The sauce.

Oh, the sauce.

It consumed my entire weekend.  Even when I was at work on Sunday, all I thought about was the sauce and whether it was going to turn out OK.  If it would be everything Joe remembered from home.  If it would even be edible.  I probably wouldn’t have worried nearly as much had I known to not take the directions so seriously.

But they were directions.  From a recipe.  Given to me by the person who made it when Joe was growing up.

If I’ve learned anything about cooking in all my years, it’s that recipe directions, at least measurement amounts, need to be followed carefully.  Especially when baking.  But I wasn’t baking so I figured a little more of this or less of this wouldn’t be the worst thing ever.

Boy was I wrong.

It doesn’t help that I was wrong on the most important part of the sauce.

(At least from Joe’s point of view.)

The meatballs.

My directions said to break two pieces of white bread into a bowl and to cover with milk and let sit until the milk is absorbed.  So that’s what I did.  I set the bread aside and minced tons of garlic.  Measured spices.  Poured all five cans of crushed tomatoes (half of them are still on the white tshirt I happened to be wearing at the time.  Aprons, people.  Don’t forget them) and one can of tomato paste into my HUGE saucepan.

Checked the bread.  Milk still not absorbed.

Opened ground bison and sausages.

Checked the bread.  Milk still not absorbed.

Opened up the bread crumbs and cheese.

Checked the bread.  Milk still not absorbed.  In fact, it looks like the milk has somehow multiplied since I poured it over the bread.

I figure this is the best it’s going to get.  I have to put cheese and bread crumbs in this mess to absorb excess liquid, anyway.  This must be what it’s supposed to look like.  After all, I read the directions and followed them to.  the.  letter.

The bison goes in the bowl and I start mixing.  Still very wet.

The cheese goes into the bowl.  The tiniest bit less soupy.

A couple of tablespoons of bread crumbs go into the bowl.  Noticeably less soupy, still not able to form into anything resembling a meatball.

More bread crumbs added to the bowl.  Mix.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.

By the time I decided I could make, if not meatballs, meat wads, I had dumped nearly half the can of bread crumbs into my meatball mix.  I was worried beyond belief that my meatballs were going to be dry, misshapen, inedible meat things in my sauce, and because of this I didn’t dare add any more bread crumbs to the mixture.  I rolled that meat into the closest thing resembling a meatball as I could, browned them in a skillet, and tossed them into the sauce to cook the rest of the way.  All the while knowing that the sauce was ruined and Joe would tell his family how awful I was at making sauce and he’d never ask me to cook anything again.  Ever.  The end.

After a day and a half of bringing the sauce to a boil, stirring, letting it sit to cook the meat all the way through, Joe and I mustered the courage to try one of the meatballs.

It was good.  Surprisingly good.  Juicy beyond belief and tasty as hell from the cheese.

The sauce was deemed a success and immediately measured into meal size portions and frozen.

I’ve learned from my mistake.  Next time I won’t drown the bread in milk.

Watch those meatballs turn out to be hard as little meaty rocks.


Going to the Chapel

Sometimes studying can make a person go absolutely insane a little bit crazy.  Not that this has ever happened to me personally, but I have seen it happen before.  Long hours in the library have taught me a lot about my fellow man, aka students.

OK.  So I lied a little.  I have gone a little crazy from studying before and it does happen to me almost every time I spend more than an hour in front of an open book or staring at PowerPoint slides on my computer.

Don’t believe me?  I have proof.

Very insane


This is what happens when you leave me alone for more than an hour with my camera phone, plenty of props stuff laying around, and the Paint application on my laptop.

The only thing keeping me from jumping out of my chair and running around like a crazy woman is my Caramel Apple Cider from Starbucks.  The picture doesn’t lie.  It is yummy.  I have to thank my sister for introducing the two of us.  We can blame it on her when Carm (that’s my little nickname for him. Isn’t it cute?)  and I run off to Vegas and elope.

That has to be legal in Vegas, right?

It’s What I Did (or do)

This is not my first blog.  It is, however, the first blog of mine where I can feel free to write about whatever I choose to write about.  Without feeling guilty because it has nothing to do with why the blog was started in the first place.

When I first went back to school, I started a blog about being a non-traditional student.  I was an older student starting a new degree in a new school.  I didn’t know anyone on campus and my blog was a way for me to talk about what I was experiencing to anyone that would listen.

Last year I started a blog about my goal to run the Mini Marathon in Indianapolis. IN.  That went well for a while, but then I was sidelined with injuries and had to take care of the boy, who had surgery two days before the race.  Between that and life getting in the way, the training screeched to a halt and hasn’t gotten going since.

This blog is just about me.  My life.  The things I do.  The things I want to share with everyone and probably a few things I don’t.  The latter will probably be me just venting.  Or sharing just to get something out there that needs to be said.

With that said, welcome to my little place of the internet.  Please, make yourself comfortable.  Would you like anything to drink?  Maybe a little snack to munch on?

I’m just really glad you’re here.