Let Them Eat Frickin Awesome Cake

So January -- or Birthdaypalooza as I call it -- has finally ended.

Wrapping up the fiestas was Camie's birthday on the 31st.

I wanted to do something really great for Camie's birthday, but having to spend the whole week prior to the day out of town really limited the amount of pre-Birthday prep I could do. But I figured that at the very least I could make her a cake.

And I knew just what kind of cake to make. (Twirling the proverbial mustache)

I figured something along these lines would be perfect.

Go ahead and take a look. I'll wait.

....

...

Ready? Ok. So clearly the bar has been set pretty high. And I wanted Camie's cake to be just as funny if not funnier than those cakes. But I didn't want it to be gross or real mean. Fake mean was ok, but only if she knew it would be fake mean and not real mean. And I wanted it to tell her that I love her and am super glad she's my best pal and roommate. But didn't want to, you know, flaunt that status in case the other party goers felt a little weird eating a cake with a sentimental greeting written on it. Hello AWKWARD!

Believe me, with all of these feelings to convey striking the right balance in your cake text is trickier than you might think.

Here were the runners-up:

Bite me
I figured this one was too literal

You are Smart, and Funny, and Kind to Animals
But then everyone there would just think I'd written a bunch of lies down. Cake Text should be a distiller of truth.

Shut Up! No YOU Shut Up!
I liked this, but I worried it wouldn't fit on the cake

Sorry You're Soulless
This was good, but it lacked a certain personal touch that would really make it meaningful. So I morphed it to this:

Sorry You're a Soulless Bitch
PERFECT!!

Except there wasn't enough room on the cake. So I had to rework it. And ended up with this:

Sorry You're Old Bitch

Short. Truthful. And most importantly, it held up a time honored tradition in which I either call her a Bitch or give her cards or presents that do it for me.

And if you think that I'm saying Bitch like its a bad thing, then you should know that under all of that cream cheese frosting is a DROP DEAD AWESOME HOMEMADE Red Velvet Cake. If that don't say Love Ya Like A Brother From Another Mother I don't know what does. Unless its making 34 mini red velvet cupcakes with mini swirls of cream cheese frosting and candles arranged into a giant flaming 34 so every party guest could blow out their own cupcake and make a wish. But wait a minute! I did that too.

Happy Birthday Camie!

What's the Opposite of being too bored to blog?

So sometimes I'm not very good at posting because I'm totally boring and there is nothing of any interest happening AT ALL.

This hiatus has NOT been one of those times.

So much has been happening lately, I'm a little overwhelmed when I think about the 40 or so things I should be creating pithy posts about. I can't even deal with that kind of pressure!

So I post nothing.

But then I'm all in a quandry, because I don't want to forget it, either.

And if I know anything about myself it is that I am a Great Forgetter. I used to be a Great Rememberer, but I think my brain is full. There's no room in the Inn, but stuff keeps getting crammed in there. So now everything is all muddled up and I can't remember what year I did what, or who I was with, or if I've already shared such-n-such story with you twenty times. So I've got to just suck it up and jot it all down.

So really, this post is more for me than for you. Sorry world, I can't entertain you today. I got some 'membering to do.

Gave the funniest White Elephant present: Las Vegas in a Box! Each item had a luggage tag with a picture of the Fabulous Las Vegas sign and a clever little note about the present. Stuff like, "Know when to fold 'em" on the pack of cards. The box had the following stuff:

• a roulette game
• pack of cards
• bridal veil
• wig & dark glasses (I even got those old man dark glasses - so HOT)
• a champagne glass
• a trashy novel to read by the pool
• a lounge music CD
• a silk scarf to look the part

Clever, right? I was really excited about this present and thought it would be the toast of the party. But then someone brought a HUGE bottle of Vodka ... and obviously Vegas in a Box cannot possibly compete with vodka.

Christmas was great ... spent it here. The heat went out twice. Brrr-a-la-brrr-brrr.

New Year's was awesome. I went to two parties. I was conspicuous at the first party for two reasons: First, I was the only girl. Second, I was the only straight person. We had a great time, but I made sure to skedaddle before midnight. I wasn't sure what might happen, but I was pretty sure it'd be awkward.

Directly after New Year's the celebrations for my birthday began. I had expected it to be a very low-key year since my birthday was on a Sunday and everyone knows that Sunday birthdays are the Lamest Birthdays of them All. But it wasn't. Not low key at all.

The festivities began on Saturday and just kept on going, and going ...

