Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Oh rhapsody!


The only reason to not own and use a PedEgg is because you have 'people' who do that sort of thing for you. I've gone on about this particular cheap piece of miracle-working before, but feel I MUST say it again - get you one and use it. (Malach, I know you'll agree)

Ten minutes ago my feet were broken-down flaky things of ick, the dry heels and gnarled toes a thing of anti-beauty, and now, here I sit, the proud bearer of size 11 feet that are soft and baby-pink. Why, I can tap on the heels of my feet and it make no sound at all. People. I'm here to tell you that ten minutes ago, if I'd done that, it would have sounded distinctly percussiony, perhaps like a small woodblock in tone and timbre. Reflect on THAT, if you will.

If anyone ever deserved woodblock feet, it's me. I walk around barefoot all the time. I love feeling the ground with my toes, and don't shy way from walking on stones or frost with naked toes. But it does leave a girl in a bit of hardship if a girl doesn't want the sheets to snag on her callused feet. Even the really nice 500-thread-count sheets might not be a match for the cornflake feet thang, is what I'm saying to you. Walking barefoot can leave even the most delicate of flowers with hooves like cardboard if they're left too long to their own devices.

So, yea. PedEgg. I kind of love you. I'm feeling all princessy, and that is a Gift of Rare Proportion.


In a similar domestic vein,

Earlier this evening I'd experienced a crisis of cooking such that in the midst of preparation I had to leave the kitchen and go sit down, such was the ennui.

Ennui us nothing to kid around about, clearly. It can take the most noble of intentions and turn them into a big seeping ooze of 'meh.' Disarming, at the least, and if dinner is concerned, it can be downright troubling.

You'll be happy to know I got over it, and there are now roasted veggies in a balsamic vinegar-rosemary sauce popping merrily along toward doneness in a nice hot oven, and in 10 minutes or so I'm putting in the boneless skinless chicken strips that are currently marinating in an S/P/garlic powder/onion powder/paprika/cinnamon rub.


Clarification time.

Lest y'all think I'm some kind of highfalutin' DINK who gleefully drinks the sweat of a thousand minions as a chaser to a a plate of sushi wrapped in hundred-dollar bills, such is my spendyness, let me make this perfectly clear re: the chicken thing: I do not buy boneless skinless chicken strips, for they are approximately worth their weight in gold-pressed latinum as so purchased. No, no, no way. Down that road lies ruin. Rather, the Tiff method to deliciousness that makes you feel so dandy is to purchase split breasts at 89 cents a pound, then process them emmeffers for the 10 minutes it takes to turn them into BSCS, and then? There's nothing left to do but to howl with delight over how much money I saved. Oh yes, the howling is a part of the ritual.

Honestly. 10 minutes of prep to save 2 bucks a pound or more? I am so there.

Anyhow, now the house smells like somebody loves it, and I'm off to do other girlie things like hot oil treat my hair (or...as it's otherwise known, 'the haystack') and clip the dog's toenails.

Such is the life of a real-life internet toughgrrrrl.

Tiff out.

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