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So whilst shopping in a local, independent ethnic market with a very good selection of Amish and naturally-raised food, I said to myself,

 

“Self, it’s time to buy some butter.”

 

Then I went to the dairy aisle, perused the options, and said,

 

“Self, this butter looks nice and homey and creamy and delicious.”

 

And I put it in my cart.

 

 

Then I said, “Self, why not check out the writing on this here butter label to make sure I’m getting what I think I’m getting?”

 

And I did.

 

And you know what?

 

I was not getting what I thought I was getting.

 

Oh no.

 

I was getting…so much more.

 

 

THAT’S RIGHT.  I was getting “Ol’ COOCH Mountain Reserve!”

 

Mmm, mmm, nothing like some nice COOCH BUTTER ON MY TOAST IN THE FRIGGIN’ MORNIN’.  COOCH BUTTER FROM AN OL’ COOCH NO LESS!

 

Apparently Grammy’s home-churned butter is made with an extra special, personal touch.

 

And this Cooch Butter is far superior to your average, run of the mill Cooch Butter.  This is MOUNTAIN RESERVE Cooch Butter!

 

IT’S HAND-ROLLED, DID YOU SEE?

 

Naturally, I bought this immediately.  I considered leaving my cart where it was in Aisle 6, complete with my deli meat and kefir, just so that I purchase it posthaste and ensure that it would be mine, all mine, before anybody could take it away from me.

 

I resisted, but still.

 

And now this ‘Ol Cooch Butter is…My Ol’ Cooch Butter.

 

MY OLD COOCH BUTTER.

 

I think I just choked on my tongue.

 

© 2012, Genevieve P. Charet. All rights reserved.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2012 Genevieve Charet
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I really have GOT to give you a recipe.  Before I’m forced to rename my blog “The Vulgar Baby Animal Blog.”

 

Which makes it sound like the Baby Animals are vulgar.  WHICH IS AWESOME.

 

Somebody please find a way to make this happen.

 

Alright, fine, I’ll start working on it.

 

It’s not that I haven’t been cooking and baking in the new homestead–quite to the contrary.  But I’ve just been doing a lot of improvising and cooking by feel (and abomination-crafting), and it just feels silly to give you a recipe for Sauteed Veggies and Sausage and Stuff.  I mean, you probably know how to make that.  If you don’t, there must be 10.9 billion recipes for it already out there (probably not with “and Stuff” in the title–I suppose that’s my own unique value motherfucking added).  Besides, my recipes tend to lean the DIY route.  Stuff no normal people make, like gin and cheddar and breath mints.

 

You don’t have to enjoy those things in conjunction with one another.  But I highly recommend that you do.

 

But this soup stuff is worth a recipe.  There aren’t any photos–I’m still finding my new coach house mojo.  But use your imagination.  Here, I’ll help with a mental image.  It looks like soup, with floaty stuff in it.

 

You are tres impressed, I know.

 

Yours in Oktoberfestial Inebriation,

 

BMG

 

Thai Coconut Curry Dumpling Soup
Makes 3-4 main dish servings

Go Get:
1 Tbsp dried lemongrass
1 Tbsp mild oil (like sunflower seed)
1 tsp. sesame oil
1 large onion, thinly sliced
1 handful pickled ginger, chopped
4 cloves of garlic, minced
5 baby bok choy, thinly sliced
49 ounces low sodium chicken stock
3 Tbsp fish sauce
1/4 cup tamari or soy sauce
3 Tbsp red curry paste
10 frozen dumplings, variety of your choice (I like chicken and vegetable–watch the label for hidden MSG)
1 can coconut milk
juice of 1 lime
2-3 teaspoons Sriracha
1 small handful each: fresh cilantro and fresh basil, chopped

Go Do:
Sautee lemongrass, onion, ginger, garlic, and bok choy in the oils until they’re cooked down but still crisp.  Add the chicken stock, fish sauce, and tamari (or soy sauce).  When it comes to a simmer, stir in the red curry paste.  When it comes to a boil, add the dumplings.  When they’re hot through and cooked (they’ll float), stir in the coconut milk, lime juice, Sriracha, cilantro, and basil.  Remove from heat and serve.

 

© 2012, Genevieve P. Charet. All rights reserved.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2012 Genevieve Charet

 

I know, I know, BMG is so busy playing with her new apartment that she has no time for der blog and not even the decency to talk about what’s happening in her new homestead.  But wait!  Hark!

 

What is this?!

 

Gen DOES have the decency to post what’s happening at the new homestead?  Well golly, gee, ain’t that swell, Paw?

 

Who the fuck is Paw?

 

Gen has decency?

 

So many questions.