Saturday

• Treated myself to a box of gourmet cupcakes from Hello, Cupcake
• Treated myself to a big bowl of Tangysweet FroYo
• Treated myself to the Broadway production of Legally Blonde at the Kennedy Center

Sunday

• Treated myself to a lazy day around the house
• Treated myself to a hot dog/chips/diet coke combo for lunch. (YUM!!)
• Maria made me a steak dinner
• Charlene made a riiiiiidiculous Rasperry-Lemon cheesecake

Happily Birthdayed I thought the fun was over.

Wrong. The fun was JUST BEGINNING!

Monday

• Work pals take me to lunch and make a big production with chocolate cake and singing.
• During lunch they try to convince me to go to drag bingo. "Sounds like fun, but will it help me with my New Year's Resolution to meet straight men?" I ask. Probably not, but still will be fun.

Tuesday

• Work pals tell the Drag Queens at drag bingo that A) its my birthday and B) I'm Mormon. (As such I was a tiny bit out of place at a gay sports bar).
• Sang Happy B with my new favorite ladies Shiqueeta Lee and Akasha Cassadine
• Forced to do a shot (of cranberry juice) to the stomping and cheering of an entire bar
  
• Being called to the front to call out the numbers
• Being generally Heckled and Celebritied all night long

All of us with the fabulous Shiqueeta Lee and Akasha Cassadine.



Friday
Camie wanted to through me a party because she hadn't been able to participate in any of the other parties. I was well and truly exhausted by this point, but thought it would be fun to have people over to make decorate cookies and have a quiet night in.

So we did. It wasn't that quiet. But it WAS super fun! Even Mustard decorated one or two.





I never thought turning 34 would be so action packed! I'm pooped.

A Holiday Party for Your Tastebuds

J'adore Ginger. In fact simply saying the word "Ginger" will get practically the same response from me that you'd get if you said "sex" to most men. There's some drooling. Some wide-eyed nodding. And, yeah, I'll pretty much do anything you need, including taking out the trash. So when I saw this recipe for Chocolate Gingerbread Bars in Everyday Food I was like, "GINGER BARS!!! Oh baby! YES! And PLEASE!!"

So Sunday night I set aside my anti-baking stance and prepared to make my gingery delight. There I was measuring flour and teaspooning out cocoa powder while bellowing out, "LET IT SNOW! LET IT SNOW! LET IT (but not really cuz i hate) SNOOOOOW!" When I whirled around to get 1/2 tsp of baking soda out of the cupboard ... only to discover there was no baking soda in my cupboard.

ScreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeecCHH!

Stop the Ginger Presses! HOW IS IT POSSIBLE THAT I DO NOT HAVE BAKING SODA? Doesn't every kitchen come standard with a box of baking soda? That's like not having brakes on your car or something!

I put down my sifter to weigh all of my options. They ranged from using the box in the fridge (seriously considered, but in the end it was too disgusting even for me) to calling all of my neighbors for the proverbial cuppa shuga (they weren't home) before finally coming to the tragic conclusion that I could not proceed with my Ginger Bars until I got to the store to get some B. Soda.

On the upside, this gave me some time to stop being such a selfish pig-face and invite some people over to eat my treat with me. So tonight my pals Bryan, Adam, and Corey came over for a menacing-sounding but palatte-delighting Vegetarian Indian Stew and delicious delicious Ginger Bars.

See how festive I made them by adding Pomegranate seeds (red!) and chopped Pistachios (green!) with a mound of creamy homemade whipped cream (white!). If you make these bars you MUST add the Pom and Pish ... together they make it about a thousand times more festive and yummalicious. (And if you run out of Ginger Bars you can just eat them with the whipped cream - talk about a taste sensation!)


On a scale of one to ten, one being Pukarific and ten being Tastetastic, I give these ginger bars a 47.

Feliz Navidad and Happy Ginger Bars to All!

One Less Talent

I've always been really good at faking that I'm good at many things that I am actually crap at. (Except math. It's not even worth it to fake anything related to math.) But the cold hard reality is that I don't know how to do everything, and I'm finally getting around to sloughing off those extra things that really have no place in my "realm of expertise." Like cooking.

I hate to shock you guys, but .... turns out I can't cook.

I know, you're like, "How is this possible? You come from a family of cooks? Braising is in your genes. In fact, I've had plenty of really good meals that you've made." And it's true, I used to be quite a good cook, and my mom and chef brother cook circles around each other every chance they get. We regularly debate roasting methods and copper-bottomed cookware at family gatherings. So basically, admitting that I can't cook anymore will make me a pariah with the fam. But somewhere along the way, my natural born talent got overpowered by the ease and convenience of Hamburger Helper dinners. What's a girl to do?

