If Harris Teeter Was A Dude, I'd Totally Make Out With Him

I was all prepared to go down to Wilmington after this morning's meeting to load up on Brit-snacks for Friday.

Wilmington is 50 miles (or about 80km) away from where I live. Probably 15 miles closer from the bookstore. I buy most of my really 'fancy' foods from The Fresh Market.

Just before I left the meeting, my friend Kristyn informed me that they had just opened a new Harris Teeter store at about half that distance two weeks ago.

"They sell HP sauce and Marmite. You might want to try there first," she said.

Harris Teeter is a sort of specialty grocery store. Thank goodness she told me, because H. Teets (that's what I'm calling it now) had every single British food item on my list. Saved me time and gas money.

More importantly, gas money.



I picked up all sorts of awesomeness!

Branston Pickle?

Check.



I'd never tried B.P. before, I bought it based on all your recommendations. It's amazing!

Marmite?

Check.



They say you either love Marmite, or you hate it. I don't understand the hate part.

It's effing delicious. I wanna motorboat it.



And it's 100% vegetarian!

(*cough* Like I give a rat's ass about that *cough*)

I couldn't wait till Friday, I had to bust that one open. Butter...Marmite...toast...heaven.

Heinz 57 Beans?

Check.



Heinz 57 Curry Beans?

Oh, pardon me. I meant Beanz.

Check. Mate.




Cream for my (to be freshly baked) scones?

That's a check and a hells yes!




English jam for my scones?

Check.




Ok...it's Scottish jam. They didn't have English jam.

But isn't Scotland just sort of an annex of England?



Hey, hey! I was just kidding. No need to pelt me with haggis, my Scottish friends.

What's that? Haggis Hurling is a sport?

Oh. Well carry on then.

And thank you for the jam.

HP Sauce?



Hm. Don't know if that's quite a 'check'. I prefer the Original, but all they had was Fruity.

What do they do, put extra tamarind in it?

Oh well, I'm good with Fruity.

Hey, you know what? If you say Fruity a bunch of times, it starts to not sound like a word anymore.

Fruity, fruity, fruity....

Getting off track here.

Wensleydale cheese?

Check.



They had two other kinds...one with apricot bits and another with cranberry bits.

But since I got the Fruity HP, I stayed with regular Wensleydale. Otherwise that's just too much fucking fruit.

Aero?




That not only deserves a 'check', but an 'I didn't know Aero was English'. I always thought it was a Canadian thing. Huh.

Jammie Dodgers?

(Notice, they're "Now More Fruity!" Wtf? Does that make everything better in England??)

A 'check' for me...



...and the forks for IG.



If loving biscuits that you think taste like ass is wrong, then I don't wanna be right.

Hmm...my fingernails sure are dirty. Can take the gardener out of the dirt, but can't take the dirt out of the gardener.

And last but not least...

Drum roll please!



I didn't think I'd find actual Jaffa Cakes. I thought I'd have to settle for Pims!

Obviously I didn't buy it all to eat for the Royal Wedding, or it'd probably kill me.

"Kyna's dead."

"Oh, that's terrible! How'd she die?"

"I heard they found her on the floor with curried bean sauce smeared all over her face and a Jammie Dodger lodged in her aorta."

"Tsk, tsk. She should have paced herself..."

Harris Teeter, I love you.

The Silence of the Bees

My back porch is sacred to me.

Nowhere do I enjoy being more, than sitting in my favourite chair on that porch.

Perfect on a sunny afternoon. Western exposure, bordered by a long garden. Sun + cold beverage + feet up = ahhhhhhhhhhhh. 'Nuff said.



Perfect on a rainy day. As long as the wind isn't howling, you can sit on the porch and watch the storms roll in. Enjoy the smell and the coolness of the rain without getting wet. The lavender I have planted smells especially nice and fragrant on rainy days.



When I'm at work on a beautiful day, I daydream about getting home and porch sitting.

I can sit in silence and listen to the cardinals singing. Or I can crank up my iPod through the outdoor speakers that Chuckles installed a couple of years ago, and rock out with my cock out.




Depends on my mood.

There's a long history of porch sitting here in America. There's an art to it. Everyone loves to porch sit. Even Mark Twain.



Our friends Sean and Andie are moving into a different house next month. It's pretty nice.

It's pretty large, has a HUGE yard, a fenced in garden, beautiful trees. Which one of those perks is the most important to them?

None of the above. All Andie kept saying was, "But it has a PORCH SWING."

