good, though…real good — to get back in the saddle.
It really is just like riding a bicycle, you never forget.
And the retail therapy successfully helped to erase the psychological trauma of sleeping with a spider.
Next time, watch out! South Coast Plaza, here I come.
This is one of my most searched for and read posts. I’m re-posting due to Lululemon’s wonderful new marketing campaign targeting female thigh size, and I wrote it just prior to the resignation of the CEO.
***I would like to apply for the probably newly opened position in public relations at Lululemon. I’m sure that I could think of fourteen thousand zillion OTHER ways to get your company some attention.
On another subject, I’m busy baking and cleaning and perfuming and ironing sheets for the imminent arrival of my MASTER CAPTAIN, also known as the most wonderful husband in the world.
ENJOY!
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Listen up, ladies!
Do I hear a WTF? A what-what?
Even in the midst of body conscious Suthern Caly-forn-eye-A, we who aspire to the “forever young” mantra know what yoga pants mean. They mean we don’t have to always think about holding it in, they mean we can EAT, they mean it HIDES imperfections and flaws while we are in pursuit of perfection, they mean we can — for the duration of the wearing of yoga pants –NOT be self-haters or ashamed of our silhouette in the reflection of a shop window.
At least that’s what yoga pants did for me. Until now, that is.
Did you think that all the attention you were getting at the gym or the grocery store or running errands was because your beauty was shining though and the universe was responding to your inner goodness and wit and intelligence?
WELL…maybe that’s true, but it could also have been this. Lululemon is recalling some of their yoga pants because of a teensy weensy transparency “issue”.
Yup, you can see through ’em.
Your (and my own) overpriced and overhyped little Lululelmon logo embellished workout wear lets it all hang out for the world to see.
According to a Lululemon company statement, the recall is due to “the coverage… resulting in a level of sheerness in some of our women’s black Luon bottoms that falls short of our very high standards.”
LOL.
The transparent pants, which resulted in a recall of 17% of product, are the fourth quality-control issue that Lululemon has had this year.
For the outrageous price of a Lululemon product, would it be too much to expect that they’re well-made?
Seventy percent of their clothing is manufactured in third-world countries with factories in China, Taiwan, South Korea, South America, Israel, Indonesia, Thailand and Vietnam.
The Lululemon website explains, “Global economic forces…have shifted manufacturing to more cost-attractive locations and resulted in closures of some domestic factories.”
Good times, y’all!
Instead of using the goddess-given benefits of Spandex to crunch and smash together all my cellulite into one hot tight mass of “muscle”, everything I DON’T want the world to see is OUT THERE. I’ve been OUTED.
Hell, even I don’t want to see that cottage cheese on the back of my legs. Now I have to be stressed out that YOU can see it, too?
And what’s worse? My confession? I don’t wear underpants under my workout gear. I hate panty lines; they just bother me. Now I learn that it’s all on display and I never knew it.
Apparently I’ve been giving it away for free, as my mom would have said. Not only my butt, my cellulite, and my C-section scar, but — oh joy –you can discover whether I’ve had a full Brazilian OR NOT.
i’m ashamed to say that I bought into the hype —which is huge in SoCal — and I’m gonna march myself right on to the Lululemon shop in La Costa at The Forum and hand them back so I can get my $79.00 plus tax put back on my credit card and hippity hop over to Target and buy several new very densely packed yoga/workout pants for about $25.00 each. A much better bargain and my girly parts and cellulite will stay private.
I don’t want to be indelicate, but I discovered that Lulus demonstrate an embarrassing explicitness in the female genitalia area that most would wish to avoid — unless you’re like Miley Cyrus or something.
I read online about several different girls who attempted to return a pair of pants at Lululemon and were forced to wear them and bend over to show that it was sheer to the employee.
That is so crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy. I think you prolly have a very good picture of what would happen if a salesperson insisted I bend over.
CHICK FIGHT CHICK FIGHT CHICK FIGHT!
Lululemon blames the manufacturere who says in response..”All shipments to Lululemon went through a certification process which Lululemon had approved. All the pants were manufactured according to the requirements set out in the contract with Lululemon,” [Eclat Chief Financial Officer Roger Lo.]
Lululemon CEO Christine Day replaced Lululemon founder Chip Wilson in 2007. Before that, she was an executive at Starbucks. She has been criticized for growing the company too fast with a resulting loss of quality.