Now, before we get confused, I'm talking about cooking ... not following a recipe. I can usually manage to follow a recipe. What I can't do is create a recipe, or improvise on a set of ingredients. No matter how foolproof it seems, it's always destined for failure.

For example, on Sunday, I decided I wanted to recreate this salad that I had at Zingerman's Roadhouse in Ann Arbor, MI.

Warm Spinach & Wild Mushroom Salad
Fresh spinach tossed with aged goat cheddar, sautéed roasted pepper, leeks and fennel in a beautiful, nutty brown butter vinaigrette. Add pit-smoked chicken.

Basically, I would eat this salad every day for the rest of my life. And it looks pretty simple, right? Well, the whole thing just failed. It was soggy and boring, and a shadow of the salad I was hoping it would be. I was crushed because this wasn't just one failed salad, it was an overwhelming signal that I should just give it up.

It's actually quite liberating giving up these fake expertise of mine. Now I can have people over for dinner, but won't have to stress out planning a menu (not to mention trying to make a damn cream sauce - those are my nemesis!) And really, doesn't everyone secretly love Chicken Nuggets more than cannelloni?

What about you guys? Any fakers out there?

Who Moved My Cheese?

I've got a serious problem, people. There seems to be a conspiracy afoot.

A couple of months ago I was grocery shopping and went to get some grated parmesan cheese. I like the pre-shredded kind, like what Sargento provided. I do not like to grind my own (hello that’s WAY more work than I approve of doing). And I don’t, out of snobbery, like the green can powdered kind. Do they even make that anymore?

Anyway, so I was shopping at the oh-so-ghetto Safeway across the street from my house and lo and behold when I went to refresh my supply of the queso there was NO parmesan, of any ilk, available. This had never been a problem before. What happened? Isn’t parma one of the most popular cheese of all time?

I chalked the missing cheese up to this particular Safeway being HORRIBLE. And since I like to make dramatic statements that don’t impress anyone but me I decided to immediately switch grocery stores. So I started shopping at Bloom which was a heck of a lot further away, but had attractive vegetable displays, those cute little half-carts, and a hearty supply of my favorite cheeses.

This worked very well for several months.

Last Saturday, however, I went to Bloom for my weekly shopping. And when I got to the dairy case I looked, and I looked, and I LOOKED. But even though they had specialty cheeses such as goat, Muenster, and even HAVARTI, there was NO PARMESAN! Oh sure there was mozarella in 5 lb bags all ready for the fatification of America, but no, no parmesan could be had for love nor money.

How can this be, I ask you? Is it just me? Am I the only one in the world that is buying parmesan cheese – thus making stocking it impractical? It seems unreasonable to me that there should not be any parmesan cheese at any of my local grocery stores. But perhaps I am just unreasonable. (I'm not.)

Just so you know, I have a history of my favorite foods being removed from the grocery store supply chain and it's getting old. First it was my favorite salad dressing: Parmesan Peppercorn, followed by my favorite flavor of Barilla pasta sauce (Green & Black Olive), culminating in the removal of the entire Barilla pasta sauce line. Sigh ...

My needs are few, grocery store people. In fact, here is my weekly grocery list so you can make sure to have everything I need stocked. I'm sure if we work together we can make sure this kind of thing doesn't happen anymore.

• Chicken Nuggets (or other frozen treat like pizza or tater tots)
  
• Apples/Pears (or some other seasonal fruit), 5 pieces
• Roma tomatoes, 3 pieces
• Romaine lettuce, 1 bunch
• Parmesan cheese
• 3 pkgs Deli Meat
• 1 pkg Sliced cheese, Colby-Jack , Muenster or Provolone
• Frosted Mini-Wheats
• ½ Gallon Skim milk

That’s it. (Generally speaking of course, sometimes I get all crazy and throw a can of chili in). Could you please try not to remove any more of these items from your stock? I'm not sure how much more paring down this grocery list can take.

An Open Letter to My Lunch

Dear Salad,

Hi, it’s me. I’m really sorry I didn’t trust that you would be good. I should have trusted you. I don’t have much of an excuse for myself. I guess I’ve just been burned before. Pathetic, right? Especially considering your amazing ingredients! The pomegranate alone should have sealed the deal. Add in the crispy apple pieces, the pecans, and the goat cheese? Don’t even get me started on the goat cheese. How could I have doubted you when goat cheese was involved?