Porches are important!

The back porch is my sanctuary. Anybody messes with my porch? I mess up their FACE.

A couple of days ago, Chuckles and I were parked on the porch after work. We were watching a giant bee droning around the eaves of the house.

I'm talking about a huge-ass bee.




These bees have been hanging out the last 2 or 3 weeks. They'll lazily dive-bomb you if you try to get anything done in the garden.




"Those are boring bees," said Chuckles.

Boring bees, eh?

Do they ambush you with calculus equations when you're least expecting it?



Do they show you endless slides of family vactions?



Do they prattle on for hours about their stamp collections?



Do they use really bad puns?



A friend of mine said that an image of bees playing golf was brought to mind.



People here call them boring bees, but they're actually carpenter bees.




Little fuckers look innocent, don't they? Especially against that poncy pink background.

Well they're not.

I've heard of honey bees. Mason bees. Killer bees.

Normally, I love bees. But wood-eatin' bees??

You know what I say to that.



Anyway, Chuck and I were sitting on the porch watching that gargantuan, slovenly bee, when Chuck looks down beside his chair and says, "What the hell is this shit? Sawdust?"



Uh-oh. Our relaxing afternoon of porch sitting had been interrupted. Chuckles turned into a bee-seeking missile. Everytime one of the fat bees would come buzzing up to the screen, he would watch it to see if it disappeared.

We knew that the bees couldn't be boring holes inside the porch, because it's all lined in vinyl siding with no cracks in it. Ceiling included. Plus, every time a bee would actually make it through a rip in the screen, it would just stupidly run itself into a corner and repeatedly hit the screen, trapped. They're not the brightest crayons in the box.




However, the porch is framed up with treated wood to support the screen.

Wood-chewin' bees don't normally bore holes into treated wood, but the wood is a few years old now, and spends most of the day in bright sun, so the treatment has worn out a bit.

It seemed we searched every inch of the wood, and still couldn't find a hole. Chuck sat back down but was still restless. Like a cat tracking a canary.



The bee suddenly disappeared.

"A-ha!" Chuck shouted, and bolted from his chair to see where the bee went.

He finally found the hole. Clever little bee bastards. The entrance point was chewed away just where the top of the screen door rested whilst closed. There was just enough of a crack between the door and the wood above for the fat-ass bees to squeeze through.



Whilst Chuckles was busy pissing off the bees by hammering on the frame (such a shit-disturber, my husband), I went to go look up what we could do about it. Like a good wife should.

According to the Gospel of Wikipedia, they like to bore into wood that faces the sun. They bore a single hole upwards into the wood, and then chew tunnels horizontally, where they lay eggs.



It seems to be a very bad idea to try to plug the hole. Since they make holes horizontally through the wood, this wouldn't do much good anyway. But we couldn't just let them go to town on it. My beloved porch would end up looking like swiss cheese!



Chuckles decided he was going to rip down the piece of wood above the screen door and see how far they'd burrowed.



It wasn't as bad as it might have been if we'd waited.

Chuck sawed the wood apart to see what they did to the inside of the 2x4. It was interesting, it was just like the illustration I posted above (click on my pics, they look better that way), minus the bee eggs. Hadn't got that far along yet.

One cut...


Two cuts...


Three cuts. You can get a pretty good picture of the damage they can do. Also of how dry Chuck's hands are.


They were also starting on a second hole on the other end.

Chuck said he's worked on old houses in Jacksonville that were completely infested with these bees. Gack!

He cut a new piece of treated 2x4 and replaced it where the old one had been. Good as new! I'm thinking we're going to have to do that to the whole frame of the porch eventually.

Bee-ware the wood-chewin' bees, they'll get into your house when you least expect it!!

Pip Pip, Cheerio, and All That Rot

I don't like doing what everyone else is doing. I don't like hype.



When people started being obsessed with Harry Potter (the books people, not the movies) waaaay back when, I fought the urge. Actually, I probably didn't even have an urge.

"Why would I want to read something everyone else is reading? A book about a boy wizard. Why would adults want to read this shit??"

'Adults'...that's funny because I was only 16 at the time.

"Hmph", said I, and I didn't read them for a long while. Some of the original hubbub died down to a dull roar around the time the fourth book came out. I decided I would lower myself to read them. Of course, I became hooked. Then I kicked myself for not enjoying them sooner.




