![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I made kelp and noodle soup. Shut up, I like it, even if it’s terrible for me and will kill me one of these days, and had my grammy been home, the fumes alone would have sent her to the hospital. My house smells like a seashore, so nyah.
Anyway, it’s a new recipe/experiment, and like all good experiments, I learned something. And like all good lessons, it involved pain, so very much pain.
After I finished boiling the goodness out of all those kelp fronds, I decided I’d leaf (you see what I did there? Get it, leaf? Oh forget it) one of the fronds in there, all chopped up for texture. And then, because it was too much like work to chop up the frond by hand and I am a lazy lazy cook, I dumped the still boiling broth with the one leftover leaf straight into the blender and turned it all the way up.
Reader, it exploded.
Boiling green liquid went everywhere. It soaked into my long sleeved shirt and down to my skin, still boiling, and started making broth out of my arms. I stripped down right there in the kitchen and shoved my arms under cold water, tears and snot (which is the same color as kelp broth, by the way) running down my face, and after recovering the all important broth, managed to keep my sniveling to a minimum while I scrubbed the poor wasted broth off the counters, walls, and blender. You know, scrubbed and licked. It was so gooood!
Then I realized I’m in a room full of windows. In my bra.
I bolted upstairs, noodles still boiling on the stove, threw a clean shirt on, keened piteously when the fabric made contact with the burns, and realized my hair was full of kelp. I am a nixie now!
The noodles turned out fine, despite my inattention, and after eating lunch and cleaning up, I had to take a shower and put on another clean shirt because I got hair-soup all over the last one, but the kitchen was clean, and I was clean, and the evidence was disposed of, and by the time Mom got home, there would be no way to tell that I’m obviously trying to sensitize myself to iodine like my grammy and kill myself with anaphylaxis. No way at all.
Except that the kitchen smells like a seashore.
And the neighbor lady called us up to say I flashed her prepubescent boys while in the kitchen in my bra. Clearly, Dear Reader, I am a pervert.
I’m making ice cream tomorrow. It’s much safer.
The kelp soup incident got me thinking about all my other embarrassing moments involving bras, like the time I jumped into the pool when I was twelve and my bathing suit top came off, or the time my ex-boyfriend came over and my dog came flying downstairs with my bra that he had dug out of the laundry in his mouth. Oh he was so proud of himself, that monster. But you know what? I don’t want to tell you about any of that.
ZIGGY: *comes flying down the stairs with my icky grungy dirty bra in his mouth and drops it at ex-boyfriend’s feet* I brought you this. I just knew you’d love it!
EX-BOYFRIEND: Is that a bra?
FISH: It’s not mine!
BRA: Why must you lie?
FISH: Shut up you.
BRA: Don’t you love me anymore?
FISH: Bra burning feminist liberation time!
Actually there wasn’t any bra burning in the sixties feminist movement, except possibly some people who thought they were imitating. It was a media rumor. But my bra doesn’t need to know that.
Oh look, I told you.
Remember how I said I was going to be making ice cream? I have the recipe for said ice cream to distract you. Look, ice cream recipe!
Cinnamon Ice Cream
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup milk
4 cups cream
ground cinnamon
cinnamon oil
Combine sugar, milk and cream, and whip until sugar dissolves. Add the cinnamon and cinnamon oil to taste and whip until foamy and well mixed, like whipped cream. Pour into ice cream maker. NOTE: the ground cinnamon won’t add much to the flavor, but does change the texture slightly and the look. The cinnamon oil is powerful stuff. Go lightly with it.
Anyway, it’s a new recipe/experiment, and like all good experiments, I learned something. And like all good lessons, it involved pain, so very much pain.
After I finished boiling the goodness out of all those kelp fronds, I decided I’d leaf (you see what I did there? Get it, leaf? Oh forget it) one of the fronds in there, all chopped up for texture. And then, because it was too much like work to chop up the frond by hand and I am a lazy lazy cook, I dumped the still boiling broth with the one leftover leaf straight into the blender and turned it all the way up.
Reader, it exploded.
Boiling green liquid went everywhere. It soaked into my long sleeved shirt and down to my skin, still boiling, and started making broth out of my arms. I stripped down right there in the kitchen and shoved my arms under cold water, tears and snot (which is the same color as kelp broth, by the way) running down my face, and after recovering the all important broth, managed to keep my sniveling to a minimum while I scrubbed the poor wasted broth off the counters, walls, and blender. You know, scrubbed and licked. It was so gooood!
Then I realized I’m in a room full of windows. In my bra.
I bolted upstairs, noodles still boiling on the stove, threw a clean shirt on, keened piteously when the fabric made contact with the burns, and realized my hair was full of kelp. I am a nixie now!
The noodles turned out fine, despite my inattention, and after eating lunch and cleaning up, I had to take a shower and put on another clean shirt because I got hair-soup all over the last one, but the kitchen was clean, and I was clean, and the evidence was disposed of, and by the time Mom got home, there would be no way to tell that I’m obviously trying to sensitize myself to iodine like my grammy and kill myself with anaphylaxis. No way at all.
Except that the kitchen smells like a seashore.
And the neighbor lady called us up to say I flashed her prepubescent boys while in the kitchen in my bra. Clearly, Dear Reader, I am a pervert.
I’m making ice cream tomorrow. It’s much safer.
The kelp soup incident got me thinking about all my other embarrassing moments involving bras, like the time I jumped into the pool when I was twelve and my bathing suit top came off, or the time my ex-boyfriend came over and my dog came flying downstairs with my bra that he had dug out of the laundry in his mouth. Oh he was so proud of himself, that monster. But you know what? I don’t want to tell you about any of that.
ZIGGY: *comes flying down the stairs with my icky grungy dirty bra in his mouth and drops it at ex-boyfriend’s feet* I brought you this. I just knew you’d love it!
EX-BOYFRIEND: Is that a bra?
FISH: It’s not mine!
BRA: Why must you lie?
FISH: Shut up you.
BRA: Don’t you love me anymore?
FISH: Bra burning feminist liberation time!
Actually there wasn’t any bra burning in the sixties feminist movement, except possibly some people who thought they were imitating. It was a media rumor. But my bra doesn’t need to know that.
Oh look, I told you.
Remember how I said I was going to be making ice cream? I have the recipe for said ice cream to distract you. Look, ice cream recipe!
Cinnamon Ice Cream
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup milk
4 cups cream
ground cinnamon
cinnamon oil
Combine sugar, milk and cream, and whip until sugar dissolves. Add the cinnamon and cinnamon oil to taste and whip until foamy and well mixed, like whipped cream. Pour into ice cream maker. NOTE: the ground cinnamon won’t add much to the flavor, but does change the texture slightly and the look. The cinnamon oil is powerful stuff. Go lightly with it.