I feel like an idiot.

If it makes you feel any better I’m kicking myself now for being so reluctant to eat you. I mean, I let TWO bunches of romaine disintegrate in the fridge while I was coming to terms with your “saladness”. I can’t tell you how much I wish I could go back in time and save those two bunches. If anything died in vain, they did. I hope you never have to come face to face with a mystery bag in the crisper drawer like that. It really changes a person.

Anyway, I loved you. I just wanted you to know that.

Gretchen

Battles, on picking them wisely

You should know that …

1. I generally don’t favor the enforced regulation of things. It usually just complicates things that aren’t very complicated to begin with.
2. I realize there are usually good reasons for wanting to have things regulated. Chicken lip and lead content stays down, and honesty and human decency goes up.
3. I am a big proponent of people being responsible for themselves.

With that being said … have you people heard about the movement to ban (yes, I said BAN as in to LEGISLATE AGAINST) cupcakes? It’s true. Innocent, fun loving cupcakes. In other news, Christmas is canceled.

Alas, many school districts are banning cupcakes from schools in order to keep kids from eating so much junk.

As a friend of the cupcake I think this is an outrage! What did cupcakes ever do to you, besides being completely adorable little packages of sunshine and happiness? More importantly, why single out cupcakes? Why not regular cakes – especially those nasty sheet cakes with the grody frosting flowers? Those are disgusting; I’d happily see a ban against those. Aren’t they teaching discrimination by being sizists?

Moreover, if we’re SOOOOO worried about kids getting fat maybe we should make some health inducing changes rather than banning the poor little cupcake. Here are a few I’ve thought of, just off the top of my head:

• Math class could be turned into Mathercize. It’s brainy! It’s jazzy! Times-tables mixed with jumping-jacks; it’s a win-win!
• Make the fatasses run a couple laps around the building after the pledge of allegiance.
• Add an extra “Work Out Recess”. Any one standing next to the wall gets tazed.
• What about PE, people?
  

I’m no parent, so far be it from me to offer any advice for children, but we aren’t doing them any favors by banning a FOOD. (if the reaction to banned cupcakes is anything like the reaction to banned books, we’ll have kids sneaking into the backroom at bakeries and overdosing on buttercream and white cake.)

I love cupcakes, but I know that if I eat cupcakes I’m going to have to move my chub around a bit more than usual. It’s just the way it works. And if anyone takes away my cupcakes, or my future kid’s cupcakes, you better watch your back. If there’s anything I take seriously it’s cupcakes.

Pie! I LOVE Pie!

A new tradition is being started at my house. To watch Pushing Daisies while eating pie. I've been looking for a good excuse to eat pie on a regular basis. So thanks ABC for bringing me a show that has pie as a central theme. If you love Pushing Daisies, and you love pie, then my house on Sunday night is the place to be. (That's when I watch my recorded shows, sans commercials, don'tcha know.) If you're in the area, come on over, I certainly shouldn't be eating all of this pie myself. That can't lead anywhere but to a sugar coma and elastic-waistband pants.

Flame Roasted Coffeehouse

Several months ago my friend Anna asked me if I had been to the Mayorga Coffee Roasters Coffeehouse, because she'd recently gone for lunch, and she really liked it. I had not. Now, you have to realize something about Anna. If there is anything lovely or of good report, Anna will approve of it. If there is anything shady or unseemly, Anna will gently imply that it might not be a good idea. If I'm ever concerned that my feelings on a particular topic might be out of whack, I can always run it by Anna and know that I'll be pointed in the right direction. I call her The Great Validater. So anyway, the point is, when Anna recommends something, I just do it.

On Monday, I was so worn out from being not very busy I took a sick day (some of which I slept away, thus proving to myself that if I wasn't sick and tired I was at least tired). The reason I mention it, is because it isn't very often I find myself with an entire Monday afternoon stretching out before me. That, my friends, is a luxurious feeling, and it seemed like a perfect opportunity to try out Mayorga's. So I stuck a book in my purse and headed off.

It was everything Anna said it would be. First of all, it was incredibly spacious. I'm so used to cramped places, it felt almost scandalously roomy. They had heavy linen curtains. They had soft lighting. They had abundant comfortable seating. They played world music. They had a tasty sandwich menu. And a prodigious drink menu. They didn't care if you stayed all day. There were freelancer types scattered about typing on their laptops, reading the newspaper, stacking manila folders onto wooden chairs, and rummaging in their battered leather satchels. In short, it was entirely cozy!