I do the same thing with movies...clothing...tv...if there's hype, I ignore it. There have only been a few select popular things I have let myself get obsessed and girly over.

~Twilight (again: the books, not the movies. The movies blow old, hairy goats. Robert Pattinson can suck it. Pun intended. Ha!)
~Lord of the Rings (both books and movies. And I have an Elvish tattoo. No shame! LOTR 4 Ever!)
~True Blood (very entertaining television and full of awesomeness. And tits. Lots of tits for you gentlemenfolk.)
~Napoleon Dynamite (I did walk around saying 'Flippin' Sweet!', but in my defense, I saw it before it got popular.)

Why is that a defense? I hear that a lot with music.

"I love [insert cool band here]. But look at all these stupid bandwagon jumpers. I saw [cool band] when they were playing dive bars and bar mitzvahs. Before they got popular."

Like that makes one a 'real' fan. But it does somehow, doesn't it??

I've finally let myself be obsessed with something right from the get go.



Yes, I admit it! I'm out and proud.

I'm a Royal Wedding Watcher.

I'm not the only one. Look! There's an actual book for it!



I come from a long line of Royal Watchers. My Mum was up watching Charles and Diana get married at 3am, when I was a month old. I think she's read every book on the Royal Family that was ever made. I didn't grow up in England, but I still grew up in a country where the Queen is on all the money. It's in the blood.

I booked April 29th off at work so I could be parked on the couch before the sun is even thinking of coming up. I'm going to have all sorts of delicious snacks prepared. I may even wear a tiara.

It's my party and I'll wear a tiara if I want to.

But the snacks! Oh the snacks. Fancy little snacks for the daytime. And then dinner will probably be some traditional English fare. I will take suggestions you know! (I'm not talking about the suggestion that I can stick my tiara up my ass for all you care, I'm talking about dinner suggestions. Humour me.)

Everyone complains about English food, but I think it's awesome. The greasier, the better. How could you not love a country that offers up an amazing creation called the 'Chip Butty'?



To all Americans and/or visually challenged readers, a Chip Butty is a French fry sandwich. Ketchup is optional. Butter is not.

My heart screams no, but my stomach says yes, yes, yes!

I did make some lovely Guinness Stew the other day, but I can't make that for this important event. You know, on account of the English-Irish hatred.

The other day a super-crotchety old English customer asked me what my name was.

"Kyna," I said.
"What kind of name is that?" he said.
"Irish Gaelic," I said.
"Oh," he shuddered in his warbly old man English voice. "You know how us English feel about the Irish."
"Yes," I laughed. "I do."
"Do you know what we say about the topography of Ireland?" he asked.
"That it's got too many Irish people on it?" I offered.
"No," he said. "that it's above water."

Speaking of Irish, I did finally try Idiot Gardener's Soda bread recipe. Did it all wrong of course. I tried to make sure I was making the right measurements, because he had all of his in metric and I don't use that system when I'm cooking.



I thought I had everything right, but it seemed that I added too much milk for the amount of flour I had in the bowl. How did I fix this? I added more flour. Hence, ended up with an assload of soda bread. With probably not the right amount of baking soda and salt for the extra amount of flour.



Also, IG pointed out that one must use a very sharp knife to cut deep x's in the tops of the loaves. I did not have a sharp knife, I never do, and being too lazy to sharpen one, I cut very lame, wimpy, girly x's into the tops of the loaves.

Not quite authentic, the way I mucked it up. Still very delicious. I think we used a half a stick of butter each on that bread. Butter makes it sing! Chuck's not a bread person, and I didn't think he'd eat much of it, but he loved it. Just think how good it would have been if I'd made it properly!

And the stew....oh the stew!

Amazing how this...



...and this sexy looking carrot here...




....can make beef and potatoes taste so much more awesome.





So, I have about a week and a half to stock up on English essentials. What should be on my list?

Scones? Oh, my kingdom for a scone!

Jam? Jam jam jam, jam jam jam.

Tea? Definitely tea.

Cucumber sandwiches? I don't even like cucumber, but how can I resist eating something so cute and dainty with the crusts cut off?

Marmite? Yes, and lots of butter.

Pimm's?

Shit! Where can I find Pimm's in the US??



Guess I don't need to worry about finding Pimm's after all. Looks like that guy's bought it all up for himself.

Bastard.

Never Wake A Sleeping Onion

Right now Chuckles and I have what I like to call 'Bachelor's Fridge'.