I don’t want to put the hate on a woman at the helm of anything, but I think women in positions of ultimate power have a tendency to model themselves after males in similar positions and forget the wonderfulness of our gender.
Don’t try to mimic a male; instead, be the best HUMAN you can be.
Listen up, ladies!
Do I hear a WTF? A what-what?
Even in the midst of body conscious Suthern Caly-forn-eye-A, we who aspire to the “forever young” mantra know what yoga pants mean. They mean we don’t have to always think about holding it in, they mean we can EAT, they mean it HIDES imperfections and flaws while we are in pursuit of perfection, they mean we can — for the duration of the wearing of yoga pants –NOT be self-haters or ashamed of our silhouette in the reflection of a shop window.
At least that’s what yoga pants did for me. Until now, that is.
Did you think that all the attention you were getting at the gym or the grocery store or running errands was because your beauty was shining though and the universe was responding to your inner goodness and wit and intelligence?
WELL…maybe that’s true, but it could also have been this. Lululemon is recalling some of their yoga pants because of a teensy weensy transparency “issue”.
Yup, you can see through ’em.
Your (and my own) overpriced and overhyped little Lululelmon logo embellished workout wear lets it all hang out for the world to see.
According to a Lululemon company statement, the recall is due to “the coverage… resulting in a level of sheerness in some of our women’s black Luon bottoms that falls short of our very high standards.”
LOL.
The transparent pants, which resulted in a recall of 17% of product, are the fourth quality-control issue that Lululemon has had this year.
For the outrageous price of a Lululemon product, would it be too much to expect that they’re well-made?
Seventy percent of their clothing is manufactured in third-world countries with factories in China, Taiwan, South Korea, South America, Israel, Indonesia, Thailand and Vietnam.
The Lululemon website explains, “Global economic forces…have shifted manufacturing to more cost-attractive locations and resulted in closures of some domestic factories.”
Good times, y’all!
Instead of using the goddess-given benefits of Spandex to crunch and smash together all my cellulite into one hot tight mass of “muscle”, everything I DON’T want the world to see is OUT THERE. I’ve been OUTED.
Hell, even I don’t want to see that cottage cheese on the back of my legs. Now I have to be stressed out that YOU can see it, too?
And what’s worse? My confession? I don’t wear underpants under my workout gear. I hate panty lines; they just bother me. Now I learn that it’s all on display and I never knew it.
Apparently I’ve been giving it away for free, as my mom would have said. Not only my butt, my cellulite, and my C-section scar, but — oh joy –you can discover whether I’ve had a full Brazilian OR NOT.
i’m ashamed to say that I bought into the hype —which is huge in SoCal — and I’m gonna march myself right on to the Lululemon shop in La Costa at The Forum and hand them back so I can get my $79.00 plus tax put back on my credit card and hippity hop over to Target and buy several new very densely packed yoga/workout pants for about $25.00 each. A much better bargain and my girly parts and cellulite will stay private.
I read online about several different girls who attempted to return a pair of pants at Lululemon and were forced to wear them and bend over to show that it was sheer to the employee.
That is so crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy. I think you prolly have a very good picture of what would happen if a salesperson insisted I bend over.
CHICK FIGHT CHICK FIGHT CHICK FIGHT!
Lululemon blames the manufacturere who says in response..”All shipments to Lululemon went through a certification process which Lululemon had approved. All the pants were manufactured according to the requirements set out in the contract with Lululemon,” [Eclat Chief Financial Officer Roger Lo.]
Lululemon CEO Christine Day replaced Lululemon founder Chip Wilson in 2007. Before that, she was an executive at Starbucks. She has been criticized for growing the company too fast with a resulting loss of quality.
I don’t want to put the hate on a woman at the helm of anything, but I think women in positions of ultimate power have a tendency to model themselves after males in similar positions and forget the wonderfulness of our gender.
Don’t try to mimic a male; instead, be the best HUMAN you can be.
I’m still in the throes of harnessing my inner beeyotch (the lady who slammed on her brakes and made a u-turn in front of me got a taste of that new me) but I took a teensy break to ponder the oft-asked question: Why do I love seashells?
1. Just like snowflakes, no two are exactly alike. Some are almost perfect twins, but there’s always an individual characteristic if you look close enough.
