After typing that in the title line, it reminded me of Alice Cooper's
line: "I can't even think of a word that rhymes!"
I guess even a talent like Alice draws a blank sometimes.
In every creative outlet, I suppose, one runs the risk of a stretch
of uninspired efforts.
In baseball, you can't hit the wide side of a barn.
You strike out every chance you get, your every
throw goes wild.
In acting, they call it drying up: suddenly, you
forget your lines and flop sweat breaks out of every pore.
With writers, it's called writer's block: you sit down, but the words don't come.
Doesn't matter how long you sit BIC (writers' code for
Butt In Chair), your monitor stays a boring blank. And if,
perchance you manage a paragraph or two, the words come
out like my firstborn (grudgingly and agonizingly slow) and
you delete them anyway. Not that I deleted my daughter, mind you--
though when she was thirteen, I considered it.
There's no audience to witness your blank brain, but it can
be devastating nonetheless.
I have experienced all of these unfortunate situations (don't ask)
and I have a feeling that what has been happening in
my kitchen is more of the same old crap in a different room.
In spite of Mighty Mac (who was introduced in the recent
past) I have been having one FAIL after another. It stinks.
I guess I should expect it. I've tried more new recipes
in the past six months than I've attempted in my entire
cooking life, and no one hits every one out of the ballpark, not
even my favorite Detroit Tiger, Maglio Ordonez. (That man
is so cute, I could eat him with a spoon.)
If you check in the archives, you'll see The Unfortunate
Chocolate Stout Cake Debacle. That was a prime FUBAR if
ever I saw one. Little did I know that
hunk of hideousness would become the first of several
traumatic events in the kitchen.
Yes, I've had a string of less-than-stellar at-bats lately: a
wanna-be Rice Krispie Treat contender, Peanut
Butter Cheerios Squares (white sugar and honey replace
the marshmallows-don't try to imagine how sickeningly sweet it
was-I will not be responsible for the trauma you suffer) that was a
dismal chunk of glued-together o's.
This was followed by the marginally bad Peaches and Cream Muffins,
which was followed by Chicken and Spinach with Pasta Rags,
a Betty Crocker recipe, no less. My family responded to that mess
with the sound made only by cats when they cough up a hair ball.
There were two other putrid dishes so evil that
I have apparently blotted them out of my conscious mind as I can
no longer remember their names in order to warn you about them.
Anyhoo, I'm going to keep swinging. Sooner or later I'm bound
to connect with something, and the sound of a Louisville Slugger
smacking that leather ball is the one of the sweetest sounds
I know.
Right, Mags? (Good luck this season, baby!)***
line: "I can't even think of a word that rhymes!"
I guess even a talent like Alice draws a blank sometimes.
In every creative outlet, I suppose, one runs the risk of a stretch
of uninspired efforts.
In baseball, you can't hit the wide side of a barn.
You strike out every chance you get, your every
throw goes wild.
In acting, they call it drying up: suddenly, you
forget your lines and flop sweat breaks out of every pore.
With writers, it's called writer's block: you sit down, but the words don't come.
Doesn't matter how long you sit BIC (writers' code for
Butt In Chair), your monitor stays a boring blank. And if,
perchance you manage a paragraph or two, the words come
out like my firstborn (grudgingly and agonizingly slow) and
you delete them anyway. Not that I deleted my daughter, mind you--
though when she was thirteen, I considered it.
There's no audience to witness your blank brain, but it can
be devastating nonetheless.
I have experienced all of these unfortunate situations (don't ask)
and I have a feeling that what has been happening in
my kitchen is more of the same old crap in a different room.
In spite of Mighty Mac (who was introduced in the recent
past) I have been having one FAIL after another. It stinks.
I guess I should expect it. I've tried more new recipes
in the past six months than I've attempted in my entire
cooking life, and no one hits every one out of the ballpark, not
even my favorite Detroit Tiger, Maglio Ordonez. (That man
is so cute, I could eat him with a spoon.)
If you check in the archives, you'll see The Unfortunate
Chocolate Stout Cake Debacle. That was a prime FUBAR if
ever I saw one. Little did I know that
hunk of hideousness would become the first of several
traumatic events in the kitchen.
Yes, I've had a string of less-than-stellar at-bats lately: a
wanna-be Rice Krispie Treat contender, Peanut
Butter Cheerios Squares (white sugar and honey replace
the marshmallows-don't try to imagine how sickeningly sweet it
was-I will not be responsible for the trauma you suffer) that was a
dismal chunk of glued-together o's.
This was followed by the marginally bad Peaches and Cream Muffins,
which was followed by Chicken and Spinach with Pasta Rags,
a Betty Crocker recipe, no less. My family responded to that mess
with the sound made only by cats when they cough up a hair ball.
There were two other putrid dishes so evil that
I have apparently blotted them out of my conscious mind as I can
no longer remember their names in order to warn you about them.
Anyhoo, I'm going to keep swinging. Sooner or later I'm bound
to connect with something, and the sound of a Louisville Slugger
smacking that leather ball is the one of the sweetest sounds
I know.
Right, Mags? (Good luck this season, baby!)***
***There's a pool that's been set up to see how many gratuitous references to
Michigan, its people and its products I can weasel into my posts. I'm shameless.
If you want to get in on the action, let me know.
If you want to get in on the action, let me know.
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