Bachelor's Fridge is the result of being low on funds and/or laziness. B.F. usually has about three or four items in it. These three or four items are inedible (or at least unappetizing) on their own. But put them all together, and you can usually have some semblance of a meal.

Contrary to popular belief, Bachelor's Fridge can happen to married couples. So be sure to wear a condom!

Wait. Wrong discussion.

Anyway, I was fixin' to make myself an egg salad sandwich yesterday. Two of the four items in my B.F. were eggs and mayo. Both being unexpired. Oh heavenly day! Like winning the lottery.

I like to add all sorts of other goodies to my egg salad. Curry powder is an eggcellent addition, by the way. Try it.

I found I had a taste for some onion. I thought I had one in the pantry in one of those hanging wire fruit basket thingys...yep, there it was! I thought back to how long ago I bought it, seemed like it was only last week.

The thing about being nearly 30 (only a month and a half to go now O_O), is that time gets all messed up. You think something happened yesterday, and it was really 3 days ago. You remember doing something last week, and it was really 3 months ago. You think you went somewhere just last year and....I don't even want to talk about it anymore!

I reached for the onion. The giant forked branch it was now sporting tried to poke me in the eye.




The Onion mocked me. "WHAT IS THIS? YOU DARE TO WAKE ME FROM MY SLUMBER?? NOW YOUR EGG SALAD SANDWICH WILL PAY!! MUHAHAHA!"

The Onion demanded a sacrifice. My sandwich being onionless was not enough. I had to steal a chicken from my neighbour. It was carnage. There were feathers everywhere. Did you know onions can grow teeth?

The Onion was finally appeased, and I ate my sandwich. I was not appeased. So much less satisfying without onion.

I think I'll go to the grocery store today. Onions are on the list.

This One Time, At Band Camp...

Yesterday delighted us with a nice sunny afternoon, the perfect day for sitting on the back porch.

Chuckles and I spent a lot of time out there this weekend. We saw a bald eagle soaring above our backyard on Saturday, and yesterday I saw my first hummingbird of the season.

I also saw my first flautist of the season.



My stepdaughter Lindsay came over with her boyfriend yesterday, and she brought her flute with her. Now, it's not very often I get to use the term 'flautist', so it was a red-letter day!

She used to play flute in high school, and decided to start playing around with it again. We put on Marshall Tucker Band's "Can't You See", and she played along. It was awesome!

She brought it over in a cool case that looked like it should have held a gun or something. Like Antonio Banderas' guitar case in "Desperado".



My other stepdaughter, Desiree, is a really talented singer. I'll have to get some good video of her singing The Beatles' "Yesterday", it'll bring a tear to your eye (in a good way).

I wish I was more talented in the musical arts. I can hold a tune, but it doesn't sound that amazing. I'm mediocre on the guitar. I think I may still be able to pound out a few notes of "Für Elise" on the piano. I played when I was young, but I quit because I hated to practice. I wish I wouldn't have now. Ah, the follies of youth.

I'm interested to know what ya'll (hehe, I said ya'll) out there are good at. Doesn't have to be musical. Everybody's good at something, don't be shy!

Or even if you're into something that other people wouldn't expect...you don't have to be good at it, it still counts!

Hell, even if you don't think you're talented at anything, and you just want to use the word 'flautist' in a sentence, leave a comment anyway.

What Are You Listening To? Wednesday

Been awhile since I've written one of these posts. That's because I hadn't heard anything super-inspiringly-new in that time.

The Jim Jones Revue rocked and rolled right into my unsuspecting little head.



A musicphile friend of ours, C, saw them over in England and posted about it on Facebook. Chuckles pays more attention to the music videos that our friends post on there than I do. He'll click on anything. Thank goodness he did!

Check THIS shit out. Makes all the hairs on my arms stand up.



As I've said before, I'm a 'singer girl'. If the singer catches my eyes and ears, I'm hooked. Jim Jones is like Jerry Lee Lewis, Jack White, Iggy Pop and Professor Snape all rolled into one deliciously explosive package.



And speaking of ear candy, you sure don't hear piano much in rock and roll music anymore. Not like this anyway. I may be a singer girl, but the key-work in these songs really steals my attention.



They're playing in the UK and Europe right now. If I were you, I'd run, not walk, and go see them. Apparently they're coming back to the States after the European leg of their tour. If they play anywhere near me, I'm going. You'll see jet-trails behind me.

Jim Jones Revue is old time rock and roll on steroids. I totally drank the Kool-Aid.