2. Unlike a snowflake, they don’t disappear.
3. They are all beautiful in color and shape and size.
4. Shells can be worn as jewelry.
4. There is appeal in their symmetry and asymmetry.
5. For me, seashells impart a tangible tactile and visual state of bliss.
6. Shells give birth to episodes of intense creative passions. This is my most recent seashell bouquet; an organic interpretation inspired by a froggy vase acquired at a local thrift shop that helps victims of domestic abuse.
7. Once upon a time, a seashell housed a living creature.
8. Cowry shells were used as currency in China.
9. If you love to collect dust, start collecting seashells! They are a dust magnet, prolly their only negative trait.
10. A small grain of sand–a foreign body–inside a seashell grows into a magnificent pearl. A pearl is an annoyance to the shell, just exactly like the way I am oftentimes an annoyance to my son!
Since my son met and married a girl from London, his language has become peppered with UK SPK™, which I define as words and phrases he’s appropriated from his wife, her family, and friends. Because I like to be as trendy and hip as he is, if only to annoy him, I have incorporated quite a few into my daily life.
When everyone was here for Thanksgiving, my DIL (daughter-in-law) and her sister left behind quite a few gems to share.
I really love this one. You need to use rinse if you listen to a song over and over again. “I love Christina Perri‘s song, ‘Jar of Hearts‘ and I’ve been rinsing it.” Or…to use something a lot; “I’ve given my credit card a rinse this holiday season.” …or to play Candyland with your kids until it wears out, or to read the same bedtime book over and over.
Spunk is a very interesting word. For us who speak American English, it means courage or spirit or full of energy, as in “She’s full of spunk” or “She’s a spunky girl. However, for Brits–spunk takes on a WHOLE different meaning! it’s a slang term for semen. Imagine the shock on DIL’s face when a man at a business meeting told her she had a lot of spunk and she thought he was sexually harassing her!
Cheers–not as a prelude to lifting a glass or a toast, but as a way to say thank you. It’s spoken in monotone with no inflection. Let’s say someone passed you a bowl of mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. You would say “cheers”. It’s low-key.
To DIL and her sister, swish means cool–to us, swish is a disparaging term for a gay man and denotes an effeminate personality.
Reem = sexy, great, fantastic. Be reem, see reem, look reem. “Johnny Depp is so reem!”
Error or to drop an error, which means to make a mistake. “I dropped an error and left something in the car”. The family is sitting around the dinner table and somebody makes a mistake in etiquette and one would say, “Error” and then everyone laughs.
To cotch is to relax, chill, take a rest. Describing something as a cotch means it was relaxed and chilled out. A really great cotch is cotchtastic.
Amazeballs is the same on both sides of the pond. Amazing, obvs.
The last and best one comes with its own hand gesture.
This is an example. This is how you do it!
The word is cringe–but it’s not pronounced the same way –/krinj/–as if we meant to bend one’s head and body in a servile manner.
This is how to pronounce it the UK SPK™ way.
/kr-AWW-nJ/ drawing out the w and j sound. This is the perfect word to use when someone says something really unfunny and then everything goes silent, or when someone goes on and on about something which is really boring, or when someone makes an unwanted comment.
“OMG, gurrrl, I can’t believe that Phoebe got wasted and fell down the stairs naked in front of her brother-in-law. That was cringe. Totally cringe.”
What makes cringe totes amazeballs is that, to be accurate, it needs to be accompanied by a hand gesture that is very similar to the Wendy Williams‘s “how you doin”, but with one hand.
So to review, when you find yourself in a perfect situation to use cringe, you’d lift your right hand, (or the hand that’s not holding a vodka marty), and make that WW or “claw” gesture. Got it? Practice makes perfect!
When DIL/sister were here, we all rinsed “Jar of Hearts”.
I posted this for Hannukah but we make it for Passover, too. I hope you try it and enjoy! Since my stupid oven broke for the 4th time yesterday as I was making my son’s birthday cake, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make Kugel since we couldn’t get a repair appointment until Thursday and the stupid part will take a week to arrive, so we are out of luck! Stupid Sears! Stupid Kenmore! Stupid planned obsolescence!
A pic of kugel (not mine) from http://www.jpost.com/ArtsAndCulture/FoodAndWine/Article.aspx?id=290152
What IS Kugel?