I settled in. And fully expected to spend the afternoon reading and nursing a Diet Coke on one of the leather couches.

I'd been there about an hour and a half, and had just about decided that I should chuck it all and become a barrista, when my senses started to pick up on a "commotion." I looked up lazily to see if I could see the problem when a man came running out from one of the back rooms.

"Fire! Fire!" he yelled.

I blinked. "Fire? Fire?" I scoffed. Who yells "Fire! Fire!?" What are we, in a movie? But sure enough, a couple of seconds later some thick smoke started billowing out from the back room. Frantically, the freelancers started stuffing their leather satchels with their scattered papers and hightailed it out of there. The barristas started running around in circles; I presumed they were looking for fire extinguishers. I, myself sat there and watched the show. This is the second time I've been in a fire this year, so I can afford to have a nonchalant attitude about it, I suppose. But I didn't see what good my running around would do. So I continued to sit until I could actually smell the smoke strongly, at which point I decided that this wasn't going to be resolved quickly. So I got up, walked across the room to throw away my trash and walked outside.

I was more put out that I had to get up and leave, than the fact that I was in danger of smoke inhalation. And I was, of course, disappointed that I'd barely found such an excellent coffee shop only to see it go up in flames a mere 2 hours later. But considering the spate of odd and shocking things that have been happening in the last week, my overwhelming thought as I walked away from the heavily smoking building was "Of course."

Multitaskability

We are a nation of multitaskers. And I, in fact, am a master multitasker. I suspect this has a lot to do with my current "bored with life" status. If I had twelve things to do simultaneously instead of a mere 3 things to do all day, I'd be a lot more content. But when all pistons are firing, I am a multitasking machine! These are some of the things that I commonly multitask:

• Conference calls, email, desk cleaning, blog reading
• Eating lunch, reading newspaper, listening to music, eavesdropping on coworkers
• Showering, cleaning shower (This usually evolves into bathroom cleaning, and on special occasions can escalate to full blown naked house cleaning.)
• Brushing teeth, turning off lights around the house, checking email, getting a glass of water, ferrying things back and forth across my apartment (this is perhaps my most productive time of night).
• Driving, putting on makeup, practicing snarky comebacks, talking on phone, yelling at other drivers/pedestrians.
  

The list is endless. Basically, if I still have a hand/foot/eye/ear/finger/mouth free I'll add something to the currently scheduled program.

Of course, there are a few things that do require being single tasked. Such as:

• Driving, when a policeman is behind you
• Reading assembly instructions (trust me, if you try to fake this, somehow or other you'll end up with five extra screws and your cat in the dryer.)
• Ordering a sandwich at Potbelly Sandwich Works

Now, you might think that ordering a sandwich is a perfect time to do some multitasking. But you would be wrong. Dead wrong. The tricky bit about Potbelly, is that even though there's some waiting involved, you could be asked at ANY MOMENT what you are going to order or what you want on your sandwich. You've got to be on your toes ... otherwise, you're mucking up the entire Sandwich Works. And I'm going to be pissed off at you.

So for example, if you were getting a sandwich today at one-ish in the Bethesda location, and you'd decided to read the Washington Post instead of keeping the line moving and deciding what you wanted, I would be pissed off at you. If, when you were asked what you wanted it took you 3 minutes to decide, well then, once again, I would be pissed off at you. If, after ordering, you decided to spread your newspaper out on top of the sandwich bar instead of proceeding along to the "fixin's station", well, it would be pretty surprising if I didn't rip that paper out of your hands and take you out back to teach you the hard way how to follow proper Potbelly etiquette.

I know you don't want me to be pissed off at you. No one wants that, really. And so I'm glad we've taken this time to define what is in and outside the realm of multitaskability. Just remember that if you think that getting a sandwich at Potbelly requires anything less that your complete and undivided attention, well, you better just be sure that I'm not standing in line behind you. Putting yourself between me and my food is never a place you want to be.

Tomorrow I'll Be Calling Out Fat

It starts as a general feeling of discontent. I fidget. I cross my legs one way, then switch. I sigh. I look in the cupboard. Nope, nothing there. I check my email. Just spam. I look in the fridge. Nothing there either. I go back and sit on the couch and try to read ... but it's no good. I need something. I'm not sure what it is ... but I need it.

