I have to say that I am in something of a daze at this moment. Last night, my throat and my ear started to hurt a little bit, and my day of making food and checking sources on this book job, compounded with the fact that Maren is currently listening to the Reba McEntire Christmas album that I gave her last Christmas and singing loudly in the bathroom, has only served to exacerbate my overall feeling of blaaaaah. Poo. However, once I get my bearings, I should be able to write something. I think. Whoa, that medicine is making me foggy though. So this is what it's like to be Bob Marley [Note: I listened to Bob Marley for an hour last night; between that and the Christian pop songs I was listening to before that, I was feeling pretty good because "everything's gonna be alright", or so Mr. Marley told me (from "Three Little Birds")].
Now, "where was I?"
"Australia."
"Oh yes, Australia." (from The Princess Bride) No, I wasn't going to write about Australia.
Well, if you can't remember what you wanted to write, you might as well write about Australia.
No, I won't write about Australia; I don't know anything about Australia.
Has that stopped you from writing something before? You're always making things up.
Well, I guess that's true. Maybe I should....nah. I'll think of something else eventually. Something that has nothing to do with Australia.
How about your snowpeople in the backyard? You could give an update on how their marital tiff.
But there's nothing left to say about my snowpeople; I wrote about them yesterday. Besides, they didn't last through the night anyway. The snowwoman fell over late yesterday afternoon, and the snowman didn't make it to midnight. In other words, they've gone the way of all precipitation. Ashes to ashes and flake to flake, thirty minutes of snow-rolling does not a durable snowperson make. I'll have to think of something else to write.
Well, you did make dinner tonight. You could say something about that.
I could do tha...no, I don't think I'll write about dinner.
Why not?
Because I gave some recipes two days ago. The readers don't want any more of my recipes this soon; they want to laugh at something. Something hysterical.
But you haven't got anything hysterical to write today.
How do you know that?
Who do you think you're talking to?
My imaginary readers who give me imaginary feedback even as I'm writing the very post they're supposedly responding to?
Nope.
Then who?
I'm you, you silly man.
What?
That's right; I'm you.
But, wait. That would mean...I've been arguing with myself this whole time?
"That is correct," as Chris Farley would say (from Billy Madison).
But I didn't even know that I didn't have any hysterical stuff; how could you?
Elementary. I figured it out.
How?
Look at what you've written already; you've written four paragraphs about absolutely nothing.
Hey, I'll have you know that 1) Seinfeld ran for years on absolutely nothing; I think I should be able to get by for one day on the stuff. B) What's wrong with what I've written already?
Do I have to explain? You've been arguing with yourself on what you should and shouldn't write about the entire time.
Not the entire time. You didn't actually start butting in until the second paragraph. Not to mention, I thought you were the imaginary instantaneous feedback from the readership that I put in every post.
Well, let's just say I could see that you needed some help, and I butted in, as you call it, in order to give you some suggestions.
Well, so far they've been absolutely peachy.
Those were solid ideas, I'll have you know. I'd like to see you do any better right now. Your mind's so saturated with Bob Marley's "One Love" and Zicam's cherry-flavored lozenges that you wouldn't recognize a good idea if it crawled up your leg and tickled you under the ribs.
But I'm not ticklish under the ribs. I'm not ticklish at all, and if you were actually me you would know that.
It's a figure of speech, fella. Besides, I happen to know that you're actually ticklish on your feet; you've just gotten really good at holding a straight face when people tickle you.
You know, I'd rather people didn't know about that.
Well, if you don't hurry up and write about something substantial or life-changing soon, I'm going to tell them about your....
Okay, that's enough! I'll write about what I made for dinner. Just let me get through it without any more suggestions from you. You may be me, but I'm having the last word right now.
Meatball Sandwiches
Use the meatball recipe from my earlier post in November entitled "Culinary Appreciation."
Italian bread recipe:
2 cups warm water
2 Tbsp. yeast
1/4 cup milk
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup white sugar
2 tsp. non-iodized salt
2 Tbsp. canola oil
5 1/2 cups of flour, roughly
Butter
Thyme, fennel, rosemary leaves, garlic powder
Combine water, yeast, milk, sugars, and salt in the mixer. The devil you say! A mixer? Yes, that's what I say today. The other day I say no way, but today I say what the hey! (Note: The reason I say use a mixer today is actually because I used one myself. I know what you're thinking, but it was only because of my thumbs, which still carry blisters from shoveling sidewalks yesterday). Let the yeast foam, like the "foam of perilous seas" (from John Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale"). Add the oil and two cups of flour. Mix. Add one cup more and mix. Add another cup and mix. And so on until the bread ceases to be sticky. Remember that making bread is not an exact science; you have to gauge it with you own two eyes, or one eye if you happen to be a pirate [or one eye a third of the time if you are like Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos (see Bulfinch's Mythology)]. Now, take the bread out of the mixer, give it one more roll in the flour, and set it in a bowl until it doubles in size.
After the bread dough has doubled, punch it down and divide it in two oblong, submarine-looking loaves on a greased baking sheet. Let it rise until it doubles again. Bake for 17-19 minutes at 375 degrees. For last 3 minutes, raise temperature to 425 degree. Bread should be medium brown on top when finished. Put the loaves on a rack to cool. Butter the tops and lightly sprinkle the garlic and herbs thereon. When they are cooled (and this is to avoid any unecessary cases of the hiccups; of course, if you like the hiccups, then by all means do not wait until the bread is cooled), make your sandwiches. I shouldn't have to explain that part. I hope. If you do have troubles with making the sandwiches yourself, have your mommy, significant other, or pet organ-grinding monkey do it for you. That's all for tonight. So long from me.
And me.
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