Kugel is a savory or sweet pudding of potatoes or noodles usually served as a side dish. It’s of German/Jewish origin. Our family’s traditional Kugel is the sweet noodle kind and my mom’s version is to die for. Really. It’s spectacular hot or cold. It’s one of those recipes you can make a day in advance and it gets better and better. If you have any leftovers–which we never do- it freezes pretty good. I limit myself to making it only a couple times a year and I eat as much as I want and just work out a bit harder and a bit longer to burn off the calories.
Angel Boy’s Grandma’s Kugel
Ingredients
One large package wide egg noodles
One large can fruit cocktail in juice
One small can pineapple pieces in juice
One large can canned peaches and pears in heavy syrup, yes, you read that right.
At least 3 Granny Smith apples, sliced with about 1/3 cup sugar and 1-2 TBS cinnamon.
3 Eggs
2 tsp vanilla
One lemon, juiced and zested.
This is a good dish to make in advance especially if you’re also planning to make apple pie (which I am) ‘cos you can just prepare all the apples for both dishes. The secret to this dish is a LOT of cinnamon. If you think you have enough, add a little bit more! Cook a whole package of wide egg noodles and drain. Add 3 beaten eggs with vanilla; it will be super slippery. Add the lemon juice and zest to the apple slices. Drain all the canned fruit but keep the juices; you will need them. Mix together all the canned fruits. Butter one large and one medium deep baking dish. Add a layer of noodles, then a layer of canned fruit, a layer of apples, then another layer of noodles, a layer of the canned fruit, sliced apples, more noodles, more canned fruit and apples, ending with a final layer of noodles. Pour over any remaining egg mixture, and a cup or so of the fruit juices. Be very liberal with the juice. It will all get soaked up as the kugel bakes. Jason’s grandma would dot the whole thing with a bunch of Crisco, like ¼ cup, which sounds gross, but I still follow her recipe. Some people use butter, but we don’t. Other recipes add cottage cheese and raisins, but I’ve only made it my mom’s way, although I’m sure it would be delicious. Bake covered at 300 degrees for about an hour or so depending on the pan size. Take cover off for final 15 minutes. Excellent reheated and/or cold.
Since my son met and married a girl from London, his language has become peppered with UK SPK™, which I define as words and phrases he’s appropriated from his wife, her family, and friends. Because I like to be as trendy and hip as he is, if only to annoy him, I have incorporated quite a few into my daily life.
The first day he said jumper instead of sweater, I had to remind him that he holds an American passport and he was born and raised on the beach in SoCal. And the day he told me he’d ring me on his mobile I was gobsmacked (amazed). My DIL says things all the time that I need her to translate for me. When we go shopping, she’ll look at an outfit or whatever, and say it’s naff which means tacky and def something I shouldn’t be caught dead in. Mutton dressed like lamb is a veiled way to communicate to me that the hoochie momma spandex-covered-in-rhinestones dress I picked out for myself is too young looking for my advanced years. I always say totes adorbs because Stacy from What Not To Wear says it, but it was born in the UK. Of course, that’s totally adorable, right? Everyone knows they say boot and mean trunk, and flatmate is roommate, but did you know that knackered means tired? Pissed isn’t angry, it’s drinking too much alcohol, and to whinge is to whine. The one that really confused me for the longest time was biscuit, which to me is flour and shortening, baked in the oven and slathered in butter, but to Brits it’s a cookie, of all things! Oh, and DIL says, “I reckon” a lot, which I thought was funny ‘cos it’s kind of a Southern thang, but apparently it’s a well-used phrase they’ve appropriated from us and are now giving back!
The day my child picks up a British accent, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Prob wave an American flag back and forth in front of him until he once again sounds like the California boy he is!
Here’s a few more I hear on a regular basis:
bin=trash can
ginger= red hair
gobsmacked= amazed, gob is mouth
sorted=figured out
splash out=spend a lot
suss it out= figure it out
I know there are many more -isms, but I’m saving some for Part 2 one day. Unless everyone stops speaking to me.
This morning glory is the most exquisite shade of purply-blue, winding around a eucalyptus tree near our little pond and waterfall. 
I actually dug the holes and poured the concrete myself, one of my projects undertaken when my Merchant Marine captain was away. He installed the pond motor, but I did 90% of everything else. It is a very positive feeling, like I can do just about anything if I try. That’s probably my personal credo; always try or you’ll never know if you could do it or not!
Enchanted Seashells | Princess Rosebud 