And then, from nowhere a whispering thought comes into my mind, "How long has it been since your last cheeseburger?"

"Too Long! Too Long!" I cry.

It's as if the clouds of my discontent are parted, and angelic light streams from the great cheeseburger in the sky. Of course! I need a cheeseburger. And fries. Lots and lots of fries. Oh, and a Diet Coke. Hooray!

Having finally pinpointed the source of my discontent, I practically fly to Five Guys, my burger joint of choice. And there I find satisfaction with my life as I eat about 4000 calories worth of burger joint food and finish a book. I'm glowing with satisfaction! It is close to perfect. In fact, the only thing that marred the experience was that Muzak played "Freebird" for what felt like 38 minutes. That song kinda sucks. May I never be caught requesting it at rock concerts again, even if it is just to be funny. If the band actually took me up on it, I'd be pissed that I'd wasted my request on crappy Freebird when I could have used it on something like "She's Like the Wind." Now that would be perfect.

The Reason I Have a Huge Grin on My Face

10 lbs of Freshly Picked Blueberries!
(Not freshly picked by me, of course. Let's get real.)

I froze 24 cups, and saved the rest to gobble hand over fist. Maryland doesn't have much in the way of really excellent produce ... but these blueberries ... MMMM! Can't get enough. I'll have plenty of frozen berries to use up, so if you have a favorite recipe, send it over. I'll post them on the Foodees site.

I'm hoping to start a new diet craze with The All Blueberry Diet. The idea is to eat as many blueberries as possible all day long. And Voila! Before you can say Doopity-Do you'll be Blueberryrific! It's been a success for me! Look at these results:


(Can't you just see Veruca saying, "Daddy, Why does she get to be such a gorgeous blueberry? I want to be a gorgeous blueberry too!" And Mike TV, of course, is totally speechless -- for once -- in the face of such radiance!) HA! Such a happy diet! Suzanne Somers eat your heart out.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be in the Juicing Room.

Mustard Takes a Holiday

Mustard and I will be back on Saturday.

Condimentially Speaking ...

I had a little snafu with my condiments this weekend. I really like to have hot dogs on occasion, especially when the weather is warm. I suppose it reminds me of baseball games and hot afternoons walking around DC. So I went to the grocery store and bought the dogs. When I got home I realized that I'd forgotten the buns and that I was also out of relish.

So I went back to the grocery store. But can you believe it - there wasn't a single jar of relish to be found in the entire store! I was shocked! After 20 minutes of moving ketchup bottles aside to see if they concealed relish somewhere in there I picked out some buns and headed home -- sans relish and tres annoyed.

Relish or not, I started making my hot dogs. I put the dogs in to cook while I prepared my bun with the condiments. Mayonnaise? Check. Ketchup? Check. Mustard? Check - sort of. My bottle of mustard was still sealed shut and I absently tried to peel off the plastic seal. It wasn't very easy, so I had to give the bottle a little more attention. I noticed that the seal was a little dingy. What kind of mustard has a dingy safety seal? Looking at the label I noted that this was Smiths brand mustard. Smiths? Smiths is a grocery store in Utah. As far as I know, there are no Smiths grocery stores anywhere within 2000 miles of me. That could mean only one thing: I had purchased the mustard while I still lived in Utah.

I haven't lived in Utah for SEVEN YEARS! This bottle of mustard has traveled with me through no less than 5 moves. It made it in the initial cross-country move when everything I owned in the world was crammed into a Volkswagen Jetta. It's followed me through two counties and five different apartments. Somehow it made it into boxes during the frenzied Thanksgiving Day escape from seriously crazy roommates that left me living in a basement for 3 weeks. It's been there throughout graduate school, traumatic relationships, and my days as an international jet setter. This isn't just mustard! This could very well be the longest relationship I've ever had!

There's no expiration date (it was probably packaged before the FDA required silly things like expiration dates) so technically I could still eat this mustard, I suppose. But at this point that seems like a bad idea. It's clearly moved out of "condiment" category into the "keepsake" category and I'm not sure what I should do with it. Should I put it in the box that has my High School Letter and debate club medals? Most likely, it will sit on my counter until I regretfully chuck it into the garbage. I'm not sure what having 7+ year mustard says about a person, but it certainly illustrates that I should be careful about what I buy because I'll likely keep it around longer than I plan.

Suffice it to say, what was meant to just be lunch turned into an unexpected time capsule which taught me - well, I don't know what about myself - other than that I really prefer my hot dogs to have relish and mustard.