 

But first, allow me to show you what is, without a doubt, the most hideous thing I’ve ever cooked and then refused to eat.  Ever.

 

Yes, that is a real picture.  ‘Tis not your eyes deceiving you.  Wanna know what it is?

 

I’LL JUST BET YOU FUCKING DO.

 

It’s what happens when you sautee peas, onions, potato dumplings, and…wait for it…blood sausage but neglect to recall that the barley in the blood sausage renders it fragile and prone to explosion and then the whole thing smells weird to you so you start adding random condiments and things go from bad to worse.

 

Yes.  I know.  Blood sausage.  Whatever, I stand by it.

 

I couldn’t stand the sight, smell, or texture, and though I tried it, the taste was no better.  The Boy actually liked it.  Then he made me a grilled cheese on potato bread and I felt better.

 

I’ve also been thrifting, and managed to pick up a vintage black secretary desk that we plan to use as a bar for various moonshinery and home winery storage.

 

 

Thar she is.  But what’s really special about this photo is the crystal clear reflection of my toilet.  Behold, the BMG’s toilet…oooh!  It’s not even hot pink!  Ah, renting.  Each day you break my heart afresh.

 

Anyway, I like how this thing is gothic and sorta spooky.  It even comes with a skeleton key!  The Boy calls it Sweeney Todd’s Bar.  I call it a $4,000 Antique That I Paid $200 For.

 

Whatever.  Both are good names.

 

After I checked out, the employee providing the hand truck dolly thingy was all, oh, I wanted that, I thought I really could’ve made it work in my apartment and I am way jealous and all.  And then I was all, I hope you weep bitter tears tonight.

 

Yeah, I did.  I said it.

 

Whatever, his coworkers enjoyed it.

 

And ovah hyah is some adorable adorable adorable kitchen paper (wallpaper?  drawer paper?  The possibilities are endless!  If by endless you mean two.)

It’s peas and carrots!  Isn’t that darling?  Here, I’ll save you the trouble of thinking, it is, it is so so darling.  It’s a bit thin, though, and I’m trying to find a way to toughen it up so it can be used as wallpaper on the backsplash behind my stove and sink.  Any ideas?

 

God, I love you Etsy.

 

And here we are, ripening some green tomatoes on der windowsillenhausen.  Which is German for “windowsill.”  Totally.  I know, my brilliance is so blinding, it’s like, blinding.  In a matter that would cause one to become blind.

 

And…

 

for those of you keeping track…

 

The Boy and I have officially been together for 6 plus years.

This doesn’t count all the time when he was all “Are you my girlfriend yet?” and I was all “I’m scared of committed relationships after the last one and could you give me another, oh, three months?” and he was all, “Okay, take as much time as you need but OH MY GOD ARE YOU MY GIRLFRIEND YET?”

 

The Boy.  He is a patient, loving, persistent sort.  All of his friends told him I wasn’t going to make it honest, that it was classic friends with benefits BS.  I can’t blame them for thinking that.  Dude, I would’ve thought that.  But it wasn’t the case, and I’m so glad he kept trying, and so glad he understood my heart.  The Boy?  Thank you for not stopping trying.  Thank you for being all mine and nobody else’s.  Thank you for wanting me to be all yours and nobody else’s.

 

Most of all?  Thanks for telling me the blood sausage stuff was good.  I threw out the leftovers.  You’re welcome.

 

© 2012, Genevieve P. Charet. All rights reserved.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2012 Genevieve Charet
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So The Boy and I are at our favorite local saloon last night for pizza and beer, and we see a man with gray hair and a long white beard (yes, he WAS rocking the bi-color hair appendage) walk across the room.  And, uh, we’ve had a few.

The Boy: “Oh wow, who IS that guy?!”

Me: “Um…a regular? I’ve seen him here before.”

The Boy: “No, I mean–he’s somebody famous!”

Me: “What?”

The Boy: “He’s been on TV!”

Me: “No, he has not. Are you sure?  What has he been in?”

The Boy: “He’s an acTOR! From a commercial!”

Me: “I dunno…maybe he just looks like an actor.”

The Boy: “He’s on this one commercial…”

Me: “Seriously, here’s here all the time. Every time we come to this bar. He’s here. Like, this is a Monday night. And he’s here.”

The Boy: “I know, and here he is, right now, in OUR saloon, just like one of us…but he’s an acTOR!”

Me: “*sigh* Why are we emphasizing the TOR?  Okay, fine, ask The Bartender. He’s been here for 20 years.  Ask HIM if this guy’s an actor.”

The Boy: “The Bartender! The Bartendeeeerrrr!  Isn’t that man a famous acTOR?”

