A couple weekends ago, Chris and I were holed up in a Truckee hotel for a night during one of his mountain bike races. He was in the bathroom tending to one of his “it’s cool, I think a butterfly bandage should hold it together” injuries (ew) while I distracted myself with Food Network in the bedroom. Because that’s what married people do in swanky euro-mod hotel rooms. First aid and cable.
Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives was on, of course (is it not always?), and exclamations like BANGARANG and BOOYAH and TAKE ME TO FLAVORTOWN were shooting out of the TV like Cyclop’s laser beams.
HOLY CLAM, BATMAN.*
GIVE THAT BAD BOY A TASTE.
And that’s when it hit me.
Blind people probably think Guy Fieri is a porn star.
Is that an OK thing to have people believe?
I don’t think so. I think not at all is that OK.
So, Public Service Announcement: Guy Fieri is the host of a food show. Tell your blind friends.
Ok guys. Here it is: the post (or rather, posts) that’s officially gonna take your “waaaaaah it’s already August, Poopiecakes McBacktoschool” and turn it into “it’s peak sweet corn season beeeyahs, mah summer’s juuuuuuust getting started!!”
Because a summer without corn is just pool hair and ReddiWip.
Ear cuffs and Dippin’ Dots. Rollerblades and boy bands.
Oh, sorry, thought we were listing our fave childhood shit.
Are you still there?
The shameful thing is that corn actually isn’t all that commonplace in our house, even when it’s at the peak of candy-sweet, 10-for-a-dolla awesomeness. The simplest explanation would be that Chris is so neutral on corn that it breaks my heart a little each time he fails to give it even a passing glance. But really, it’s because corn in our house turns into, without fail, all the corn in my belly. Ever. Like six ears in one sitting and then it’s at least half an hour of “baaaaaaaaaaabe whydyoulemmeeatsomuch cooooooooooooooooooorn.” And then some corny bathroom comment, because together Chris and I have a combined age of, like, 11.
This season, though, I was lucky enough to find corn in our crisper more than once, and after seeing vendor upon vendor packing sweetly charred kernals of mayo-draped corn into tiny plastic cups along the Malecon, I kinda had to follow suit.
Oh heyyo friendsies! Long time no chitchattle. Somehow those five days of Mexican bliss I referred to in my last post stretched out into more than a week of no bloggy blogging – and real talk, it was kind of splendid. Not that I don’t love hanging ‘round these parts talking about donuts and dranks, but it is just toooo nice to have someone else – yeah, like someone that’s not me – do the making of the dranks and the delivering of the dranks while I do the lounging on the beach. Which, I’ve determined, I kick major ass at, BTW. I am a superb beacher-upper. Er. Play on, playa. Heh. Also, pirate ships. And THE BEST TACOS I’ve ever had, ever, ever. WhAt!
So I made these croquettes (can we call them ‘quettes?) approximately forever ago with the intention of posting them up sometime before all that #soletspigout bidnit, and then. Well, life happened or something. And by life happened, I mean Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Because I’m like three seasons behind. And who needs sunshine.
This morning I woke up certain that I was still dreaming. A glimpse outside revealed a slate sky heavy with anticipation, a thick-striped greenbelt under the window screaming words like verdant and lush that have become few and far between on the West Coast.
And then: the staticky buzz of cicadas, audible even over the light hum of the outer belt.
Ah, yes. The midwest. Again. It’s no dream.
More years ago than I care to count, Chris and I packed up our tiny college apartment just outside of downtown San Luis Obispo and dove (or rather drove) into a new life — a presumably grown-up life — in Columbus, OH. We did it for our jobs, first — and for the small thrill that accompanies decisions that are ultimately the result of late night brainstorms brimming with youthful proclamations: we’re young! we’re nimble! extra ranch and peperoncinis!
Living in Ohio was both exactly and not at all what we expected. It was opportunity — to advance our careers, to buy our first house, to explore a part of the country we had previously (perhaps selfishly?) ignored. And to forge incomparable friendships. But it was also isolation — from our families, our friends, In-N-Out Burger, literally everything that we knew as home, all of which was still back in California.
The four years we ended up spending out here taught us more about ourselves, about each other, than we ever could have guessed. Missing our families transformed into becoming each others’ family. Our boy-meets-girl story was slowly filled in with all those nothing really anecdotes that make up a history. Riding bikes in the thick of a summer thunderstorm. Shoveling — or rather, not shoveling — a drive. (Rookie mistake.) Crying over a dented box of Cheez-Its in the middle of the grocery store. A story for another day, I promise…
In case you’ve been snoozing under a rocksicle, it’s Popsicle Week all over the interwebs, and things are getting frenzied. Nicole made a popsicle that tastes like FREAKING THAI PEANUT SAUCE, for crying out loud. I think she might have just secured her spot as my new bff, which I’m almost certain was her intent when she was like, I’m gonna make me an ice pop that’ll taste real good with some cilan-lan on top.
Ok, the cilan-lan was me. But I’d like her even more if she said it. (Do it, Nicole. It’s a fun time.)
Should we talk about Amber? She shoved cookies all up in her lemony shiggies, and it’s blowing my mind. She says it’s akin to chomping on a frozen lemon bar. I mean, I guess that’s cool if you like stupid rad hybrid desserts and stuff. No big deal.
Tracy went the yogurt route. Seriously so pretty.
Ileana SMOKED — uh, yeah, sah-moked — up some peaches then got all chicka-chicka-boom-boom, will there be enough room for cream? You better believe it.
Erika milked, like, three cereals and stole my heart along the way. (I have nipples, Erika, can you milk me? Oh relax, itsaquotepeople!)
And should we even talk about Molly’s mochi matchamajiggies? That girl should be the official mascot of hapa chicks everywhere, because she makes us look goooooood. She’s also good looking. And just a nice person, or so my many hours of blog-stalking have led me to believe. Wink.
If you haven’t gathered, I kind of love Popsicle Week and can’t thank Billy enough for hosting this jam-out for the second year in a row. He’s that badbadbadbadbadboy that makes us feel so good (you know he makes us feel so good) and a kind and patient soul for doing all the heavy lifting so that the whole
37 40 of us — yep, 40 bloggers in all! — could virtually clink stick food and get to know each other.
And all of you, of course!
You’re so lucky, guys. I’ve got a snap-ton of snazzy stuff headed your way in the weeks to come, like more infused, fruity drinks (since you were kinda bananas for the last one), a pair of pretty, spring soups that will make quick work of all those CSA veggies, and even a CAKE. Yeah, cake stuffs … Continue reading
UPDATE: This contest is now closed. Thanks to all who entered! Have you entered to win that Q Squared NYC Breakfast in Bed serveware set in our Luv Yo Momma Giveaway? Seriously? Get onnnnnnnn it! 🙂 Is it summer yet? My Vitamix thinks so. It’s been running all morning blending up tasty drinks that just scream … Continue reading