The Bartender: “He’s…he’s a plumber.”

The Boy: “What?! NOOO! Like from a commercial! You know, that one commercial! That’s him!”

The Bartender: “He’s…still a plumber.”

Me: “He’s a plumBER!”

The Boy: “With a squirrel!”

Me: “…Wait…what?”

The Boy: “There’s a squirrel, too!”

Me: “Honey?…You…feel okay?”

The Boy: “I feel great!  I feel fine!  There’s a squirrel in the commercial he’s in!”

The Bartender: “The plumber’s commercial?”

Me: “YOU GUYS THE PLUMBER WAS NOT IN A COMMERCIAL OH MY GOD.”

The Boy: “You don’t remember the commercial with the squirrel?  And that guy?”

 

 

© 2012, Genevieve P. Charet. All rights reserved.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2012 Genevieve Charet

Your Facebook and blog comments and private messages asking me for a longer blog post made me mock-annoyed in that OHMIGOD I LOVED IT SO SO MUCH and it made me feel important and that revved up my dormant creativity which, when it goes dormant makes me go “OH MY GOD I HAVEN’T HAD A FUNNY THOUGHT IN NINE SECONDS WHAT IF I NEVER FEEL INTERESTING AGAIN?” because I am incapable of imagining a future feeling that is different from my present feeling I am going to have to talk to The Therapist about that hey The Therapist if you’re reading this please remind me to bring that up instead of sitting down each week and staring at you blankly and going “I don’t know what to talk about nothing is going on nothing at all.”

 

Last time my therapist did as she was instructed and reminded me of an issue I’d asked her to remind me of, I got all pissy at Gen of the Past.  So, Gen of the Future, this is for that thing you occasionally neglect, you know, the almighty Your Own Good.

 

Anyway, here are random thoughts.  Remember.  You asked for this.

 

It’s not that I LIKE being upfront with the assholes of the world about their assholery.  It’s just that it hurts me so much more to NOT say something.  As a result, I do occasionally go down in a blaze of glory. The part of me that The Mother made tells me no bridge should be burned.  The part of me that I came with tells me who the fuck made a bridge that’s not fucking fireproof MAYBE THAT BRIDGE DESERVED TO DIE.

 

Sometimes when I’m feeling overwhelmed or like I need to treat myself, I sniff White-Out.  I’m not proud of it, but I’m not NOT proud of it.  It helps to balance out the homegrown sustainably raised aspect of my life.  Because clearly, I’m all about the goddamn balance.

 

We named our wifi network “FBI Surveillance Van” to fuck with the neighbors’ heads.  I did not make that up.  I took it up from a meme forwarded around by misfit Very.  I suggest you do the same.  Then maybe my FBI Surveillance Van can hang out with your FBI Surveillance Van sometime.  Like, just as friends.  Or more?  No, no, just kidding, just as friends.  Or…more?

 

The Boy isn’t around tonight, so I ate five-day old egg salad on tortilla chips and cold pizza for dinner. Being with him makes me healthier, even aside from the wonderful way he treats me, because I lavish him with love and attention and special care and then sometimes the leftover bounces off of him and sticks to me and then it’s like I treated myself right without having to try.

 

I bought a cell phone headset that looks like an enormous old-school phone with the curly cord and also it’s hot pink.  People in public places seem to get a kick out of watching me pull a footlong phone receiver from my purse.  Then again, I often confuse “get a kick out of” with “become concerned and wonder which nonprofit organization they’re supposed to call in this situation.”  Either way I don’t care because OMG TWIRLING THE PHONE CORD IN YOUR FINGERS you know you miss it IT IS DELICIOUS.

 

Don’t fool yourself thinking we don’t have the technology to do away with postage stamps.  We so do.  Adults just want an excuse to still play with stickers.

 

I couldn’t find Miglet for twelve hours and I was very anxious.  Turns  out she’d just gone exploring late at night and slept in the next morning.  I go through more White-Out this way.

 

Sometimes you have to be nice and diplomatic over the phone with people who really do not deserve it not even a little bit.  When that happens, I don’t  No, no, I still do it.  Sometimes.  When absolutely necessary.  And when I do, I end the phone call as sweetly as possible and click off the call and then continue to talk into the phone receiver with all of my vulgar, creative, nasty, absolutely true thoughts.  Then I put the phone down.  I know what you’re going to ask, and the answer is, yes, this has blown up in my face before.  I know what you’re going to ask now, and the answer is, no, I ultimately did not regret it.

 

Sometimes I let situations in my life get more out of control than they need to because I realize in the moment that it will make a good story later.

 

© 2012, Genevieve P. Charet. All rights reserved.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2012 Genevieve Charet

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